Amazon Planet up-5

by Mack Reynolds

  She swung it hard to the right again and dropped her brake lever.

  “Here we are!” she chuckled. “Come on, boy.”

  She vaulted from the car, bustled around to his side as though to open the door for him, but by the time she had arrived he was standing on the walk. She led the way toward a large, heavy wooden door, beautifully carved. It opened before her and they hurried through.

  “We’re on the third floor,” she said. “No elevator. Elevators are masculine. Exercise is good for you. Come on, Cutey.”

  They ascended the marble stairs.

  At the top, she utilized a key and they passed into a moderately large apartment. Ronny looked around. It was surprisingly well done, the taste excellent. For once, the decorative motif had nothing to do with Amazons or Greeks. The murals and paintings were based on nature studies. The main room, in which they stood, was large and comfortably done with chairs, coffee tables and couches. There was what must be a small bar at one end of the room. It looked to Ronny Bronston considerably more like a bachelor’s apartment than the one that had been assigned to him in the sanctuary.

  He stood in the middle of the room, waiting further instructions. Without instructions, he knew, he was free to act on his own, however, he had little doubt but that Minythyia was going to keep him well in hand so long as the Come-Along and Scop controlled him.

  She approached him now, grinning mockingly. “So,” she said. “At long last. I don’t know what there is about you, Cutey, possibly the romantic aspects of you being from over-space.”

  Her smile turned more mocking still and she put her right hand on his shoulder.

  “I thee take,” she said softly.

  IX

  Even under the influence of the powerful drugs, there must have been something in his eyes. Minythyia laughed at him. But in the laughter there was a wry element.

  “Of course,” she told him, “It’s not really finalized until we go before Artimis during the summer solstice, with all the others, to gain her blessing. But unless you wish to throw yourself on the mercies of some other warrior—if she’ll take you—you’re mine. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to get in touch with some other warrior?”

  His mind was free to race, in spite of its enslavement. Here, for the moment, he was moderately safe. Safe, he could hope, until the drugs wore off and he would be free to operate. If he contacted someone else—and who was there to contact?—his location would become known. Even here, when she learned the true nature of his conflict with the authorities, he doubted if her infatuation would stand up against patriotism. He was astonished that she had gone this far.

  “No,” he said, in answer to her question.

  Her eyes were mocking once more. “Then you’re willing to remain here with me…Cutey?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed enjoyment.

  “All right, here is the arrangement. This is not my apartment. It belongs to a friend. She is away and isn’t due back for almost a month. I don’t believe Clete or Lysippe or any of the others know I have access. We’re safe, especially if we never allow you to be seen on the streets. I’ll bring in what supplies we can’t get over the auto. In a month’s time, things will settle down. Things always settle down, given time. By then, we’ll be able to size up the situation and plan what to do. Married to me, you have the rights of a male Amazonian citizen. You’ll be under the protection of my genos and through it my phratra and ultimately phylon. Like I said, I don’t know what kind of romp you tried to pull off, but there’ll be some way to fix it.” She twisted her pert face. “I’ve got some high connections.”

  She looked at him calculatingly for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “If you get hungry, or thirsty, you can dial on the auto. It’s tuned to my hour account. Do you know how to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Make yourself at home, here. Don’t leave the apartment, understand? Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got several things to do. I’ve got to look up Lysippe and Clete and establish an alibi. I’ve got to ditch that car. It could be traced.” She winked at him. “Besides, it’s not mine. I borrowed it. When I come back, I’ll explain a lot of things to you.

  “Good heavens, sit down. Don’t wait for me to tell you everything. No, just a moment. Kiss me. The way they do on the occasional Tri-Di show tapes we get from Earth.”

  He kissed her, neither the Scop nor the Come-Along influenced that.

  She stood back, her eyes shining. “Well,” she said. “What would I call you on the Tri-Di? A cad? But then, we’re married, aren’t we?” Her lips were mocking again. “Amazonian style, that is.”

  She was suddenly gone from the apartment.

  Ronny Bronston sat down. Except for her direct order to remain in the apartment, he was free to act.

  His eyes went about the room desperately. There must be something he could do. Surely she would be gone for at least an hour. Perhaps not. Perhaps within that time she would discover the magnitude of his troubles and be back on the double with Clete and Lysippe, or some other Amazonian warriors, to apprehend him and return him to the questioning.

  He went from one room to another. A bedroom, a refresher, an eating alcove with an auto in it. Back to the livingroom.

  His eyes hit upon the small bar. By the looks of the whole apartment, Minythyia’s friend must be quiet a hedonist. The bar, the decor, some of the murals, all pointed in that direction. He wondered what the equivalent of an orgy, here on Amazonia, might be.

  His eyes swung quickly back to the bar and something came to him.

  Come-Along. It didn’t react favorably with alcohol. You couldn’t give it to a drunk. It did no more than to make him terribly ill. It was even comparatively ineffective if you dosed someone who had just a couple of belts. To give it to someone in an alcoholic state, was just wasting your time, which was quite a deterent to both espionage agents and Romeos.

  He made his way to the bar. It was a bar all right. Two shelves below held bottles, glasses, ice tongs, swizzle sticks, all the universal paraphernalia of the home bar, be it on Earth, Avalon, New Delos…or Amazonia.

  Ronny Bronston picked up the handiest bottle and scowled at the label. It meant nothing to him. He wrenched the top off and applied it to his lips. Sickeningly sweet! He couldn’t put away much of that. He took up another bottle. Another damned cordial!

  He grasped a third bottle. It contained a colorless fluid, something resembling gin or vodka. He tried it and sputtered, shooting a fine spray from his mouth. He looked at the label in respectful wonder. It told him nothing.

  Ronny Bronston, though not habitually a heavy drinker, had done his share of nipping in his time. But never on anything as potent as this. He couldn’t take it straight. He poured a hefty belt into a tall glass and went into the refresher room for water.

  There was a faint taste of anis in the far background of the spirit, not too unpleasant. He got the first glass down, feeling the stuff already beginning to warm his belly, and quickly poured another.

  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. How long ago was that? It seemed ages. The drink was getting to him quickly. He put down still more and the room began to go hazy. He shook his head, bear-like, and decided to make his try.

  His orders had been quite definite: Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.

  Ronny shook his head again in attempt to achieve temporary clarity and walked with deliberation toward the door. He took the knob in his hand. And couldn’t twist it. He stared down, his eyes bleary. Was it locked? No, it wasn’t that. He simply couldn’t turn it.

  Don’t leave the apartment under any circumstances.

  He shook his head still again and went back to the bottle. He eyed it, finding difficulty in focusing. He closed one eye. That was considerably better. Hell, he wasn’t any molly when it
came to guzzle. He could put it down with anybody. Even with his ultimate superior, Ross Metaxa, with that Denebian tequila of his in the stone bottle.

  He’d show ’em who could drink like a gennulman. Hold his guzzle like a trooper. He took up the bottle with a flourish of braggadocio and applied it to his lips.

  He got down three or four full gulps before it hit him. He dropped the bottle to the floor, unknowingly. His eyes were glazed now He had never passed out from drink in his life, but this was preciously near it. He tried to achieve clarity by slapping his cheek hard with his right hand.

  He staggered toward the door, grasped the knob just in time to prevent falling. There was something he was supposed to remember, he knew. Something about that girl. What was her name? Miny…Minythy…something or other. Something she told him. He couldn’t remember.

  He swayed and his hand on the knob turned in his effort to keep himself erect. The knob turned and the door pushed open and he staggered into the hall beyond in effort to keep his balance.

  He held onto the ironwork banister at the stairs’ head, breathing deeply. Zen, but he was drenched. You had to admit that, all right. He was drenched.

  He had better get out and get some fresh air. Either that or go back into the apartment and climb into bed. Yes, that was it, go back into the apartment and get some sleep. He had to wait for Miny…whatever her name was.

  But then he turned sly, even as he wavered, holding onto the banister. Now he remembered. She’d hooked him. Amazon style. Tha’s why he hadda get outta this house.

  He started down the stairs, as only a drunk can navigate stairs.

  He chortled, “Thas what she thinks. She thinks I’m easy. Thas what she thinks. Nice fella like me. I wanta church wedding, thas what I want. With flowers, and dressed in white an all…”

  Unbelievably, he made it down the three flights and then to the street. As he left the building, he was singing to himself, “Somethin old, somethin new, somethin borrowed, somethin blue.”

  On the street, the fresh air had a small effect on him. Besides that, the change of scene forced him to think anew. He had someplace to go, or he’d better have some place to go. If not, he might as well try to get back up the stairs to the apartment. For a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he didn’t want to go back to that apartment. Though, come to think of it, that Miny girl wasn’t so bad. She’d got him out of some kind of trouble once, hadn’t she? He knew damn well she had, but it was kind of hazy.

  He took a deep breath and started down the street, in the opposite direction from which he had originally approached with Minythyia.

  Just as he reached the corner, he heard a hovercar coming up behind him. Oh, oh. He didn’t turn, even when he heard it come to a quick stop before the building. He did a commendable left face, with all a drunk’s cunning, and went down the side street.

  Fifty feet further on there was an opening to the left again. A snort of mews, British style. A courtyard at the end with a water fountain. For reason unbeknownst to himself, he headed toward it.

  Only half way there the nausea hit him and he was deathly ill. He emptied his insulted stomach into a doorway, feeling like a pig, but still not caring…not caring about anything. When the retching was over, he resumed his way toward the fountain, somewhat steadier. There was something nagging him from within, don’t…leave…the…apartment…under…any…circumstances. But it didn’t seem to make much sense.

  There were children playing in the litttle courtyard. He ignored them, stumbled to the water and plunged his head into it. He came up for air. Zen! it was cold and good. He plunged his head back in.

  The children were standing around watching him, wide-eyed.

  He glowered at them. There were, he realized, both boys and girls. All of them wore either shorts or kilts, nor did the attire seem to be based on sex. Some boys wore shorts, some kilts, so did the girls.

  He scooped up water with his hand and drank it. It hit his stomach with a chill and for a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick again.

  No, that passed. He decided he’d have to get out of here, but quick. Before one of the kids went running to a parent, or teacher, or whatever, and somebody turned up to investigate him.

  By the moment, his true situation was coming back to him. He was still drunk, sodden drunk, but his mind was clearing slowly. He couldn’t allow himself to be picked up. He had to do something, he couldn’t quite remember what.

  He retraced his way to the street and turned left on it. What was it he had to do? It came to him in stages. He had to warn somebody about something.

  He came to a crossing and paused for a moment, scowling. Two pedestrians passed him, a man and a woman. Once again, their garb was so similar as to be almost identical.

  This crossing. He had been here once before. But he couldn’t have been. He shook his head, to clear it further of fumes.

  Then it came to him. He had been this way when seeking out the Sons of Liberty.

  That was it! He had to warn Zeke and the others. He had babbled their address to his Amazon inquisitors. He had to warn them. Unless it was too late. It probably was too late. The Hippolyte’s warriors had probably descended on the hapless revolutionaries like a flow of lava.

  But he had to see. In spite of his own danger, he owed it to the others to make the attempt. He screwed up his face in memory. He wasn’t so very far from the spot where the unknown assassin had shot at him. Yes, it was down this way.

  As he walked, his lucidity returned, though he still felt nausea from the wringer through which he had put his body. He had drunk an unbelievable amount of alcohol, in far too short a time. Happily, he had vomited much of it up before it had gotten fully into his bloodstream.

  He went down this street, up that, his appearance no longer attracting the atttention of others. In his garb he resembled his fellow pedestrians. It had only been his gait, before, that had singled him out. He looked down at his clothing to see if he had messed it at the height of his illness. No, it was reasonably clean and unwrinkled.

  This was where the shooting match had taken place. It looked considerably different in the light of day. He went more slowly. And this was Heliopolis Street. It was to his surprise that he saw no vehicles before Number 35. No vehicles, nor could he spot any of the Hippolyte’s guards. If they were in the vicinity, they would probably be hidden, he realized. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was weaponless and still shaky, but he had to make the attempt.

  He pounded on the door, and leaned against it. He was tired from the exercise of his walk, and the drinking had robbed him of considerable strength. He could hear no movement beyond. He pounded again and again.

  In exasperation, he tried the knob. The door pushed open.

  He went on through. Had the Amazon warriors already been here, and captured the Sons of Liberty on the premises? Were they hidden inside, waiting for more unsuspecting men of the underground to show up? He could readily believe it.

  Frowning in memory, he retraced the way Zeke had taken him the night before. They had come along this patio garden. There was still no sound in the building. It gave the place an eerie quality. There was the fountain, it was the fountain, it was less attractive in the full light of day. The house had an unkempt quality. Well, it was a secret underground base, not fundamentally a home.

  Here was the sparsely furnished room Zeke had taken him to. He entered, his eyes going around. The bottle of wine and three glasses were still there on the table.

  And in a corner, bound, lay the excitable, emotional Lybian Zeke had introduced as Teucer. He was bound and gagged, and his eyes were wide at Ronny’s entrance. He blinked energetically, as though in warning.

  Ronny was about to turn, his reflexes still slow, when his assailant hit him from behind.

  Even as he fell automatically into a defensive position, he knew the attack was lacking in sophistication. It was the vigorous but unscientific attack of one who had never studied hand-to-hand com
bat. He ducked and spun right in instinctive counterattack and snagged a section of the other’s garment. He felt a blow against his upper back and ignored it.

  Still holding onto the other’s tunic, he spun again, twisting the garment in such a way that one of the enemy’s arms was immobilized. He felt another couple of meaningless blows; the other had a sap, or possibly was using the butt of a shooter, but he was pathetically inept.

  It was over almost immediately. Ronny bent and swung, throwing the other heavily against the wall. He heard air escape agonizingly from his opponent’s lungs.

  Ronny looked at him shakily for a moment. His eyes still weren’t completely used to the gloom of the unlit room, after coming in from the bright Amazonian sunlight. It was just a kid, a youngster of possibly seventeen or eighteen, and none too large for his age. No wonder he had been so easy to take. His small club, which looked as though it had been improvised from a broom handle, had fallen to the floor. The youngster was unconscious, which wasn’t surprising. Ronny would have been more gentle had he known the other’s age and size.

  He looked back to Teucer, still attempting to blink signals to him. “All right,” he growled. He knelt before the other and began to untie him. As a preliminary, he pulled the gag from the slight man’s mouth. “What in Zen’s happened?”

  “Get me out of these nardy ropes,” Teucer rasped. “How do I know what happened? This young cloddy must have got behind me and slugged me one. When I woke up, I was tied like this.”

  “Where’s Zeke?”

  “He’s gone to keep an appointment with Damon and some of the others. Listen—”

  “Just a minute. Leaving you alone?” The other was about free.

  Teucer came to his feet rubbing his wrists. He bent and rubbed his ankles. “Yes. Listen, I’ve got a lot of questions to ask you, but we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’ll say we do. The Hippolyte is onto this place. Is there a back entrance?”

  Teucer stared at him. “How?” he blurted.