The Magic Labyrinth

by Philip José Farmer

  He stepped inside and looked around. Alice was not here unless she was behind the immensely long bar or under or behind the smashed grand pianos or billiards tables. There seemed to be no reason for him to stay, but he was held for a few seconds by the grandeur of this room. Like its counterpart on the Rex, it had known many years of laughter, wit, humor, flirting, intrigue, gambling often playful but sometimes desperate, trysts of love and hate, music composed and played by some of Earth's masters, drama and comedy high and low on the stages. And now . . . It was a shameful loss, something to be very much regretted.

  He started to cross the salon but stopped. A man had entered the great doorway of the other end. He paused when he saw Burton. Then, smiling, he walked jauntily toward him. He was an inch or two taller than Burton, greyhound-thin, and had extraordinarily long arms. His skin was blackened with smoke, his nose was very large, and his chin was weak. Despite this, his smile made him look almost handsome.

  His glossy black ringleted hair fell to his shoulders. He wore only a black kilt and red riverdragon-leather calf-high boots, and his right hand gripped the hilt of an epée.

  Burton had a swiftly passing déjà vu, a feeling that this meeting had happened a long time ago and under just such circumstances. He had encountered the man before and he had been hoping he would again. The long-healed wound in his thigh seemed to burn at the memory.

  The man halted when he was twenty-five feet from Burton. He spoke loudly in Esperanto. It had a trace of French and a smidgeon of American English intonation.

  "Ah, sinjoro, it's you! The very talented, perhaps endowed-with-genius swordsman with whom I crossed blades during the raid upon your vessel so many years ago! I introduced myself then as a gentleman should. You surlily refused to identify yourself. Or perhaps you failed to do so because you thought that I wouldn't recognize your name. Now . . ."

  Burton advanced one step, his sword hanging almost straight down from his hand. He spoke in Parisian French circa A.D. 1650.

  "Eh, monsieur. I was not sure when you made your introduction that you were truly whom you said you were. I thought that perhaps you might be an impostor. I admit now that you are indeed either the great monomachist Savinien de Cyrano II de Bergerac or someone who could be Castor to his Pollux and is his match in swordsmanship."

  Burton hesitated. He might as well give his true name now. It was no longer necessary to use a pseudonym.

  "Know, monsieur, that I am Captain Richard Francis Burton of the marines of the Rex Grandissimus. On Earth I was knighted by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of the British Empire. This was not for making a fortune in commerce but as acknowledgment of my explorations in the far parts of the Earth and my many services to both my country and humanity. Nor was I unknown among the swordsmen of my time, which was the nineteenth century."

  "Hélas, you would not have been also known for being long-winded, would you?"

  "No, nor for possessing a huge nose," Burton said.

  The man's teeth shone whitely.

  "Ah, yes, always the reference to the proboscis. Well, know, monsieur, though I was not honored by my sovereign, Louis XIII, I was dubbed a genius by a queen even greater than yours, by Mother Nature herself. I wrote some philosophical romances which I understand were being read centuries after I died. And, as you obviously are aware, I was not unknown among the great swordsmen of my time, which gave birth to the greatest swordsmen of any time."

  The thin man smiled again, and Burton said, "Perhaps you would like to surrender your blade? I have no desire to kill you, monsieur."

  "I was about to ask you to hand over your weapon, monsieur, and become my prisoner. But I see that you, like me, would then be unsatisfied as to which of us is the better at bladeplay. I have thought about you many times, Captain Burton, since I drove my rapier into your thigh. Of all the hundreds, perhaps thousands, that I have dueled with, you were the best. I am willing to admit that I do not know how our little passage in arms might have turned out if you had not been distracted. Rather, I should say that you might have held me off a little longer if it were not for that."

  "We shall see," Burton said.

  "Oh, yes, we shall see, if the boat does not sink too soon. Well, monsieur, I delayed my leavetaking to have one more drink to toast the souls of those brave men and women who died fighting today for this once-splendid vessel, the last of the great beauties of man's science and technology. Quel dommage! But some day I will compose an ode to it. In French, of course, since Esperanto is not a great poetic language and, if it were, would still not be equal to my native tongue.

  "Let us have one drink so that we may toast together those we loved but who have passed on. There will be no more resurrections, my friend. They will always be dead from now on."

  "P'raps," Burton said. "In any event, I will join you."

  The many doors of the huge and long liquor cabinets behind the bar had been locked before the battle started. But the key was in a drawer below a cabinet, and de Bergerac went behind the bar and unbolted the drawer. He unlocked a cabinet and unshot the bar across a line of bottles and pulled one from the hole in which it was set.

  "This bottle was made in Parolando," de Bergerac said, "and it has journeyed unscathed through many battles and much mishandling by various drunks. It is filled with a particularly good burgundy which has been offered from time to time in various grails and which was not then drunk but put into this bottle to be used for a festive occasion. This occasion is, I believe, festive, though in a rather gruesome spirit."

  He opened another cabinet, and unlocked the indented bar holding a line of lead-glass goblets and took two and set them on the bar.

  His epee was on top of the bar. Burton placed his own on the bar near his right hand. The Frenchman poured the burgundy to the brim, and he lifted his. Burton did likewise.

  "To the dear departed!" he said.

  "To them," Burton said. Both downed a small amount.

  "I am not one for drinking much," de Bergerac said. "Liquor reduces one to the level of the beast, and I like at all times to remember that I am a human being. But . . . this is indeed a special occasion. One more toast, my friend, and then we shall fall to it."

  "To the solution of the mystery of this world," Burton said.

  They drank again.

  Cyrano put his goblet down.

  "Now, Captain Burton of the defunct marines of the defunct Rex. I loathe war and I detest bloodshed, but I do my duty when it must be done. We are both fine fellows, and it would be a shame if one were to die to prove that he is better than the other. Gaining knowledge of the true state of affairs by dying is not recommended by anyone with good sense. Thus, I suggest that he who draws the first blood wins. And if, thanks be to the Creator, who doesn't exist, the first wound is not fatal, the winner will take the other prisoner. And we will then proceed with haste but in an honorable manner to get off this vessel before she sinks."

  "Upon my honor, that is the way it shall be," Burton said.

  "Good! En garde!"

  They saluted and then assumed the classic epee on-guard positions, the left foot at right angles to the right foot and behind it, knees bent, the body turned sidewise to present as small a target as possible, the left arm raised with the upper arm parallel to the ground, the elbow bent so the lower arm was vertical and the hand wrist limp, the right arm lowered and the blade it held forming a straight extension of the arm. The round coquille, or bellguard, in this position, protected the forearm.

  De Bergerac, saying loudly the French equivalent of "Hah!," lunged. He was almost blindingly swift, as Burton knew from the Frenchman's reputation and from his one duel with him. However, Burton was also exceedingly quick. And, having spent many years on Earth and here in practice, his reaction to any particular attack was automatic.

  De Bergerac, without feinting, had thrust toward Burton's upper arm. Burton parried and then riposted, that is, counterattacked. De Bergerac parried this and then thrust over Burton's blade, but Burton a
ttempted a stop thrust, using the bellguard of his epée to deflect his opponent's tip and at the same time (almost) driving his own point into de Bergerac's forearm.

  But de Bergerac counterparried and then quickly thrust around Burton's bellguard at Burton's forearm again. This maneuver was called the "dig" or the "peck."

  Burton deflected the point again, though the edge of the blade drove along his arm. It burned, but it did not draw blood.

  Dueling with the foil or the epée was something like trying to thread a moving needle. The tip of the attacker's blade was the end of the thread; the defender's, the eye of the needle. The eye should be very small and in this situation was. But in a second or less the thread-end would become the eye as the defender attacked. Two great swordsmen presented to each other very small openings which instantly closed and then reopened as the tip moved about in a small circle.

  In competitive foil dueling, the target was only that part of the opponent's body exclusive of the head, arms, and legs but including the groin. In deadly combat, however, the head and the entire body were a target. If, somehow, a big toe was open, it should be skewered, could it be done without exposing the attacker to his antagonist's point.

  It was an axiom that the fencer with a perfect defense could not lose. What then if both duelers had a perfect defense? Was it a case of the irresistible meeting the immovable? No. Human beings were neither. One of the perfect defenders would tire before the other or perhaps something in the milieu was to the slight or even great advantage of one fencer. This could be something on the floor to cause slipping or, in this situation, some object, a piece of blasted furniture, a bottle, a corpse over which one might stumble. Or, as when de Bergerac had fought Burton during the raid, a shout from a third party might distract a dueler for a fraction of a second, just enough for the cat-swift and eagle-eyed opponent to drive his sword into the other.

  Burton was thinking of this with the edge of his mind while the main part concentrated on the dance of blades. His opponent was taller than he and had a longer reach. This was not necessarily to Burton's disadvantage. If he got into close quarters where the Frenchman's longer reach did not matter, then Burton would have the advantage.

  De Bergerac knew this, as he knew everything about fencing, and so he maintained the distance proper for his benefit.

  Metal rang upon metal while the breaths of the two hissed. De Bergerac, maintaining his straight-arm, position, concentrated his attacks upon Burton's wrist and forearm to keep himself out of range of Burton's weapon.

  The Englishman used a bent-arm position to make slanting thrusts, to bind his foe's blade, to "envelop" it. The binds were pushed with his blade against the other to make it go from one side to another. The envelopments were continuous binds in which the point of his blade made complete circles.

  Meanwhile, he studied the Frenchman for weaknesses, just as the Frenchman was studying him. He found none. He hoped that de Bergerac, who was also analyzing him, would fail to discover any flaws.

  As in their first encounter, they had established a definite rhythm of thrust and parry, riposte and counterparry. Even the feints became part of the pattern, since neither was fooled and thus left an opening.

  Both were waiting for the opening which would not close quickly enough. The sweat ran down de Bergerac's face, streaking it where the liquid cleaned off the gunpowder grime. The salty liquid kept running into Burton's eyes, stinging them. Then he would retreat swiftly and wipe off his forehead and eyes with the back of his free hand. Most of the time, the small Frenchman took advantage of this break to mop his own forehead with a small cloth stuck between his waist and the upper end of his towel-kilt. These intervals kept getting more and more frequent, not only to wipe their faces but to recover their wind.

  During one of these, Burton removed a breast-cloth from a dead woman to blot up the sweat. Then, watching de Bergerac to make sure that he wouldn't make a flèche, a running attack, he tied the cloth around his head. De Bergerac stooped down and tore off a breast-cloth from another corpse to make a headband for himself.

  Burton's mouth was very dry. His tongue felt as if it were as large and hard as a cucumber. He croaked, "A momentary truce, Monsieur de Bergerac. Let's both drink something before we die of thirst."

  "Agreed."

  Burton walked behind the bar, but the pipes of the sinks were empty. He went to the cabinet which the Frenchman had opened and brought out a bottle of purple passion. He removed the plastic stopper with his teeth and spat it out. He offered de Bergerac the first drink, but it was refused. He drank deeply and then handed the bottle over the bar to de Bergerac. The liquid burned in his throat and warmed his chest and guts. It helped his thirst somewhat, but he would not be satisfied until he got water.

  De Bergerac held the bottle up against the light.

  "Ah! You have swallowed three ounces, my friend. I shall do the same to insure an equal amount of inebriation in myself. It would not do if I were to kill you because you were drunker than I. You would then complain of unfairness, and the question of who is the superior swordsman would still be unanswered."

  Burton laughed in his curious fashion between his teeth.

  De Bergerac started, then said, "You sound like a cat, my friend."

  He drank and when he put the bottle down, he coughed, his eyes tearing.

  "Mordioux! It is certainly not French wine! It is for the barbarians of the North – or Englishmen!"

  "You have never tasted it?" Burton said. "Not during the long voyage . . .?"

  "I told you I drank very little. Hélas! Never in all my life have I dueled unless absolutely sober. And now I feel the blood singing, my strength beginning to return, though I know it is a falseness, the liquor lying to my senses. Never mind. If I am somewhat drunk and so my reflexes are slow and my judgment numbed, you will be in the same condition."

  "That depends upon one's idiosyncratic reaction to alcohol," Burton said. "It may well be that I, who love strong liquor, may be more accustomed to its effects. Hence, I will have an advantage over you."

  "We shall see," de Bergerac said, smiling. "Now, monsieur, will you please come out from behind that bar so we may resume our little debate?"

  "Certainly," Burton said. He walked to the end of the bar and around it. Why not try la flèche, the running attack? But if his running glide missed or was parried, then he'd be off-balance, exposed to de Bergerac's point. Still, it was possible that he could close in and thus block the Frenchman's blade.

  No. Would he consider such a move if he did not have three ounces of fifteen-percent-alcohol purple passion in his bloodstream? No. Forget it.

  But what if he picked up the bottle and threw it at the same time he made the flèche? His opponent would have to duck, and this might throw him off his balance.

  He stopped when he got opposite the wine bottle. He looked at it for a second while de Bergerac waited. Then, his left hand opened, and he sighed.

  The Frenchman smiled, and he bowed a little.

  "My compliments, monsieur. I was hoping that you would not succumb to temptation and try something dishonorable. This is a matter to be settled with the blade alone.

  "I salute you for understanding this. And I salute you as the greatest duelist I've ever met, and I've met many of the best. It is so sad, so very sad, and utterly regrettable that this, the most magnificent of all duels, unsurpassed anywhere or anytime, should be seen by only us. What a pity! No, it is not a pity. It is a tragedy, a great loss to the world!"

  Burton noted that the fellow's speech was slightly slurred. That was to be expected. But was the wily Frenchman exaggerating the effects of the alcohol to make Burton overconfident?

  "I agree with you in principle," Burton said, "and I thank you for your compliments. I also must say that you're the greatest swordsman I've ever met. However, monsieur, you spoke a little while ago about my long-windedness. I believe that, though you may be my equal in swordplay, you are my superior in gabbiness."

 
The Frenchman smiled. "I am as facile with my tongue as with my sword. I gave as much pleasure to the reader of my books and the hearer of my voice as to the spectator of my fencing. I forgot that you are a reticent Anglo-Saxon, monsieur. So I will let my blade speak for me from now on."

  "I'll bet you do," Burton said. "En garde!"

  Their epees clashed again in thrust, in parry, in riposte, in counterriposte. But each had perfect defense in keeping the proper distance, in the timing, in the calculation, in the decision, and in coordination.

  Burton could feel the poisons of fatigue and booze and knew that they must be slowing him down and affecting his judgment. But certainly they were working with equal or greater effect on his foe.

  And then, as Burton parried a thrust toward his left upper arm and riposted with his point at de Bergerac's belly, he saw something coming in the doorway by the grand staircase. He leaped far backward and shouted, "Stop!"

  De Bergerac saw that Burton was looking past him. He jumped backward to be far enough away from Burton if he were trying to trick him. And he saw the water flowing in a thin layer through the doorway.

  He said, breathing hard, "So! The boat has sunk to our deck, Monsieur Burton. We do not have long. We must make an end to this very quickly."

  Burton felt very tired. His breathing was harsh. His ribs felt as if knives were pricking them.

  He advanced on the Frenchman, intending to make a running glide. But it was de Bergerac who did so. He exploded, seeming to have summoned from somewhere in his narrow body a burst of energy. Perhaps he had spotted finally a weakness in Burton's defense. Or he thought he had. Or he believed that he was the faster now that weariness had slowed his opponent more than it had him.

  Whatever his reasons, he miscalculated. Or he may have performed perfectly. But Burton suddenly knew, by de Bergerac's body language, certain subtle muscular actions, a slight squinching of the eyes, what the Frenchman intended to do. He knew because he had been ready to do the same, and he'd had to suppress his body language, the signals, which would tell his foe his next move.