To Die In Italbar

by Roger Zelazny

  He walked on, and the boy--along with several adults-- followed him.

  But she lived, he told himself. I made her live ...

  Big victory.

  He passed a vehicle repair shop, and the men in blue uniforms who worked there sat in the front of the building, their chairs tilted back against the brick wall. They did not move. They sat there and smoked and stared at him as he passed by, silent.

  The bells continued to ring. People moved out of doors and side passages to stare at him as he passed along the streets.

  I stayed too long, he decided. It's not as if I wanted to shake anybody's hand. I never have this problem in a large city any more. They move me about in robot-controlled units, which they sterilize afterward; they give me a whole ward to myself, which they sterilize afterward; I only see a few people--immediately after catharsis; and I depart the way I arrived. It's been years since I visited a town this small for a job like this. I got careless. It's all my fault. It would have been all right if I hadn't talked too long after dinner. It _would_ have been all right. I got careless.

  He saw a casket being loaded onto a hearse. Around the corner, another hearse waited.

  Then it's not a plague ... yet? he decided. At that stage, people start burning bodies. They stay off the streets.

  He glanced back, already knowing from the sounds they made what it was that he would see.

  The individuals following him had become about a dozen. He did not look back again. Among the small noises that they made, he heard "H" spoken, several times.

  Vehicles passed him, moving slowly. He did not look at them, consciously, though it seemed that there were many eyes fixed upon him.

  He reached the center of town, passing along a small square situated there, a statue of some local hero/patriot/ benefactor turning green at its center.

  He heard someone call out something in a language that he did not understand. He began to hurry; and now the sound of footfalls became more distinct at his back, as if the crowd had grown.

  What were the words that had been spoken? he wondered.

  He passed a church, and the sound of its bell was very loud as he moved before it. From behind him, he heard a woman utter an oath.

  The touch of fear grew stronger. The sun had dropped a beautiful day about him, but he no longer took pleasure in its presence.

  He turned to his right and headed toward the field, about three quarters of a mile distant. Now their voices rose, still not addressed to him, but talking about him. He heard the word "murderer" spoken.

  He hurried, and as he moved he saw faces at windows. He heard curses at his back. No, it would not do to run. He crossed a street, and a vehicle swung toward him, then rushed away. He heard the strident cry of a bird, crouched beneath the eave of a house that he passed.

  He had done it, they knew. People had died, and it had been traced back to him. The other day he had been a hero. Now he was a villain. And that damned primitive, superstitious aura that covered the town! All those references to gods, the talismans, the good luck charms--they added up to something, something that made him hurry his pace. Now, in their minds, he felt himself to be associated with demons rather than gods.

  ... If only he had not dwelled so long over his dinner, if he had fled from passers-by ...

  I was lonely, he told himself. If I had been as wary as I was in the old days, it could have been avoided, there would have been no infection. I was lonely.

  He heard someone call out, "H!" but he did not turn.

  A child, standing beside a garbage can in an alleyway, shot him with a squirt gun as he passed.

  He wiped his face. The bells continued their mournful clanging.

  When he paused at a thoroughfare, someone flicked a cigarette butt in his direction. He stepped on it and waited. His followers massed behind him. Someone pushed him. It felt like an elbow in his kidney, though it could have been the heel of a hand. They jostled him, and he heard the word "killer" repeated several times.

  He had encountered things of this nature previously. His past experience did not hearten him, however.

  "What're you going to do now, mister?" someone called.

  He did not answer.

  "Infect more people?"

  He did not answer.

  Then he heard a woman coughing, suddenly, spasmodically, at his back.

  He turned, now that he was clean and could help.

  A woman had collapsed upon her knees and she was spitting blood.

  "Let me through," he said, but they did not.

  Held back by a wall of shoulders, he watched her die or go into a coma. She looked dead to him.

  He tried to walk away, hoping that they would not notice, now that their attention was focused elsewhere. He moved to the next corner, crossed, began to run.

  They were again at his back.

  Running had been a mistake, for now he felt the first blow that was not administered by a hand. Someone had thrown something.

  The stone clattered upon the pavement. It had glanced off his shoulder, inflicting no real damage. Still, a bad sign.

  Now that he had begun the thing, however, he could not halt. The speed dictated more speed. He shed his pack and raced ahead.

  The stones came clattering around him.

  One touched his scalp, mussed his hair.

  "Murderer! Killer!"

  What will they take? he wondered.

  He reviewed his assets and thought of possible bribes. He had been able to buy his way out of some tight situations in the past. This one, though, did not seem of a negotiable nature.

  A small stone missed him and struck against the side of a building. The next one did not; it hit him on the arm, causing considerable pain.

  He carried no weapons. There was nothing he could do to avert their madness; and mad was what he judged them.

  Another stone passed by his ear. He shook his head.

  "Bastard!" someone called.

  "You don't know what you're doing!" he cried out. "It was an accident!"

  He felt moisture on his neck. He touched it, and his fingertips came away bloody. Another stone struck him.

  Could he dash into a store? Might he seek sanctuary in some place of business? He looked about, but could discover none that seemed to be open. Where were the police?

  Several rocks fell against his back. He swayed, for they were thrown with some force and he felt sharp pains.

  "I came here to be of help..." he began.

  "Murderer!"

  Then they rained against him, knocking him to his knees. He rose and ran. More of them hit him, but he stumbled on.

  He continued to look for some place of refuge--any place--saw none, lengthened his strides.

  There were more things thrown, and he fell. This time he did not rise so quickly. He felt several kicks, and someone spat into his face.

  "Killer!"

  "Please ... Listen to me! I can explain."

  "Go to hell!"

  He crawled, huddling finally against a wall, and now they came in close. There were kicks, spit, stones.

  "Please! I'm clean again!"

  "Bastard!"

  Then came the fury. It was not right that they use him so, he felt. He had come to their town for a humanitarian purpose. He had undergone hardship to reach Italbar. Now he was bleeding on its streets and being cursed. Who were they to judge him as they had done, to call him names and abuse him? This thing rose up within him, and he knew that, had he the power, he would have reached out and crushed them all.

  Hatred, that thing nearly unknown to him, suddenly filled his body with cold fire. He wished that he had not undergone catharsis. He would be the plague-bearer, infecting them all.

  The kicks and missiles continued.

  He drew his arms across his abdomen, hands before his face, and suffered them.

  You'd better kill me, he said to himself. Because if you don't, I'll be back.

  Where had he felt this way before? He did not seek the mem
ory, but it returned.

  The church. The Strantrian shrine. That was where he had experienced something akin to this hatred. Now he saw that it was right. Strange not to have realized it back then .

  His ribs felt broken, his right kneecap dislodged. He was missing several teeth, and the blood and sweat kept filling his eyes. The crowd continued to abuse him, and he was never certain when it was that it let up.

  Perhaps they thought that they had killed him, for he lay there very still. Or perhaps it was that they grew tired or ashamed. He never knew.

  He lay there, huddled on the pavement, his back against the wall that had not opened to give him refuge. He was alone.

  Something, like a dream of mumbling and cursing and receding footsteps, flickered through his consciousness.

  He coughed and spat blood.

  All right, he said. You tried to kill me. Probably think you did. You made a mistake. You let me live. Whatever your intentions were, don't ever ask me for forgiveness, or for mercy. You made a mistake.

  Then he passed out again.

  The rain fell gently upon his face. This was what had awakened him. It was into the afternoon of the day, and somehow he had been transported into an alley. He had no memory of having crawled to the place, but then he was certain that no one would have assisted him in achieving it.

  Again there was a lapse of consciousness, and when it returned the sky was dark.

  He was drenched now, and the rain still fell--or perhaps it had just begun again; he had no way of telling. He licked his lips.

  How much time had passed? He drew his chrono near. It was broken, of course. His body insisted, though, that he had endured the ages.

  All right.

  They had harmed him. They had cursed him.

  All right.

  He spat and tried to see whether it was blood that mixed with the rainslick.

  Do you know who I am?

  I came here to help. I _did_ help. If I inadvertently caused some deaths while trying to be of assistance, do you seriously think that this was intentional?

  No?

  Then why this?

  I know.

  We do things because we _feel_ that we must. Sometimes we get hooked by our emotions, our humanity--as I did the other day. I probably did infect one or all of the people I was with.

  But to die ... Would I cause another human being to do it, intentionally?

  Not then. Not a while ago.

  Now, though, you've showed me another side of life.

  I have emotions, too, and they have turned. You beat the hell out of me while I was simply trying to make it to the airfield. Okay.

  You have me for an enemy now. Let us see whether you can take it the way that you give it.

  _Do you know everything that I am?_

  _I am walking death_.

  _You think that now you have done with me?_

  _If you do, you are mistaken_.

  _I came to help_.

  _I will stay to slay_.

  He lay there for long hours before he could rise and move on.

  * * *

  Dr. Pels regarded the world.

  They had had something for him. They had given him a lead.

  Deiban fever. That had been the beginning. It had served to put him onto the trail of H. Now as the night without end containing days without number wore on about him, certain other thoughts came and went, remained longer and longer, stayed.

  H.

  H was more than the key to _mwalakharan khurr_ ...

  The very presence of H had served to remedy many unusual conditions.

  Is this the real reason, he asked himself, that I abandoned twenty years' labor in favor of this line of attack? H cannot live forever, whereas I may--like this. Am I being completely scientific about this one?

  He prepared the B Coli for distance-hopping. Then he reread the notice he had received.

  The sounds of _Death and Transfiguration_ moved about him.

  * * *

  Heidel woke once again. He was lying in a ditch. There was no one near. It was still night. The ground was damp, muddy in places. But the rain had stopped.

  He crawled, got to his feet, staggered.

  He continued on, toward the field where he had been headed. He remembered something of its layout. He had seen it while strolling, later on on that day when he had given the blood--when?

  When he arrived, near to its perimeter, he sought the shed he had seen.

  There ...

  It was unlocked and there was a warm corner. Covers for some sort of equipment had been thrown there. They were heavy with dust, but it did not matter. By then he was coughing again, anyhow.

  A couple days, he told himself. Let the scar tissue start. That's all.

  * * *

  Malacar kept abreast of the news. He pulled it in, listened, turned it off. He thought about it, digested it, turned it back on again.

  _The Perseus_ slid beneath the suns ...

  He drowsed through weather reports for one hundred twelve planets. He grew bored while listening to News Central. He meditated sleepily upon sex while hearing a program out of Pruria.

  He rushed on. His ship was in hd, and it would not stop till he was home again.

  _We did it_, said Shind.

  _We did it_, he answered.

  _And the dead?_

  _I would say we will have a tally before we strike home port_.

  Shind did not reply.

  CHAPTER 2

  Within the highest tower of the greatest port, he sat, one man opposing an empire.

  Idiotic? he asked himself. No. Because they cannot hurt me.

  Glaring down at the ocean, now momentarily visible, he inspected the wet miles of distance that lay beyond the Manhattan Citadel, his home.

  It could be worse.

  How?

  When there's nobody else in port, you sometimes get fidgety ...

  Looking at the waters, he watched the great plume cover them again, like an opening fan.

  Someday, maybe ...

  Dr. Malacar Miles was the only man on Earth. He was lord, he was monarch here. And he did not care. The Earth was his. Nobody else wanted it.

  He stared through the bubble-window. It afforded him a prospect of half of what remained of Manhattan.

  The smoke was a great cloud, and a mirror that hovered showed him the orange burning when he maneuvered it at the proper angle.

  It blazed.

  His shields absorbed this.

  It burned; it was radioactive.

  His shields absorbed this too.

  There had been a time when he had actually paid attention to it.

  He stared upward, and the Earth's dead moon in quarterphase was there before his eyes.

  For three, ten seconds, he waited.

  Then came the ship, and he sighed.

  _My brother is hurting_, said Shind. _Will you give him more medicine now?_

  _Yes_.

  _I saw this thing long ago. Beware_.

  Before moving to the laboratory, Malacar stared down at the thing which had once been New York City's heart. Long gray vines had whipped their ways around the bases of killed buildings, climbed high. Their leaves were coarse, long, rustling. The smoke blackened them, withered them. Still they grew. He could actually see the movement. No human being could live in those canyons of masonry they wound. For no special reason, he pressed a button and a low-yield atomic missile destroyed a building miles away.

  _I will have to use karanin on your brother. It will impair his respiratory functions a bit_.

  _It will do more good, will it not? Over-all?_

  _Yes_.

  _Then we must_.

  _Go get him. Take him to the laboratory_.

  _Yes_.

  He looked out one more time, out across his kingdom and the patches of its ocean that showed through smoke. Then he departed the high deck.

  The winds that swirled about the world had deposited their rubbish as he had watched. As always.
The only human inhabitant of the place, he was neither especially paternal nor antagonistic about the view.

  The drop-tube took him to the lower level of his citadel. To test them, he broke three alarm circuits as he moved along a corridor. Entering the laboratory, he saw Shind's brother Tuv waiting.

  He extracted the medication from its wall-slot and blasted it into the small creature.

  He waited. Perhaps ten minutes.

  _How is he?_

  _He complains concerning the sting of the injection, but he states that he begins to feel improvement in his condition_.

  _Good. Can you unwind your mind now and tell me a little more about Morwin's visit?_

  _He is your friend. Mine too. From long ago_.

  _So why the 'Beware' business?_

  _It is not he himself, but something that he brings which may lead you to danger_.

  _What?_

  _Information, I feel_.

  _News that may kill me? Those CL radicaLs with their rockets did not exactly accomplish the job. What has Morwin got?_

  _I do not know. I speak only as a member of my race who occasionally glimpses a fragment of future truth. Sometimes I know. I dream it. I do not understand the process_.

  _Okay. Monitor your brother's condition and tell me about him now_.

  _His breathing is a trifle labored, but his hearts beat more easily. We thank you_.

  _It has worked again. Good_.

  _It is not good. I see his life as coming to an end in twopoint-eight Earth years_.

  _What do you want me to do?_

  _He will require stronger drugs as time goes on. You have been kind, but you must be kinder. Possibly, a specialist_ ...

  _All right. We can afford it. We will get him the best. Tell me more about what is wrong_.

  _The blood vessels will begin to deteriorate at a more rapid rate soon. It will take approximately sixteen Earth months before the harm is widespread, however. Then he will go quickly. I do not know what I will do_.

  _He will depend upon my care, and it will not be prominent by its absence. Talk to him and make him comfortable_.

  _I am doing that now_.

  _Pipe me in_.

  _Bide a moment_.

  ... Then into the mind of a Mongoloid child, but more. Snatched up by the currents, drawn in, he knew and he saw.