The Metallic Muse

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  Sandler hurried to the balcony and looked out across the grounds. The sentry was not in sight. He slid quickly to the ground and ran. There was no time to worry about taking cover. He reached the wall and was going over the top when a light flashed in the balcony’s open door. At the same time the alarm gong boomed urgently.

  Sandler drove himself in merciless, headlong flight for two long blocks to an air train station. He hurtled down the moving escalator stairs, thrust a token into the turnstile, and pushed through, glancing anxiously at the clock. He had spent an hour, that afternoon, memorizing train schedules. He was waiting on the right platform twenty-five seconds later when a train glided smoothly to a stop. He boarded it, transferred at the next station, and rode the trains until dawn, leaving a meandering, criss-crossing trail through subterranean Galaxia.

  He spent the day in a squalid hotel, and that evening he wove another meandering trail out to the port. He collected his belongings, and with the wile of a veteran spacer stowed away on a lumbering ore freighter that lifted at midnight for Mars. The freighter’s crew smuggled him past Mars Customs, and he bought forged identity papers and shipped as a common spacer on a ship outward bound from the Solar System.

  Thomas Jefferson Sandler III drifted slowly across the galaxy, a derelict caught in weirdly eccentric currents. He shipped as a spacer when he found a post. He stowed away. Once he joined a hopeful group of immigrants in their cramped quarters. He piloted a cargo of smuggled gold from Lamruth to Emmoy. On Kilfton he was recognized, and he killed two guards in escaping.

  Or perhaps they recovered. He never heard what happened to them, or cared.

  Twice he encountered Marty Worrel, but he cautiously kept his distance. The little musician had a pronounced talent for fomenting disturbances—as on Hillan, where he Sat up on a table in a crowded tavern and sang his “Homing Song.” Sandler made a hurried exit before the police appeared. He could not risk being associated with any kind of disturbance.

  He drifted on, moving always outward from Earth, following the long axis of the galaxy. In Sector 187 he invaded the private residence of the Sector Commissioner, thinking that the number on his identification card might refer to sector rather than to planet. The commissioner persisted in his declarations of ignorance with Sandler’s fingers about his throat. Sandler left him unconscious, stowed away once more, and drifted onward. He waylaid a dozen sector Chiefs of Public Welfare. He attempted to bribe government officials, and he threatened them with violence and sudden death, and he learned nothing.

  The months drifted by and became years. Sandler moved from planet to planet, searching for a color of sky, for anything that would match his few blurred recollections of home. Hot worlds and cold, wet worlds and dry, he studied them hopefully from an observation port, wandered their surfaces until disillusion seized him, and then left without a backward glance.

  Three years after leaving Earth, he stood staring at a dingy, gray face of one more planet as his ship flashed downward, and he felt depressed. Usually a new planet offered some hope, but not this one. Twisting clouds of dust erupted and slowly spread their heavy film across its surface. It was Stanruth: barren, lifeless, waterless world, but a world rich in minerals, so there was a colony, and there were humans who sought wealth, and found it or failed to find it, and fled homeward. No one would call Stanruth “home.”

  “But then—who can say?” Sandler muttered. Some day perhaps children born on that blighted planet might see it as a place of beauty.

  The barren loam

  Of any home

  Is flower-crowned.

  To Sandler, it was no more than a steppingstone that he must touch in passing. It was one strange world of many in the weary fabric of his existence, of his coming and going, of his hiding, of his seeking and not finding.

  The ship landed, and he tensed himself for the inevitable customs inspection. His handsome, young-looking face had undergone transformation. He had scarred it hideously. His head was shaven bald. He wore a bushy, uncouth beard. His body was a weird gallery of spacer tattoos. But he knew that sooner or later a sharp-eyed official would recognize him and his search would be over.

  He passed through customs almost unnoticed and moved on into the stark, treeless town. The building stones were fused sand. Sand drifted everywhere, and even the feet of a slow-moving pedestrian stirred up clouds of dust.

  Sandler entered a squalid tavern, where a tumbler of water cost a credit and a bottle of good whisky was only a rumor at any price. He glanced about the smoke-filled interior and saw, huddled in a dark corner, a familiar figure: that little man of enormous talent and small worth, Marty Worrel.

  Worrel’s apparent sobriety intrigued Sandler, and he slid onto a fused-sand bench across the table from him and said, “Hello.”

  Worrel stared without a spark of recognition. “Do I know you?”

  Sandler leaned forward and whispered, “From far I come, a drifting scum upon the void.”

  Worrel winced and glanced about cautiously. “Whoever you are,” he said, “you’ve changed.”

  “You haven’t changed. I thought that song would make you a billionaire with a big estate and a dozen air cars. I suppose someone stole it from you. You’ve been wearing the same suit for the last four years. It doesn’t even look as though you’ve had it off.”

  “Clothes,” Worrel said disgustedly. “Rags to hide the body’s immodesty. The soul fashions its own raiment.” He signaled for drinks and waved Sandler’s money away. “I am a billionaire. A millionaire, anyway. Someone copyrighted that song for me. I didn’t even know about it. I have money in the banks of half the planets of the galaxy. And what’s money? The dowry of evil. The prop of tyranny. The strangling nourishment of greed. It corrodes the soul. It buys a woman’s honor and a man’s integrity. It lays waste to the body and stifles happiness. We are wanderers all, we puny humans, seeking wealth to buy the unattainable. You want money? I’ll give you money. Hell I’ll give it all to you.”

  He slumped forward, spilling his expensive whisky, sobbed brokenly with his face buried in his hands.

  Sandler straightened up in alarm. “You’re drunk,” he said disgustedly.

  “I’m always drunk. What else is there? One must either drunk or sober, and I’m drunk. Money can buy that. Money buys whisky and whisky benumbs the senses and benumbed senses crave whisky and whisky requires money and money buys whisky and whisky benumbs the senses—”

  He sobbed again and began to sing, in a cracked, nasal voice. “Home is that place in deepest space where memories burn.”

  Sandler leaned over and slapped Worrel’s face. Worrel’s head snapped back, and he shook himself, stared oddly at Sandler for a moment, and signaled for another drink. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Seeking the unattainable. Without money.”

  “You are a wise man. A wise, noble, generous, virtous, deserving, admirable, good, worthy, unculpable—” He paused and squinted doubtfully. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” Sandler said.

  “No-Name. It’s best that way. A name is but a label applied at birth through the connivance of dishonorable parents. I like you, No-Name. What did you say you were seeking?”

  Sandler glanced about them cautiously. More spacers had come in, and the place rocked with their boisterous laughter. Bartenders and serving girls were rushing about frantically. The dingy corner was ignored, but Sandler leaned forward and said in a whisper, “Home.”

  Worrel paused with his glass in mid-air, face pale, manner unaccountably sober. “We must talk,” he said, drained his glass and screamed, “Bottle of whisky!” A serving girl hurried over. Worrel paid her and gripped Sandler’s arm. “Come. We must talk.”

  He led Sandler from the tavern and along the dusty street. They entered a shabby, sand-eroded rooming house and climbed three flights of stairs to Worrel’s room. It was virtually unfurnished. The bed was a pile of filthy blankets in one corner. In another corner was
a pile of empty bottles. A bench of fused sand stood against one wall. Powdery dust covered everything.

  Worrel seated Sandler on the bench, dashed out again, and returned with a pair of tumblers. He poured the drinks with trembling fingers and squatted on the floor.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  Sandler sketched out the story of his frustrated efforts to find his home planet, carefully omitting any hint of criminal activity.

  “But you did find the number of your planet,” Worrel said excitedly. “What is it?”

  “One eighty-seven.”

  Worrel got slowly to his feet. He fumbled in an inside pocket, produced a card, and handed it to Sandler: A photograph of a Ministry of Public Welfare record concerning a child identified as Marty Worrel. And this photograph was complete. In the upper right corner Sandler read, “Source: 187.”

  Worrel snatched the card and stood in front of Sandler, body tense, eyes gleaming, his small, wrinkled face alight with tremendous excitement. “Brother!” he whispered.

  Sandler nodded slowly. “I suppose I could be your brother.”

  “And we have a sister. Come!”

  He gripped Sandler’s arm, hurried him down a flight of stairs, and rushed him into a room on the floor below. This room was neatly furnished, tidy, almost free from dust. Its sole occupant was a young woman, who started up and hastily draped a robe over her bare limbs as they entered.

  “Another one!” Worrel called. “Another One eighty-seven.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. She stared wide-eyed at Sandler, disbelief showing in her lovely face. “You look—well, so old for a space-orphan.”

  “Space-orphan?” Sandler echoed.

  “From far we come, a drifting scum upon the void,” Worrel chanted. “Space-orphans are we, and space-orphans we shall ever be. Cast us adrift in time, wrap us gently in the empty shroud of space, and lull us to sleep with the clanging music of the spheres. No one cares, and nothing else matters. Home is a moonlet drear with atmosphere, and who gives a damn whether the homeless breathe or not?” He waved his bottle. “Let’s drink to One eighty-seven, somewhere on the bottom side of nowhere.”

  “You’re drunk again, Marty,” the girl sighed.

  “I’m drunk yet,” he corrected. “Oh. Introduction Miriam, this is No-Name. No-Name, this is Miriam.” He thrust his head forward and looked inquiringly at Sandler.” “You’re sure you haven’t got a name?”

  “My adopted name is Thomas Jefferson Sandler.”

  “So that’s who you are. I remember. You’re a pilot! You’ve changed. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.” He laughed shrilly. “That’s a joke. Your own mother—”

  “How did you find out you were both from One eighty seven?” Sandler asked.

  “Bribery. Cost me fifty thousand. That’s another use fof money. It adapts itself to any dishonorable purpose.”

  Miriam was still watching Sandler with frank suspicion. “Marty, are you sure he’s—I mean, he looks so old.”

  “He’s a fugitive from injustice,” Worrel said. “That ages one. On the other hand, how do I know you came from One eighty-seven?”

  The girl turned her back to them and whirled around suddenly with a small pistol in her hand. “We can’t afford to take chances,” she said sharply. “Prove it!”

  Sandler moved over to the wall and sat down on the bench. “My papers are forged,” he said. “I’m wanted on every planet in the galaxy for murder, attempted murder, assault on highly placed officials, smuggling, flouting of customs regulations, unlawful flight to avoid whatever charges may have been placed against me, and an odd assortment of other things. I had a photo of my record card but I lost it long ago. What proof do you want?”

  She hesitated. “Can you remember anything at all about home?”

  “A color of sky,” Sandler said slowly, “that I can’t describe, but if I saw it I think I’d know. I’ve tried many times to remember, but it’s all so vague. A mud hut, with narrow slits in the walls. A small boy hurrying proudly home carrying an ornt by the tail. A mother who is a shapeless figure without features, and who is also wonderful. A father who helps a small hand grip a spear that is much longer than the boy. An arnel cake. Not much, is it?”

  The pistol disappeared. Miriam threw herself on him, gripped him tightly, and kissed him profusely.

  “One of us,” Worrel said and chanted loudly. “Three space-orphans are we. Three space-orphans we be. Two are you and one is me. I am a minority.” He sat down on the floor and tipped up the bottle.

  “Stop it, Marty,” Miriam pleaded. “Maybe he has some ideas. Maybe we can plan.”

  Worrel got up abruptly. “Plan,” he said. “You have a plan?”

  “No,” Sandler said. “I’m just drifting. I’ve killed one man and possibly more, and I’ve nearly choked several men to death, and all I can find out is that no one knows. One eighty-seven is just a number. We’d be as well off not to know it. Better off, maybe.”

  Worrel seemed oddly sober again. “I know a man,” he said. “Commissioner of Sector Fifteen thirty-one. He’s an old man; he’s been around a long time, and he knows something about the space-orphans. He goes around looking for them and asking them questions. Me he won’t talk to. Me he laughs at. You’re a man of action. He won’t laugh at you.”

  “I’ll see him,” Sandler said. “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Novin. Commissioner Novin. On Pronna.”

  “Then I’ll go to Pronna.”

  “We’ll all go to Pronna,” Worrel said. “We’ll leave today.”

  “There may not be a ship.”

  “There’ll be a ship. I’ll buy a ship with my filthy, filthy money. When we find One eighty-seven, I’ll buy the planet and throw the Federation off. I’ll buy a space fleet and demolish Earth. I’ll buy paradise and populate it with space-orphans. What sector do you suppose paradise is in? Is that another number no one remembers?” He sat down again and tilted the bottle.

  Worrel bought a ship, a rusted space-worn freighter, but Sandler had to qualify for a pilot’s license under his assumed name, and it was a week before they could leave Stanruth. They made slow, plodding progress, stopping off at a dozen planets for Worrel to convert his bank accounts into cash.

  On New Miloma they traded their freighter and half a million credits for a sleek space yacht that Worrel renamed, privately, the 187. On Calmus they waited several days while Worrel completed complicated arrangements to withdraw some money from banks across half the galaxy. They landed on Filline for still more financial transactions and found the police waiting.

  “Thomas Jefferson Sandler,” the young captain said cheerfully. “The Galactic Bureau of Investigation has been wanting you badly for a long time.”

  “Sure,” Sandler said. “How’d you locate me?”

  “You made the mistake of qualifying—or should I say, requalifying—for a pilot’s license. Your fingerprints went all the way to Earth, and eventually someone got around to making crosschecks. He was most pleasantly surprised. All of you are under arrest.”

  Worrel, caught in one of his rare moments of sobriety turned on Sandler in panic. “Why’d you do it?” he hissed. “You didn’t need a license. We could have sneaked off Stanruth and no one would have noticed.”

  “They always notice,” Sandler said wearily. “Then three of us would have been fugitives. This way it’s only me.” He turned to the captain. “Why bother these people? They didn’t know who I was. They just hired a pilot.

  “They’ll have every opportunity to prove their innocence.”

  Sandler was flown out into the open country to a small, walled prison. He was treated with politeness and consideration. His cell was comfortable, his food excellent, and he was given fresh clothing. He shaved his beard and began to feel better.

  Through the months and years he had known that this day would arrive, and he faced it almost with a sensation of homecoming. Ahead of him lay more futile quests, to Pronna, to oth
er planets; and more futile interviews with officials who could not or would not talk; and more violence and more hiding. The drifting scum, the space-orphan, was better off returned to the void.

  An elderly, dignified lawyer called on him that afternoon and brought the welcome news that Worrel and Miriam had been released. Worrel had hired him. He went over the file of charges With Sandler, growing increasingly gloomy at each successive item, and finally he recommended that Sandler plead insanity.

  “They’ll hold you for psych-treatment if you bring it off,” he said, “but that’s better than death. The death penalty is still revived for special cases—about one a century—and I think they’re going to make a special case out of you.”

  “Thanks,” Sandler said dryly. “I’ll think it over.”

  But he was determined that there would be no insanity plea for Thomas Jefferson Sandler III. He wanted the entire sordid story of his career in crime aired in open court. The government could eliminate Sandler, but it couldn’t eliminate the sensational publicity that attended a criminal trial.

  Or couldn’t it? Instead of a trial it could easily arrange a convenient accident on the long trip back to Earth, and there wouldn’t be a thing that Sandler could do about that.

  He went to bed, drifted off into a peaceful sleep, and was awakened in the dim hours of early morning by an urgent whisper.

  “Sandler!”

  He leaped to his feet. The cell door stood open, and Marty Worrel was in the corridor prodding a guard with a flame pistol.

  “Quick!” Worrel hissed.

  Barefooted, half dressed, Sandler took Worrel’s pistol and hurried the guard on ahead of him. They found Miriam holding a pair of guards at pistol point near the entrance. With quick, deadly motions Sandler clubbed them into unconsciousness.

  “Can we make the ship?” he demanded.

  “We can try,” Worrel said. “We’ve got an air car hidden outside.”

  “Let’s go!”

  They sprinted across the brightly lighted yard to the prison gate. The gate stood ajar, and a dead guard was crumpled in the guardhouse, his face gruesome even in the shadows.