Tuf Voyaging

by George R. R. Martin

  On Karaleo, he had bested the Lord of the Burnished Golden Pride in a drinking contest, and had won a luxurious lionboat for his troubles, although the loser had ingraciously removed most of the ornate solid-gold trim before handing it over.

  The Artificers of Mhure, who were inordinately proud of their craftmanship, had been so pleased by the clever dragonettes Tuf had provided to check their plague of wing-rats that they had given him an iron-and-silver dragon-shuttle with huge bat-wings.

  The knights of St. Christopher, whose resort world had been robbed of much of its charm by the depredations of huge flying saurians they called dragons (partly for effect and partly due to a lack of imagination), had been similarly pleased when Tuf had provided them with georges, tiny hairless simians who loved nothing better than to feast on dragon eggs. So the knights had given him a ship as well. It looked like an egg—an egg built of stone and wood. Inside the yolk were deep padded seats of oiled dragon leather, a hundred fantastical brass levers, and a stained-glass mosaic where a viewscreen ought to be. The wooden walls were hung with rich hand-woven tapestries portraying great feats of chivalry. The ship didn’t work, of course—the viewscreen didn’t view, the brass levers did nothing, and the life support systems couldn’t support life. Tuf accepted it nonetheless.

  And so it had gone, a ship here and a ship there, until his landing deck looked like an interstellar junkyard. Thus it was, when Haviland Tuf determined to make his return to S’uthlam, that he had a wide variety of starships at his disposal.

  He had long ago reached the conclusion that returning in the Ark itself would be unwise. After all, when he had left the S’uthlamese system, the Planetary Defense Flotilla had been in hot pursuit, determined to confiscate the seedship. The S’uthlamese were a highly advanced and technologically sophisticated people who would undoubtedly have made their warships faster and more dangerous in the five standard years since Tuf had last gone among them. Therefore, a scouting sortie was imperative. Fortunately, Haviland Tuf considered himself a master of disguise.

  He took the Ark out of drive in the cold, empty darkness of interstellar space a light-year from S’ulstar, and rode down to his landing deck to inspect his fleet. At length he decided upon the lionboat. It was large and swift, its star-drive and life-support systems were functional, and Karaleo was far enough removed from S’uthlam so that commerce between the two worlds was unlikely. Therefore any flaws in his imposture would most likely go unnoticed. Before he made his departure, Haviland Tuf dyed his milk-white skin a deep bronze color, covered his long hairless features with a wig that gave him a formidable red-gold beard and a wild mane, glued on fierce eyebrows, and draped his massive, paunchy frame in all manner of brightly colored furs (synthetic) and golden chains (quasigilt, actually) until he looked the very part of a Karaleo noble. Most of his cats remained safely behind upon the Ark, but Dax, the black telepathic kitten with the lambent golden eyes, rode with him, snug in one cavernous pocket. He gave his ship a likely and appropriate name, stocked it with freeze-dried mushroom stew and two kegs of thick brown St. Christopher Malt, programmed its computer with several of his favorite games, and set out.

  When he emerged from drive into normal space near the globe of S’uthlam and its expansive orbital docks, Tuf was hailed at once. Upon the control chamber’s huge telescreen—shaped like a large eye, another interesting affectation of the Leonese—appeared the features of a small, spare man with tired eyes. “This is Spiderhome Control, Port of S’uthlam,” he identified himself. “We have you, fly. ID, please.”

  Haviland Tuf reached out and activated his comm unit. “This is Ferocious Veldt Roarer,” he said in an even, dispassionate voice. “I wish to secure docking permission.”

  “What a surprise,” the controller said, with bored sarcasm. “Dock four-thirty-seven. Out.” His face was replaced by a schematic showing the location of the designated berth relative to the rest of the station. Then the transmission cut off.

  A customs team came aboard after docking. One woman inspected his empty holds, ran a swift and cursory safety check to make sure this odd and unlikely craft was not going to explode or melt down or otherwise damage the web, and checked the ship over for vermin, Her companion subjected Tuf to a lengthy inquiry as to his point of origin, destination, business on S’uthlam, and other particulars of his voyage, punching his fictitious answers into a hand computer.

  They were almost finished when Dax emerged sleepily from Tuf’s pocket and peered at her. “What the . . . ” she said, startled. She rose so suddenly she almost dropped her computer.

  The kitten—well, he was almost a cat now, but still the youngest of Tuf’s pets—had long, silky hair as black as the depths of space, bright golden eyes, and a curiously indolent manner. Tuf plucked him out, cradled him with one arm, stroked him with the other. “This is Dax,” he said. The S’uthlamese had a disconcerting habit of regarding all animals as vermin, and he was anxious to forestall any rash actions on the part of the customs official. “He is a pet, madam, and quite harmless.”

  “I know what he is,” the woman said sharply. “Keep him away from me. If he goes for my throat, you’re in big trouble, fly.”

  “Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “I will do my best to control his ferocity.”

  She looked relieved. “It’s only a little cat, right? What’s that called, a catling?”

  “Your knowledge of zoology is astute,” Tuf replied.

  “I don’t know doodles about zoology,” the customs inspector said, settling herself back into her seat. “But I watch my vidshows from time to time.”

  “No doubt you chanced to view an educational documentary, then,” Tuf said.

  “Yawn,” the woman said. “Neg on that, fly. I’m more for romance and adventure vids.”

  “I see,” said Haviland Tuf. “And one such drama featured a feline, I assume.”

  She nodded, and just then her colleague emerged from the hold. “All clean,” the other woman said. She spotted Dax, cradled in Tuf’s arms, and smiled. “A cat vermin,” she said happily. “Sort of cute, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be fooled,” the first inspector warned. “They’re soft and cuddly but they can rip your lungs out in the blink of an eye.”

  “He looks a little small for that,” her partner said.

  “Ha! Remember the one in Tuf and Mune.”

  “Tuf and Mune,” Haviland Tuf repeated, his voice without expression.

  The second inspector sat down next to the first. “The Pirate and the Portmaster,” she said.

  “He was the ruthless lord of life and death, in a ship as large as the sun. She was the spider queen, torn between love and loyalty. Together they changed the world,” the first said.

  “You can rent it in Spiderhome if you like that sort of thing,” the second told him. “It’s got a cat in it.”

  “Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf, blinking. Dax began to purr.

  His berth was five kilometers out along the web, so Haviland Tuf caught a pneumatic tubetrain into port center.

  He was jostled on every side. On the train there were no seats. He was forced to stand with a stranger’s rude elbow thrust into his ribs, the cold plasteel mask of a cybertech mere millimeters from face, and the slick carapace of some alien rubbing up against his back whenever the train slowed. When he disembarked, it was as if the car had decided to vomit out the overabundance of humanity it had ingested. The platform was swarming chaos, noise, and confusion, with passers-by milling all about him. A short young woman with features as sharp as the blade of a stiletto laid an unwelcome hand on his furs and invited him to join her at a sex parlor. No sooner had Tuf disengaged himself than he faced a newsfeed reporter, equipped with third-eye camera and ingratiating smile, who said he was doing a feature on strange flies and wanted an interview.

  Tuf pushed past him to a vending booth, purchased a privacy shield, and clipped it on his belt. That provided a certain minimal help. When they saw it, the S’uthlamese politely avert
ed their eyes, in keeping with his wishes, and he was free to proceed through the throngs more or less unmolested.

  His first stop was a vidplex. He engaged a private room with couch, ordered up a bulb of watery S’uthlamese beer, and rented a copy of Tuf and Mune.

  His second stop was the Portmaster’s office. ’“Sir,” he said to the man behind the reception console, “a query, if you will. Does Tolly Mune yet serve as Portmaster of S’uthlam?”

  The secretary looked him up and down and sighed. “Flies,” he said, sighing. “Of course. Who else?”

  “Who else indeed,” said Haviland Tuf. “It is imperative that I meet with her at once.”

  “Is it now? You and a thousand others. Name?”

  “I am named Weemowet, a traveller out of Karaleo, master of the Ferocious Veldt Roarer.”

  The secretary grimaced and entered that into the console, then slouched back on his floater chair, waiting. Finally he shook his head. “Sorry, Weemowet,” he said. “Ma’s busy and her computer’s never heard of you, your ship, or your planet. I can get you an appointment in about a week, if you’ll state your business.”

  “This is unsatisfactory. My business is of a personal nature, and I would prefer to see the Portmaster immediately.”

  The secretary shrugged. “Defecate or evacuate the chamber, fly. Best we can do.”

  Haviland Tuf reflected a moment. Then he reached up, grasped the fringe of his mane, and pulled. It made a ripping sound as it came off his face. “Observe!” he said. “I am not truly Weemowet. I am Haviland Tuf in disguise.” He draped his mane and beard over the top of the console.

  “Haviland Tuf?” the secretary said.

  “Correct.”

  The man laughed. “I saw that vidshow, fly. If you’re Tuf, I’m Stephan Cobalt Northstar.”

  “Stephan Cobalt Northstar has been dead for more than a millennium. Nonetheless, I am Haviland Tuf.”

  “You don’t look a thing like him,” the secretary said.

  “I am incognito, disguised as a Leonese noble.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot.”

  “Your memory is short. Will you tell Portmaster Mune that Haviland Tuf has returned to S’uthlam and wishes to speak with her at once?”

  “No,” the man said bluntly, “but I’ll be sure to tell all my friends tonight at the orgy.”

  “I have the sum of sixteen million five hundred thousand standards which I wish to pay over to her,” Tuf said.

  “Sixteen million five hundred thousand standards?” the secretary said, impressed. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “You have a keen perception of the obvious,” Tuf said evenly. “I have found ecological engineering to be quite a lucrative profession.”

  “Good for you,” the man said. He leaned forward. “Well, Tuf or Weemowet or whoever you are, this all has been very droll, but I have work to do. If you don’t pick up your hair and scuttle out of my sight in the next few seconds, I’m going to have to call security.” He was about to expand on that theme when his console buzzed at him. “Yes?” he said into his headset, frowning. “Ah, yes. Sure, Ma. Well, big, very big, two and a half meters tall, gut on him that’s almost obscene. Hmmmm. No, lots of hair, or at least he did before he yanked it off and dumped it on my console. No. Says he’s in disguise. Yes. Says he’s got millions of standards for you.”

  “Sixteen million five hundred thousand,” Tuf said with some precision.

  The secretary swallowed. “Certainly. Right now, Ma.” He broke the connection and looked up at Tuf with astonishment. “She wants to see you.” He pointed. “Through that door. Careful, her office is zero gee.”

  “I am aware of the Portmaster’s aversion to gravity,” said Haviland Tuf. He gathered up his discarded mafte, tucked it under one arm, and moved with stiff dignity toward the indicated door, which slid open at his approach.

  She was waiting in the inner office, floating in the center of the clutter, her legs crossed, her long silver-and-iron hair moving lazily about her lean, open, homely face like a wreath of smoke. “So you came back,” she said when Tuf swam into view.

  Haviland Tuf was uncomfortable in zero gee. He pulled himself to her visitor’s chair, securely bolted to what should have been the floor, and strapped himself in. He folded his hands neatly atop the great curve of his stomach. His mane, abandoned, drifted about on the air currents. “Your secretary refused to relay my messages,” he said. “How did you come to suspect that it was me?”

  She grinned. “Who else would call his ship Ferocious Veldt Roarer?” she said. “Besides, it’s been five years almost to the day. I had a feeling you’d be the punctual sort, Tuf.”

  “I see,” said Haviland Tuf. With deliberate dignity, he reached inside his synthafurs, broke the sealseam on the inner pocket, and extracted a vinyl wallet lined with crystal datachips in tiny pouches. “Herewith, madam, I am most pleased to tender you the sum of sixteen million five hundred thousand standards, in payment of the first half of my debt to the Port of S’uthlam for the restoration and refitting of the Ark. You will find the funds secure in appropriate financial depositories on Osiris, ShanDellor, Old Poseidon, Ptola, Lyss, and New Budapest. These chips will permit access.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She took the wallet, flipped it open, glanced at it briefly, and let it loose. It floated up toward the mane. “Somehow I knew you’d find the standards, Tuf.”

  “Your faith in my business acumen is reassuring,” said Haviland Tuf. “Now, concerning this vidshow.”

  “Tuf and Mune? You’ve seen it, then?”

  “Indeed,” said Tuf.

  “Goddamn,” Tolly Mune said, grinning crookedly. “So what’d you think, Tuf?”

  “I am forced to admit that it evoked a certain perverse fascination in me, for obvious reasons. The idea of such a drama has an undeniable appeal to my vanity, but the execution left much to be desired.”

  Tolly Mune laughed. “What bothers you the most?”

  Tuf raised a single long finger. “In a word, inaccuracy.”

  She nodded. “Well, the vidshow Tuf masses about half what you do, I’d say, his face is a lot more mobile, his speech wasn’t half as stilted, and he had a spinneret’s musculature and an acrobat’s coordination, but they did shave his head in the interests of authenticity.”

  “He wore a mustache,” said Haviland Tuf. “I do not.”

  “They thought it looked roguish. Then again, look what they did to me. I don’t mind that they took fifty years off my age, and I don’t mind that they enhanced my face until I looked like a Vandeeni dream-princess, but those goddamned breasts!”

  “No doubt they wished to emphasize the certainty of your mammalian evolution,” said Tuf. “These might be put down as minor alterations in the interests of presenting a more aesthetic entertainment, but I regard the wanton liberties taken with my opinions and philosophies to be a far more serious matter. In particular, I object to my final speech, wherein I opine that the genius of evolving humanity can and will solve all problems, and that eco-engineering has freed the S’uthlamese to multiply without fear or limit, and thus evolve to greatness and ultimate godhood. This is in utter contradiction to the actual views I expressed to you at the time, Portmaster Mune. If you will recall our conversations, I told you distinctly that any solution to your food problem, whether technological or ecological in nature, must of necessity be only a stopgap if your people continued to practice unrestrained reproduction.”

  “You were the hero,” Tolly Mune said. “They couldn’t very well have you sound anti-life, could they?”

  “Other flaws are also present in the narrative. Those unfortunate enough to view this fiction have received a wildly distorted view of the events of five years ago. Havoc is a harmless though spirited feline whose ancestors have been domesticated since the veritable dawn of human history, and it is my recollection that when you treacherously seized her on a legal technicality in a backhanded scheme to force me to hand over the Ark, she and I both tende
red our surrender peacefully. At no point did she rip even a single security man apart with her claws, let alone six of them.”

  “She did claw the back of my hand once,” said Tolly Mune. “Anything else?”

  “I have nothing but approbation for the policies and conduct of Josen Rael and the High Council of S’uthlam,” Tuf said. “It is true that they, and particularly First Councillor Rael, behaved in an unethical and unscrupulous manner. Nonetheless, on their behalf, it must be said that at no point did Josen Rael subject me to torture, nor did he kill any of my cats in an effort to bend me to his will.”

  “He didn’t sweat that much either,” said Tolly Mune, “and he never drooled. He was actually a decent man.” She sighed. “Poor Josen.”

  “Finally we come to the crux of the matter. Crux indeed—a strange word when one rolls it upon the tongue, but quite appropriate to this discussion. The crux, Portmaster Mune, was and is the nature of our wager. When I brought the newly salvaged Ark in for refitting, your High Council resolved to have her. I refused to sell, and as you had no legal pretext for seizing the ship, you confiscated Havoc as vermin, and threatened to destroy her unless I thumbed a transfer. Is this correct in its essentials?”

  “Sounds right to me,” Tolly Mune said amiably.

  “We resolved the impasse with a wager. I would attempt to forestall S’uthlam’s food crisis via eco-engineering, thus averting the great famine that threatened you. If I failed, the Ark was yours. If I succeeded, you were to return Havoc and, moreover, perform the refitting and repairs that I required and allow me ten standard years to pay the resulting bill.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “To my best recollection, at no point was carnal knowledge of your body included in my terms, Portmaster Mune. I would be the last to diminish the bravura you displayed in adversity, when the High Council shut down the tubes and secured all the docks. You risked your person and career, smashed through a plasteel window, flew across kilometers of stark vacuum clad only in skinthins and propelled by airjets, dodged security squads all the way, and in the end barely avoided destruction by your own Planetary Defense Flotilla as they moved against me. Even one as plain and blunt as myself must admit that these acts possess a certain heroic, even romantic, quality that in ancient days might be the stuff of legends. However, the purpose of this melodramatic albeit daring voyage was to return Havoc to my custody, as per the terms of our agreement, and not to deliver up your body to my,” he blinked, “lusts. Furthermore, you made it perfectly clear at that time that your actions were motivated by a sense of honor and fear of the corrupting influence the Ark might have upon your leaders. As I recall, neither physical passion nor romantic love played any part in your calculations. “