by Damon Knight
Dick had a baffled feeling that anger would be out of place; he felt half disgusted, half incredulous.
“Are you serious?”
Ruell’s eyes narrowed slightly; he frowned, and did not answer.
Dick stood up. “Ruell, I listened to you because, well, my father mentioned your name—”
“Yes?”
“—but there’s a limit to that. I don’t like you, and I don’t want your advice. So you can get out.”
Ruell stood up slowly. His paper-gray face was shut and still. Dick felt his heartbeat accelerate. Ruell’s thin hand, on the knob of his stick, tightened and relaxed. “For the sake of your father,” he said, “I’ll let this pass—just this once. You are a very foolish young man; you had better learn wisdom, and learn it soon.” At the door, he turned briefly. “Au revoir.”
Dick let out the breath he had been holding, and sank down in the chair. He felt suddenly tired again; his head was beginning to ache and his eyes burned.
Duped slobs, and hand-carved paneling that had to be finished on the spot. Lampreys in the fountain; what had Ruell meant by that sentence in French, ‘The more it changes, the more it’s the same thing’? The horrifying implications of the things Ruell had said so calmly, sitting there across the room: “protectors”; “Randolph’s boy”; “ladies’ man.” What if it were all true?
But there: it couldn’t be.
Chapter Eight
For ten days, he had been walking the corridors of Eagles, jostled by slobs pushing chair-carts, stared at and (he was sure) laughed at behind his back. The Colorado-style clothes he was wearing were clumsily cut, but the best he had been able to get; the fabrics seemed dull, too, although they had looked all right when the tailor brought them to his rooms. He was beginning to get the feel, now, of Eagles “style,” and becoming acutely aware that he didn’t have it—the richly folded garments, the ornaments, the touches of color, the odd feather or rosette, the whiff of perfume; the manner, the angle of the cocked elbow, the walk, a thousand things.
He passed a scaffolding that covered half a wall. From the next corridor came the stuttering roar of jack-hammers; Eagles, it seemed, was constantly being rebuilt, redesigned, redecorated.
He had gotten himself lost innumerable times, in spite of the map one of the Frankies had given him, but the manifold sights of Eagles were beginning to pall on him. He was sick of his narrow rooms; there was no gymnasium in them, no library, not even a decent pool.
He knew not a soul in Eagles except Ruell, unless you counted the Frankies and other slobs; and the devil of it was, he couldn’t seem to get to know anybody else, either. He had not even succeeded in meeting Colonel Van Etten, the Army officer in charge of commissions. Twice he had cooled his heels in Van Etten’s cream-and-gold outer office, the first time to learn that you needed an appointment to see Van Etten, the second time, having got an appointment, to find that Van Etten had been called away. When you telephoned Van Etten, he was not in.
From the corridor in which he was walking, broad, curved steps fell away into the cool green dimness of an antique cocktail lounge. The bottles and glasses behind the bar were aglow with spectral colors; the bartenders were only silhouettes. Hungry for company, he paused and looked in; at a nearby table a woman glanced up at him and stared incuriously for a moment before she turned back to her companion. Dick hesitated, then drew back: the place might be a private preserve of some kind, he had no way of knowing. He passed on.
The corridor curved and twisted obliquely down a row of little artisans’ workshops (coral jewelry, wooden bookbindings, batiks, painted gourds) and emptied onto the main corridor again. Now he was in territory he knew; this was the main artery at mid-level. It was always crowded, always colorful day or night. Here came a man in purple robes with a miter on his head, trident in one hand and censer in the other. Dick had seen him before and asked about him; according to Frankie, he was a priest of Eblis—whatever that might be. Here came a chattering group of girls, all young, most of them pretty—slobs, worse luck; he had hardly seen a young freewoman since he got here. Behind them walked two swarthy fellows in black, with truncheons and scowling faces; he knew them, too, by the uniform—Gismo Guards.
Here was the little refectory where he had eaten once or twice before; it was only a few yards from the door of Van Etten’s office, but there was no use going there, since his new appointment wasn’t till day after tomorrow. Eating alone in public was a hard thing for him to get used to, but eating by himself in his rooms was worse. Glumly, Dick settled himself at one of the tables and ordered a light snack—squabs, pizza with anchovies, tartar steak; he wasn’t really hungry.
Halfway through, on impulse, he beckoned the waiter.
“Yes, misser? Something else?”
“No, not right away. I was just thinking—do you know Colonel Van Etten when you see him?”
“Oh, yes, misser.”
“What does he look like?”
The waiter blinked nervously. “Colonel Van Etten? Oh, very tall man, misser, looks like this—you know, stern—and a scar right across here over the eye.”
“I see. All right, that’s all.”
The waiter bowed and went away. Dick moodily ate the rest of the pizza garnished with raw hamburger, thinking, Well, why not? What did he have to lose? He might waste a day, he supposed, but then he was sure to do that anyway. He left the refectory and took up his station in an arcade just opposite Van Etten’s door. People went in and out, some in Army uniform, some not; none fitted the description. Probably Van Etten had at least one private entrance, but then if he found that and watched it, out of pure perversity the man would be bound to use the front door. When he grew bored, Dick went down the arcade to a telebooth, turned off the movie that was playing, and punched “Private.”
“Yes, misser?” said the likely-looking blonde girl who appeared on the screen.
“A scramble call to Buckhill in the Poconos. I’ll talk to anybody.”
“One moment, misser.” the screen dimmed, glowed again. “I’m sorry, misser, all the channels are busy. Will you place your call again, please?”
Still busy. Dick turned the machine off and went back to his vantage point. He had tried to call home every day, and the channels were always busy. At first it had been merely a matter of duty, but now he was beginning to get worried about it. If he could only ask the Man what to do … He could write a letter, but he had no one reliable to send it by. There was no telling who might read it if he entrusted it to somebody else’s courier, or even if it would be sent at all.
An hour passed, then another. Bored and weary, Dick stuck grimly to it. He wondered what Ad and Felix were doing at this hour—riding, or swimming in Skytop Lake? An astonishing wave of homesickness came over him; the smells, the air, the very tiles underfoot were hateful. He stiffened his spine, and stayed.
Toward mid-afternoon three officers came out of the doorway, deep in conversation. The one in the middle was a head taller than the others, lath-thin, white-haired at the temples under his scarlet helmet. Dick moved closer, uncertainly: yes, no, yes, there was the scar.
“Colonel Van Etten?”
The three looked up. “Yes?” asked the tall man.
“Colonel, I’m Dick Jones from Buckhill. I’d like to talk to you for a moment; it’s about my commission.”
Van Etten blinked at him slowly. “Your commission?” he asked in an absent-minded tone. “Is there something wrong with your commission?”
“I haven’t got one yet, Colonel—that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
The two officers flanking Van Etten exchanged glances. Van Etten said, “Your name again, was—”
“Dick Jones, Colonel.”
“Jones, I conduct Army business in my office, by appointment. Talk to my secretary.”
He started to turn away. Dick said loudly, “Colonel, you don’t understand. I’ve been trying to see you the usual way. I’ve been here ten days, your secretary keeps
putting me off—”
Van Etten stopped, looking amazed. “By heaven!” he blurted. One of the other officers rose to tiptoe to mutter something in his ear. “Yes, certainly,” said Van Etten. “Crump, make a note to remind me later—Jones is not to be received in my office, not even to apply for an interview, until one month from date.”
“Yes, mister,” said the youngest officer, getting out a notebook.
One month! Dick felt himself shaking with anger.
“And if you don’t like it,” the Colonel went on inexorably, “you can go back to Dunghill, or whatever you call it.”
“Colonel, the name is Buckhill,” said Dick, raising his voice; he saw people in the corridor turn to stare.
“Two months!” snapped Van Etten. He faced Dick challengingly for another moment, then looked at his watch and turned away. “Late—come on.”
The youngest officer snapped his notebook shut. “You young idiot,” he muttered to Dick, “you’d better get a friend—and fast.” Then he followed the other; the crowd closed around them.
Dick carefully unclenched his fist; the nails had bitten into his palms. Some of the faces in the corridor were curious, some amused, some indifferent. His vision blurred; he turned blindly away and went where his feet took him.
After a while he found himself on the Upper Promenade, the highest level of Eagles proper except for one or two cupolas. The day had turned dirty outside, and the gray light from the transparent wall made the fluorescents look sickly and dim. Dick walked over slowly and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Out across the valley, the farther mountains were purplish-gray masses; the clouds behind them were moving fast—sooty thunderheads shot with pale light, but so dense that they made it look like twilight in mid-afternoon. Veils of vapor shot up past the window, ghost-like; the big pane buckled inward, hurting Dick’s forehead, and he drew back. The lower levels of Eagles were threads of light; he couldn’t see the floor of the valley, it was too dark.
It had been spring outside when he first entered this place … ten days ago. Looking to the left, he caught a glimpse of the unfinished Tower glinting brass-color against the gray. The sky grew still darker; a flurry of hail beat against the windows, then another; then a rushing, rustling torrent that closed in the Promenade as if with a cold silvery curtain.
This couldn’t be the way every applicant for a commission got treated. Why was he having so much trouble? It was like a barrier across his path, whichever way he turned. The Colonel hadn’t seemed to know who he was at first, but then one of the other officers had said something in his ear … One month, and then two when he protested. If he spoke again, he supposed, it would be three, or four … they could keep him like this as long as they liked. And would the channels stay busy between here and Buckhill, too? Until he gave in, did as he was told? But that would be never.
Head down, he went slowly toward the elevators. People passed him in murmuring groups; when they got in his way, he detoured around them without looking up. Crossing the floor, he met a pair of legs in green tights that sidled to the left when he did, to the right when he did.
He stopped and looked up: red-trimmed black tunic, belted with a chain of bronze medallions; froth of lace at the throat, paper-gray face. It was Ruell, smiling easily.
“Well, young Dick? Why so pensive?”
Behind him, Dick was aware of others watching, but he dismissed them as unimportant. “Ruell, I want to talk to you.”
“Excellent! My young friend, let’s go downstairs where we can be more private.”
“No, here,” said Dick, not moving. “Did you tell Van Etten not to give me my commission?”
“My dear boy—have you been having trouble with Van Etten?” Ruell scratched his long jaw, lazily, with a faint smile. “These things can be so easily smoothed out; you should have come to me.” Behind his head, the pale rainlight wavered on the metal ceiling.
There was a suppressed murmur of laughter in the background.
Dick heard himself saying, “I can’t fight everybody in Eagles. But I can fight you.” He drew his staff free of the clip. His heart was hammering wildly; he knew he couldn’t defeat Ruell, but there was nothing else to do. He thought fiercely, if he beats me now, I’ll come after him again. And again. I won’t let up till he does.
“Since you are so insistent,” said Ruell slowly, with his hand on the knob of his stick. “But wait. One last word, before we descend to desperate measures. I like you, young Dick; I knew your father. Though it’s all against my judgment, I’ll get you a different sort of protector if you like. What do you say to an ambitious upstart who merely wants a following of well-born young men? Bodyguards, flatterers—a little fetching and carrying, a fight now and then, perhaps. Believe me, Dick, I’ll be losing my time on the deal, but at least, you won’t be wasted. Yes? Shake hands on it?”
Dick hesitated. He could feel his resolution slipping away while Ruell talked; it was hard to nerve himself up again and his voice came out harsher than he meant. “Put up your stick.”
Ruell’s face took on that closed, hard look that Dick had seen once before. His eyes glittered under half-closed lids. Behind him, the ring of onlookers drew back a little, with a shuffle of feet. Ruell stepped back with his left foot, bending his knees a little; his right hand dropped slowly and the stick came up in a blur of motion. Before he had even seemed to touch it, it was leaping in the air between them like a live thing; Dick’s staff shuddered in his hand to a series of beats; left, right, left …
Recovering belatedly, Dick chopped for the shoulder. Ruell parried without seeming to move, feinted high, cut under Dick’s guard and thumped him solidly in the ribs. “That’s one,” he said woodenly. He stepped back on guard.
Dick attacked with fury and skill, and found himself unwillingly dancing through a sort of fencing-master’s exercise: Ruell parried every blow without countering, or merely leaned out of the way and let the stick whistle through the air. Thwack, thwack, thwack, grunt … Ruell was making him look ridiculous, as if his best efforts were no more dangerous than a baby’s. “Fight!” he grunted, and heard the laughter ripple up around him.
Infuriated, Dick lunged. The elbow-check brought him up short; Ruell parried with a contemptuous tap, closed in and swung a numbing blow to the temple. Dick tottered, dazed and off balance. “That’s two,” said Ruell dimly, and hit him again in the pit of the stomach. “And that’s three.”
Dick went down; the spinning floor slapped him hard; he lay where he fell, fighting for breath.
Voices echoed indistinguishably; footsteps jarred the floor under his cheek, and then went away. The iron grip on his chest finally eased a little. The first breath he drew was pure agony, but he had to have it or die.
Somebody lifted his head, which was no help; he struggled weakly, and the hand disappeared. A minute later the hands were back, more of them and rougher—the first one, he realized dimly, had been a woman’s. They hauled him up but he couldn’t stand; they got his arms around two brawny necks and dragged or carried him across the floor until, by the echoes, they got to one of the alcoves in the rear wall. They lowered him and laid him out on the sofa; he let them do it; he was feeling too sick even to open his eyes.
“The poor kitten,” said a woman’s voice. It was a low voice, musical but husky. “Who is he, do you know?”
“Name of Jones,” said a man. “Frankie says he’s been here almost two weeks without making a connection.”
There was a murmur and a gone-away feeling; then footsteps coming back, and somebody put a wet handkerchief over his forehead. “Just leave him, if you ask me,” said the man’s voice. “You know Ruell.”
“Yes, but what’s going to happen to him?”
“No use worrying about that, Viv—nothing much you can do.” The man sounded deferential and a little stilted, as if he were saying not what he thought, but what was expected of him.
The woman said, “I could always adopt him myself.”
; “Viv, you know you can’t. You’ve got six too many people on your list already. Dear, you owe it to yourself to be sensible.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right. You usually are, Howie.”
Opening his eyes, Dick got a blurred glimpse of a man’s red-velvet sleeve and a woman in white—clouds of white or cream-colored lace, and an enormous white hat. The woman was looking down at him, one gloved hand at her chin; behind her he could see a little group of dark-uniformed slobs.
“Well, at least,” she said, “we can take him home and let Dr. Bob look at him. Then we can decide. Saul, run and get a chair.”
One of the slobs bowed and said, “Right away, Miz’ Demetriou.” Dick closed his eyes again, not much caring if he lived or died, and in a few moments he was hazily aware that they were lifting him into a chair-cart. The next thing he knew, he was in a bed somewhere, and a man with gray whiskers was bending over him, exhaling rum. There were silver birds in the dark-blue canopy high overhead. “Ow,” he said, turning away from the fingers that prodded his temple.
“Um-hm,” the gray-whiskered man remarked, and straightened up with a rustle of silk. “No bones broken. Just a little concussion, maybe; nothing serious. Keep him quiet for a day or two, say, and he’ll be all right.” He began packing something into a box, looking down with a serious expression, breathing in little grunts.