Last Enemy

by H. Beam Piper

  LAST ENEMY

  by

  H. BEAM PIPER

  Illustrated by Miller

  _The last enemy was the toughest of all--and conquering him was in itself almost as dangerous as not conquering. For a strange pattern of beliefs can make assassination an honorable profession!_

  ]

  Along the U-shaped table, the subdued clatter of dinnerware and thebuzz of conversation was dying out; the soft music that drifted downfrom the overhead sound outlets seemed louder as the competing noisesdiminished. The feast was drawing to a close, and Dallona of Hadronfidgeted nervously with the stem of her wineglass as last-momentdoubts assailed her.

  The old man at whose right she sat noticed, and reached out to lay hishand on hers.

  "My dear, you're worried," he said softly. "You, of all people,shouldn't be, you know."

  "The theory isn't complete," she replied. "And I could wish for morepositive verification. I'd hate to think I'd got you into this--"

  Garnon of Roxor laughed. "No, no!" he assured her. "I'd decided uponthis long before you announced the results of your experiments. AskGirzon; he'll bear me out."

  "That's true," the young man who sat at Garnon's left said, leaningforward. "Father has meant to take this step for a long time. He waswaiting until after the election, and then he decided to do it now, togive you an opportunity to make experimental use of it."

  The man on Dallona's right added his voice. Like the others at thetable, he was of medium stature, brown-skinned and dark-eyed, with awide mouth, prominent cheekbones and a short, square jaw. Unlike theothers, he was armed, with a knife and pistol on his belt, and on thebreast of his black tunic he wore a scarlet oval patch on which a pairof black wings, with a tapering silver object between them had beensuperimposed.

  "Yes, Lady Dallona; the Lord Garnon and I discussed this, oh, twoyears ago at the least. Really, I'm surprised that you seem to shrinkfrom it, now. Of course, you're Venus-born, and customs there may bedifferent, but with your scientific knowledge--"

  "That may be the trouble, Dirzed," Dallona told him. "A scientist getsin the way of doubting, and one doubts one's own theories most ofall."

  "That's the scientific attitude, I'm told," Dirzed replied, smiling."But somehow, I cannot think of you as a scientist." His eyes traveledover her in a way that would have made most women, scientists orotherwise, blush. It gave Dallona of Hadron a feeling of pleasure. Menoften looked at her that way, especially here at Darsh. Novelty hadsomething to do with it--her skin was considerably lighter than usual,and there was a pleasing oddness about the structure of her face. Heralleged Venusian origin was probably accepted as the explanation ofthat, as of so many other things.

  As she was about to reply, a man in dark gray, one of theupper-servants who were accepted as social equals by the Akor-Nebnobles, approached the table. He nodded respectfully to Garnon ofRoxor.

  "I hate to seem to hurry things, sir, but the boy's ready. He's in atrance-state now," he reported, pointing to the pair of visiplates atthe end of the room.

  Both of the ten-foot-square plates were activated. One was a solidluminous white; on the other was the image of a boy of twelve orfourteen, seated at a big writing machine. Even allowing for the factthat the boy was in a hypnotic trance, there was an expression ofidiocy on his loose-lipped, slack-jawed face, a pervading dullness.

  "One of our best sensitives," a man with a beard, several places downthe table on Dallona's right, said. "You remember him, Dallona; heproduced that communication from the discarnate Assassin, Sirzim.Normally, he's a low-grade imbecile, but in trance-state he'swonderful. And there can be no argument that the communications heproduces originates in his own mind; he doesn't have mind enough, ofhis own, to operate that machine."

  Garnon of Roxor rose to his feet, the others rising with him. Heunfastened a jewel from the front of his tunic and handed it toDallona.

  "Here, my dear Lady Dallona; I want you to have this," he said. "It'sbeen in the family of Roxor for six generations, but I know that youwill appreciate and cherish it." He twisted a heavy ring from his lefthand and gave it to his son. He unstrapped his wrist watch and passedit across the table to the gray-clad upper-servant. He gave a pocketcase, containing writing tools, slide rule and magnifier, to thebearded man on the other side of Dallona. "Something you can use, Dr.Harnosh," he said. Then he took a belt, with a knife and holsteredpistol, from a servant who had brought it to him, and gave it to theman with the red badge. "And something for you, Dirzed. The pistol'sby Farnor of Yand, and the knife was forged and tempered on Luna."

  The man with the winged-bullet badge took the weapons, exclaiming inappreciation. Then he removed his own belt and buckled on the gift.

  "The pistol's fully loaded," Garnon told him.

  Dirzed drew it and checked--a man of his craft took no statement aboutweapons without verification--then slipped it back into the holster.

  "Shall I use it?" he asked.

  "By all means; I'd had that in mind when I selected it for you."

  Another man, to the left of Girzon, received a cigarette case andlighter. He and Garnon hooked fingers and clapped shoulders.

  "Our views haven't been the same, Garnon," he said, "but I've alwaysvalued your friendship. I'm sorry you're doing this, now; I believeyou'll be disappointed."

  Garnon chuckled. "Would you care to make a small wager on that,Nirzav?" he asked. "You know what I'm putting up. If I'm proven right,will you accept the Volitionalist theory as verified?"

  Nirzav chewed his mustache for a moment. "Yes, Garnon, I will." Hepointed toward the blankly white screen. "If we get anythingconclusive on that, I'll have no other choice."

  "All right, friends," Garnon said to those around him. "Will you walkwith me to the end of the room?"

  Servants removed a section from the table in front of him, to allowhim and a few others to pass through; the rest of the guests remainedstanding at the table, facing toward the inside of the room. Garnon'sson, Girzon, and the gray-mustached Nirzav of Shonna, walked on hisleft; Dallona of Hadron and Dr. Harnosh of Hosh on his right. Thegray-clad upper-servant, and two or three ladies, and a nobleman witha small chin-beard, and several others, joined them; of those who hadsat close to Garnon, only the man in the black tunic with the scarletbadge hung back. He stood still, by the break in the table, watchingGarnon of Roxor walk away from him. Then Dirzed the Assassin drew thepistol he had lately received as a gift, hefted it in his hand,thumbed off the safety, and aimed at the back of Garnon's head.

  They had nearly reached the end of the room when the pistol cracked.Dallona of Hadron started, almost as though the bullet had crashedinto her own body, then caught herself and kept on walking. She closedher eyes and laid a hand on Dr. Harnosh's arm for guidance,concentrating her mind upon a single question. The others went on asthough Garnon of Roxor were still walking among them.

  "Look!" Harnosh of Hosh cried, pointing to the image in the visiplateahead. "He's under control!"

  They all stopped short, and Dirzed, holstering his pistol, hurriedforward to join them. Behind, a couple of servants had approached witha stretcher and were gathering up the crumpled figure that had, amoment ago, been Garnon.

  A change had come over the boy at the writing machine. His eyes werestill glazed with the stupor of the hypnotic trance, but the slack jawhad stiffened, and the loose mouth was compressed in a purposefulline. As they watched, his hands went out to the keyboard in front ofhim and began to move over it, and as they did, letters appeared onthe white screen on the left.

  _Garnon of Roxor, discarnate, communicating_, they read. The machinestopped for a moment, then began again. _To Dallona of Hadron: Thequestion you asked, after I discarnated, was: What was the last book Iread, before the feast? While waiting for my v
alet to prepare my bath,I read the first ten verses of the fourth Canto of "Splendor ofSpace," by Larnov of Horka, in my bedroom. When the bath was ready, Imarked the page with a strip of message tape, containing a messagefrom the bailiff of my estate on the Shevva River, concerning abreakdown at the power plant, and laid the book on the ivory-inlaidtable beside the big red chair._

  Harnosh of Hosh looked at Dallona inquiringly; she nodded.

  "I rejected the question I had in my mind, and substituted that one,after the shot," she said.

  He turned quickly to the upper-servant. "Check on that, right away,Kirzon," he directed.

  As the upper-servant