Conway turned his head slowly and looked at Broome.
“Know what I’m going to do?” he asked.
Broome shook his head, the bright eyes watchful.
“I’m going to bed,” Conway said. “I’m going to sleep. I know my limitations now. The other side’s only flesh and blood too. They have the same problems we have. They have to sleep too. You can wake me up when the next attack starts. Then I’ll handle it or I won’t. But I’ll do my best and that’s all anybody can do.”
He moved stiffly past Ego toward the door, pausing for a moment to touch his palm against the motionless steel chest. It felt cold and not very steady against his hand.
“What do I mean, only flesh and blood?” he asked.
1956
RITE OF PASSAGE
Henry Kuttner and Catherine Moore are, in their own words, “less a writing team than a case of literary multiple personality.” They have written untold millions of words for magazines under 19 different pseudonyms; and well over a million of their words have appeared in book form (not counting anthologies) in 16 volumes from 9 different publishers and with 5 assorted by-lines. No scholar will ever straighten out their magazine history, but I’ve made an effort to clear up the confusion of their books with a complete checklist which appears at the end of this story. (Complete, that is, as of the end of January, 1956—there’ll probably be at least another volume by the time this appears in print.)
But the most important thing about the Kuttners is not how much they have written, but how astonishingly well. Few fabulously prolific writers have reached such peaks, or even such an average of literary achievement. And you’ll find the customary Kuttner-Moore virtues of intelligence, suspense, subtlety and complex original thinking in this novelet of a society governed solely by superstition, and a rational man who sees his way clear to power and murder.
PHRATER STEPHEN RABB WAS PREtending not to be afraid. He sat there, sullen-faced and black-browed, trying to ignore the sacred things in my office, but he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the Eagle Totem in its alcove above me. It made him shiver. It was supposed to. I pretended to be looking through the papers on my desk.
Finally he said, “You are Mr. Cole?”
“That’s right,” I said pleasantly, and waited.
“You’re the Black President?”
“Of Communications Corporation, Eagle Totem,” I said, and waited again, trying not to smile because I felt so good. I’d waited for Phrater Rabb a long time now. Not Rabb himself, but a man with his mission.
“I want . . .” He looked up at the totem. “You know what I want.”
“Yes,” I said, patting the papers before me affectionately. I might have added, “And it’s what I want too, Phrater Rabb. A lot more than you do, if you only knew it.” But aloud I could only say, “It’s all here in your application, Rabb. I know what you want. But you can’t have it—not at the price you offer.”
“Six years’ service?” He sounded shocked. “That’s not enough? You mean I put in six years living at bare subsistence, give the Corporation all that service practically for free, and it’s not enough to get rid of Jake Haliaia?”
“Stealing a soul is an expensive business,” I told him, looking solemn. “And service is only as good as the skill you’ve got. You’re rated point five seven in your field. What is it—electrical engineering? According to my dope sheet, there’s an oversupply right now. You’d have to go in hock for twenty years of subsistence living in service to the Corporation before we’d break even. If it’s worth that much to you—”
Rabb said angrily, “I could kill him myself a lot cheaper!”
“You could, sure. But what then? One of his phraters would get the Black President of his clan to put a spell on you. It might be sickness or accident. We could cure that. But it might be soul-stealing. I think it would be. You ready to die that fast?”
Rabb pushed out his underlip sullenly and looked up at the Eagle in its little gold-lined alcove. He hesitated.
“What did Haliaia do to you, anyhow?” I asked, and then bit my tongue a little trying to take back that give-away accent, with its frank implication. I knew damn well what he had done to me. But he’d been safe. He knew I couldn’t touch him. Black Presidents have to give up personal animosities when they take office. Or at least, they have to go through the motions.
“He swindled me out of an inheritance,” Rabb said. “He’s a cousin of mine.” He hit his knee with a doubled fist. “Twenty years’ service just to wipe out a man like that,” he said. “It isn’t fair.”
“You could always go to court,” I suggested, and we both laughed. It would take more like a hundred years of service to pay out the bribes that solution would cost. Law courts have nothing to do with justice any more. With no salaries involved, the officials live on bribes. It’s a survival, like trial by combat, and it’ll die out presently. Social control is based on corporate magic today, each corporation formed of people chosen according to aptitude, training and interest. Rabb had far more in common with me, his phrater in the Communications Corporation, than with his blood-relative Haliaia, that big, brown, handsome, halfPolynesian who thinks he can get away with—well, not murder, of course. But it’s worse than that to steal a man’s wife.
Rabb was still sitting there considering.
“Twenty years is too long,” he said. “I couldn’t face it, not even to get back at Jake. Six years is my limit. What could you do to him for that?”
“Disease and injury,” I said. “On the non-physical plane, I could make him very unhappy. But I can’t guarantee anything, of course. It all depends on how strong the White President of his clan is. Everything’s curable except soul-stealing—if the other guy’s White President is good enough.”
“I know your reputation, Mr. Cole,” Rabb said. “You’re just about the biggest in the business. I know you’ll do your best. And it’s worth six years to me.”
“No more?”
He shook his head slowly.
“All right, Rabb,” I said. “Sign here, then.” I pushed a contract and a pen across the desk. “And here—that’s for your insurance. Can’t have you die on us before your term’s up.”
He scribbled his name twice. “That’s all,” I said.
“But will I—”
“You’ll be notified, in detail. Eyewitness reports on Haliaia’s progress will be mailed to you weekly. That’s part of the service. Okay, Rabb? Good afternoon.”
He went out awkwardly, shuffling sidewise not to turn his back on the Eagle, whose strong, sacred wings theoretically carry the Communications Corporation in flight around the world. I shuffled his papers together and poised them over the slot in my desk that would suck them down to Administration.
Under my breath I said, “The damned fool.” But I couldn’t quite let go of the papers. I couldn’t quite decide. On the one hand, some richer enemy of Jake Haliaia’s might turn up eventually. On the other, Rabb was a bird in the hand. I’d waited six months even for this. Haliaia was a man who made enemies right and left, sure. But soulstealing is an expensive business. Unless Haliaia antagonized somebody so high in rating that the investment of only a few years’ service would do the job, I’d be no better off—for waiting. Ideally, somebody else would turn up wanting what I wanted—Haliaia’s death. Practically, it wasn’t likely. I’d have to gimmick somebody’s papers to get the man disposed of. Rabb’s papers were as good as anybody’s, for that purpose. But it’s a risk. It’s always a risk to tamper with corporate magic.
I’d gladly have paid Rabb’s expenses out of my own pocket, if I’d dared. Did I dare? For months now I’d been telling myself that I risked nothing. I know how this so-called magic works. I know the truth. Magic can’t affect a man if there’s no such thing as magic. Or anyhow, not if he doesn’t believe in it. My magic works, sure. But not because it’s real.
Still, forty years of training leaves its compulsions. A Black President who turns his powers to selfish
ends has never been heard of. I’ll bet it’s been done, but not by anyone fool enough to get found out. At worst, I’d lose my job, which I spent fifteen years learning, and my prestige, which is always a good thing to have, and my pay, which is one of the highest in the Corporation. At worst, that is, from my enlightened viewpoint. From theirs, the worst is the soul-stealing spell, and I’d certainly get slapped with that. When they found it wouldn’t work—what? A President, black or white, is immune to magic himself as long as his totem protects him—that is, as long as he doesn’t break any major taboos, especially in public. But suppose I broke the biggest taboo; and it became known? My soul might be stolen. In that case, everyone would expect me to cooperate by dying.
When I didn’t die at the appointed time, what then? Would there be a more realistic attempt to murder me, with a bullet or poison? I thought that would depend entirely on how superstitious my would-be executioners were. If they were skeptical enough, they’d certainly not depend on magic alone, after they saw it wasn’t succeeding. But if they weren’t skeptical, then they’d simply decide that my magic was stronger than theirs, and my prestige and power would rise higher than ever.
Was I the only President who wasn’t blinded by superstitious belief in magic?
Well, there was one quick way to find out. I laid Rabb’s papers on my desk and pushed the button that locked my office door. I didn’t want any inquiring eyes to notice them before I made my mind up. I flipped the intercom switch and said to my secretary, “I’ll be in Thornvald’s office, Jan. Don’t bother us unless it’s urgent.”
There is a private door in my office and in Thornvald’s that opens on our connecting bridge. I always liked to cross over that way. Communications headquarters building covers two square miles. Above it our twin towers rise impressively, for I’m the nominal head of the Corporation, along with Karl Thornvald, the White President. Walking across the bridge, you can always hear the wind howling thinly through the steel structuring, and sometimes a surprised bird looks wildly at you from beyond the glass. I used to wonder how we’d handle the embarrassment if an eagle ever came by and knocked itself senseless against our bridge. Probably nobody’d ever notice. It’s amazing how much a person can train himself to ignore if his beliefs are contravened.
Crossing the bridge is almost like flying. You’re so high in the blue air, all the rooftops far below and spreading out enormously to the ring of green fields a mile away in every direction. For a moment it reminded me of the hallucination of flight that comes with the Eagle ritual.
Thornvald’s telltale showed he was alone. I knocked and went in. His desk is like mine, with the Eagle Totem on the wall, but otherwise the office is bright and cheerful, without the black-magic props I have to have around.
Karl is a plump, round-faced man with an air of impressive solemnity he can put on at will. Right now he put it on automatically as the door opened, and then shrugged and gave me a mild grin.
“Hello, Lloyd,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Coffee break,” I said. He shook his head over the papers in his hand, laid them down, shrugged again and pushed the coffee button. Two coffee bulbs rose instantly out of a desk panel.
“Good idea,” he said, biting his open in that irritating, unsanitary way of his. “I’ve been sweating out a cure for a tough case. A key sonar man. The clan really needs him.”
I opened my coffee with one hand and with the other reached for the paper he was handing me.
“Somebody in Food Corporation put a spell on him, eh?”
“Right. And you know Mumm. He’s tricky, and getting trickier.”
I knew him. Mumm is the new Black President of Foods, a young man and a very smart one, out to make a reputation for himself fast.
Thornvald said sadly, “I can’t locate the real trouble. I thought it might be a foreign body, but the fluoroscope says no. And the man thinks he’ll die.”
“This says it’s the Pneumonia Spell?”
“I think it is, but—”
“With pneumonia any body’d feel lousy,” I said. “Have you ever considered that what’s wrong with your patient may not be magic, but germs?”
Thornvald blinked at me. “Well . . . now wait a minute, Lloyd. Of course it’s germs. We know that, if it’s the Pneumonia Spell. But who sends the germs? And who puts enough magic in them to eat up my patient’s mana? I tell you, Mumm can make germs more virulent than any Black President I ever heard of. I’ve used five different blessings on the aureomycin, and I still can’t cancel Mumm’s magic.”
“Maybe your patient’s a skeptic,” I said.
“Now, Lloyd,” he said, pulling on his air of solemnity.
“Come off it, Karl,” I said. “You know there are skeptics.”
“Yes, I suppose so, poor souls. I’m happy to say I never met one. I’ve sometimes wondered how I’d handle it if I did.”
I’d never met one either, barring myself, but I gave him a wise grin and said, “I know one. Smart man, too. Skeptics have their own power, Karl, some of them. Did you ever think one skeptic might be able to cure another, if your methods fail?” He looked very shocked. His pink face actually went pale with it. “Be careful, Lloyd,” he said. “That’s getting close to blasphemy.”
“I’m just stating facts,” I said.
“If you know a skeptic, you know your duty.” His voice was prim. “As for saving a patient at the expense of his soul, I’d rather have the man die in a state of grace, and so would you, Lloyd.”
“Even a key man? Somebody the Corporation can’t afford to lose?”
“Of course, Lloyd.”
“Even if it means letting Mumm score a win, and our reputation going down?”
“Lloyd, I don’t understand you in this mood.” He looked up at the Eagle Totem and his lips moved slightly.
I sighed and got up, draining my coffee. “Forget it, Karl,” I said. “I was just kidding.”
“I certainly hope so,” he told me stiffly. “I understand you, but others might get wrong ideas. If you really know a confessed skeptic, Lloyd, you’ll have to report him. For his own good.”
“I told you I was kidding. Sorry, Karl. I’ve been worrying, too.”
“Trouble? Maybe I can help.”
I looked at him. He really had gone pale at the thought of blasphemy. It had to be genuine. You can’t put on an act like that. I drew a deep breath and plunged.
“No, not trouble exactly. I got a soul-stealing order today and it’s going to be embarrassing for me, that’s all.”
He gave me one of his keen looks and then demonstrated in one word that he’s really well qualified to be White President, however much I may underestimate the man sometimes.
“Haliaia?” he asked.
It scared me a little. He’s almost too quick. But I couldn’t back down now without losing a chance that might not come again for months.
“That’s it,” I said. “Haliaia.”
He looked down at his hands, and then up again. His prim lips were firm.
“I know how you feel, Lloyd. There’ll be talk. But you’ll have to bear it. You know your duty. As long as you and I have the facts straight, what does it matter how people gossip?”
I gave him a stalwart, resolute look, Black President to White President, and the world well lost for duty’s sake.
“You’re right, Karl. Dead right.”
“I know I am. Now stop worrying and put the papers through with a clear conscience, Lloyd. It isn’t always easy, being a President.”
I thought, “There’s nothing easier, Karl,” but aloud I said, “All right, if you say so, I’ll do it. I’ll put them through right now.”
I went back across the bridge, feeling exhilarated and only a little scared. I made the necessary changes in Rabb’s request. Then I held Jake Haliaia over the slot and let go, and watched him go fluttering down the dark vacuum into infinity.
Afterward I turned and looked up at the Eagle Totem. It’s just a stuffed bird. T
hat’s all.
Now there was no use in even trying to keep the secret. I sat down and put in a call to Florida. After a little while the wings of the stuffed eagle carried Communications Corporation’s message across the continent and a woman’s face appeared on the screen. She was looking lovelier than I had ever seen her look before. Her eyes were a little out of focus; obviously I wasn’t registering yet on her screen. Or in her life, either, if you wanted to think about it that way.
A mechanical voice said, “Mr. Cole? We have Miami now. Mrs. Cole is on the screen.”
Now the violet eyes focused. We looked at each other across many miles and enormous emotional distances that would never be bridged again.
“Hello, Lila,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Two things. First, congratulations. The divorce is final this week, isn’t it?”
She simply waited.
I smiled at her. “Oh, yes,” I said. “The other thing. Haliaia is going to die.”
The ritual hallucination was the next step. It’s meaningless, of course—a drug-induced dream which habit has shaped to an expected pattern. Thornvald goes through the same ritual for white magic, and he really believes the Eagle appears and talks to him. I’m not that gullible, but I follow the routine too. When I don’t, it worries me, maybe because I feel if I vary in one thing I may get careless and vary in more public, and dangerous, ways.
This time I thought I’d skip the ritual. It hadn’t even the validity of faith, now I’d broken the main taboo of my office. But I found I couldn’t concentrate on my work. Habit, after all, was too strong for me. I made mistakes, punched the wrong buttons, got so irritated finally that I gave up and went ahead with the routine mumbo-jumbo. I entered the ritual room with an odd sense of relief. I burned the necessary herbs, gave myself a shot of the holy drug and said the usual prayer to the Eagle. After that it was the same hallucination I’ve had so often.
I dreamed. The Eagle flew with me to Miami. I found Haliaia in a casino playing chuck-a-luck. He was big and brown and handsome. I knew he was due to get enormously fat in later life, like most Polynesians. Lila would be spared this, and fake. But they wouldn’t thank me for it.
Collected Fiction Page 790