Harvest of Stars

by Poul Anderson

  The faster the better, no? What she had drawn, added to what she had from Hawaii, let Kyra say, “A thousand ucus.” That wouldn’t leave her with much hard cash, but all she needed to do was get out of this wretched country.

  “Come.” He took her elbow. She wanted to shake his hand off but decided not to.

  Threading among the booths, she saw more for sale than clothes, homewares, toys, food, anything cheap. Where had that laser torch come from? What about yonder diamond necklace? Stones so large and clear were expensive to manufacture. In a computer holoscreen, an animation of Petie, half child, half fuzzy bear, played with the operator, who hoped to sell him to somebody who wanted a pet. Interactive programs like that were supposed to be unpiratable, and to go for a stiff price. High-tech safeguards evoked high-tech burglary kits, she guessed.

  CASINO GRANDIOSO danced frantically above a big house. “In here,” said the man. “My name Edwin.” Kyra felt his stare expectant upon her. She kept her mouth shut. His drew tight, but he couldn’t very well speak his resentment.

  Hung with maroon velvyl, the foyer was a sudden grotto of dim quietness. A girl sat behind a counter. Her face was teen age, her eyes a hundred years old. “We see Sr. Leggatt,” Edwin told her. “Got big deal for him.”

  She nodded, spoke briefly with an intercom, and said, “You’re in luck. He’s not too busy. Go on in.”

  They passed through three spacious rooms. As yet, few players were at the tables and machines. Kyra checked her step momentarily before a row of terminals. Fractal patterns filled the screens with eerie beauty. She knew this game. You turned the system chaotic, then tried to bring it to one or another attractor. The payoff depended on which you achieved, if any.

  “Nice, hey?” said Edwin. “Play later.”

  “No, gracias.” It was doubtless rigged. Besides, she was hungry.

  An armed guard admitted them to the office. It was sumptuously furnished. A multiceiver displayed what might well be real and might even be real-time. A man lay in bed with a metamorph. Her arms and legs were spidery long, her body of eel-like slimness and suppleness; sleek brown fur covered her, and a plumed tail arched around to stroke his back. She trilled.

  Metamorph—It was as if Kyra watched the scene through the great innocent eyes of the Keiki Moana, the Sea Children. She turned her head away.

  Across his desk, Leggatt was another startling sight. For some reason he chose to be obese. From the bullet head, his black gaze probed at her.

  “The lady exchange a thousand ucus,” Edwin said, half triumphantly, half obsequiously.

  “Oh,” said a shrill tenor. “Bueno, bueno. Por favor, be seated, señora.” Leggatt switched off the multi. “Care for a smoke, tobacco, marijuana, blend?”

  Kyra took the edge of a chair. “No, gracias,” she snapped. “Let’s just do our business. This … caballero mentioned a favorable rate. I want dollars.”

  “My commission, sir,” Edwin whined. “Not forget my commission.” He received a glower and shrank back.

  “Whatever you wish, señora,” Leggatt said, beaming. “Best deal in town, I promise you. Let me see—today’s official rate—what I can do for you—” He named a figure.

  He must expect Kyra to haggle. She wanted out, and accepted. He covered any surprise with words to the effect of how glad he was to meet someone who understood these matters, while he took the Union money from a wall safe.

  “Count it, do,” he urged. “No, no, hold your ucus till you’re satisfied. This is between amigos, right?” Also, he had that gunjin at the door.

  His friendliness did not keep him from examining twice the bills she handed over before he stowed them. Edwin coughed. Leggatt drew a thick wallet out of his robe, peeled off some dollars, gave them into the reaching fingers, and said, “Go.”

  Edwin scrambled to his feet. “Hyper meeting you, señorita,” he chattered. “Any time you—”

  “Go,” Leggatt directed. Edwin went.

  Kyra rose. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” Leggatt said. “Can I do anything more for you? I like making my clients happy.”

  “Bueno—” Her stomach twinged. “Could you tell me where to find a place to eat? Nothing elab, only edible and sanitary.”

  “Why, I can do better than that. Let me take you to lunch. Best food and drink for ten klicks around, even if it is here in the Fair.”

  “No, I, uh, gracias, but—”

  “Really. I insist.” Whale-huge, he lumbered erect. “I do insist. We should get acquainted, señora. I like you. I trust we’ll do more business in future. What is your name, por favor?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look, I have an appointment.”

  “I insist.” He came around the desk and took her arm. The little eyes leveled unblinkingly at her. “Won’t take no for an answer. What is your name, now?”

  He’d marked her as a stray lamb. This could get ugly. Left to itself, it probably would. Kyra’s heart bounced, once, then settled into strong steadiness. Her senses sharpened. She smelled musky perfume on him. Through the walls she heard music bray, brasses and basses. “Bueno, if you put it that way,” she said, forcing a smile. “I am—” She checked herself. She’d nearly used the alias she’d given Lee. “Anna Karenina.”

  “A Russian?” He clearly didn’t believe it. However, he led her along. As they left the office he nodded at the guard, who fell into step behind them.

  They emerged into clamor. Robe billowing scarlet and gold, Leggatt moved on. People saw who walked at his back and made way. A wake of lessened noise trailed after him. Kyra wondered what help she might get if seized and hauled off. Quite likely none. He talked, a stream: “—yes, marvelous food. They show you the birds, you pick the one you want, and they kill it for you on the spot—” A shooting gallery which they passed advertised live rats for targets.

  PALACE OF HORRORS proclaimed a sign on a building. Screens displayed fleeting samples of what you could watch inside, scenes taken immediately after the meteorite strike, scenes from the Capetown Kraal, scenes from Bombay, scenes from old wars and later police actions. Tiny and incongruous nearby, a booth flaunted a poster that promised YOUR FUTURE REVEALED. SCIENTIFIC STOCHASTIC ANALYSIS.

  “—private room to relax in,” Leggatt said. “Any kind of drug you like, guaranteed pure—”

  “Real, real, real!” thundered an amplified voice. “Not a show, not a quivira, the real thing, the true experience! Robots like life! Do it with the finest selection of slut machines in the known universe!”

  There had to be some bolt hole. The ruined skyscraper loomed ahead. Above one doorway, blood-red lightning flashes spelled out THE WILDERNESS. Below them glimmered death-blue Enter at your own risk.

  Kyra swallowed, wet her lips, pointed, and asked, “What’s that?”

  Leggatt blinked, interrupted. “Hm? Oh, that? You don’t know?”

  Apparently it was notorious. “I’ve been away. Far away. I’ll … tell you later. But what is it?” She turned in its direction.

  “Naw, you don’t want to go in there,” Leggatt said. “It’s for nullheads. Two, three people killed every month. Come on.” He tugged at her arm, hard.

  She applied muscle and skilled motion against him. “I want to know,” she replied petulantly.

  He yielded. “Bueno, it’s for dangerous, uh, activities.

  All kinds of recklessness. A robot bull to fight. A swimming basin churned up into storm waves and whirlpools. A glandular-enhanced giant to wrestle, and no guarantee you won’t get a broken back. Whirlers to ride, high up, no safety harness. Or climb the girders; they’ll be vibrated for you. And so on and so on.” He shook his head. “Loco.”

  “Sounds exciting.” Kyra continued to apply her vector.

  “Huh? No, wait, what kind of a blinkie are you? Come along!”

  His grasp tightened. She heard indignation and saw his jowls flush. He was used to being obeyed. They weren’t far from the place. Kyra removed her arm from him, a yank out between fingers and thumb. She
sprang aside, whirled about, and ran.

  “Ay!” bawled at her back. “Stop! Get ’er, Otto!”

  It was as if she felt the boots in pursuit. Would the guard draw his shock gun and fire? She dodged around a bewildered group of tourists, from a South Pacific raft city to judge by their looks and clothes. Hastily, she reached into her pocket for a fistful of dollars. The movement didn’t slow her much. A spacer was trained in multiple coordination. A glance aft showed the gunjin losing ground. She slammed to a halt at the entrance and thrust a bill down the slot. A ticket extruded, a door retracted. She grabbed the slip, didn’t wait to collect her change, passed through and heard the panel hiss shut.

  An attendant stood at a counter in the hall beyond. He was dressed like a Homeric warrior. If he was surprised to see a customer arrive breathing hard, a woman at that, he didn’t let on. “Saludos,” he greeted. “What is your pleasure?”

  “I, I’d like to … look around. Maybe I’ll find something to do, but … mainly I’m interested. Is that all right?”

  “Muy bien.” He punched her ticket and gave her a pamphlet. “I suggest you read this first. Now, por favor, press your right thumb here.” He gestured at a screen. “As you see, it’s a waiver of liability. We have medical care on hand, reasonable charge, but—”

  “I’ve heard.” She left him. Any instant, Leggatt might send Otto through the door.

  Or would he? “Lepton bitch,” she imagined him snarling as he waddled off. On the other hand, he might feel offended enough, or curious enough, not to quit at once. Kyra walked onward.

  Mural screens down the corridor showed men at war, Assyrians, Hebrews, Romans, vikings, Moors, knights, samurai, Aztecs … until at last a Chinese crossed bayonets with a Pathan of the Grand Jihad. They were animations, vivid but too stylized for sadism. The clientele here couldn’t really be gyrocephs. The price of admission proved they were well-to-do, therefore well educated, therefore treated early on for any pathologies. Then why did they come? If they craved excitement, surely they could afford a quivira.

  She reached a transverse corridor. Escalators went up in three directions. She chose the left at random. On the floor above, a hall curved off, one wall transparent. She went for a look. Beyond was a room where a man, maybe a referee, watched two others who were scarcely more than boys. Clad in tights, they fought with quarterstaffs, blow and parry. Blood mingled with the sweat agleam on their bruised torsos. Those sticks could fracture skulls.

  In the next room stood a framework like an inverted L. It was a gallows. Also watched by another, a naked man sprattled a meter off the floor, hanged by the neck. Kyra gasped.

  “The doc is supposed to lower him in time,” said a voice.

  The speaker was lithe, handsome in afro fashion, attired in trunks. Evidently he was on his way somewhere, had seen her appalled, and stopped to proffer an amiable smile. “Why?” she faltered.

  He shrugged. “Not my pasatiempo. But I’m told the sensations are special. Plus the danger, of course.” His regard was frankly inquisitive. “We seldom get women here. Are you after anything particular? Maybe I can help.”

  “N-no.” Kyra clenched her fists. The hanged man’s tongue was out of his mouth. “I, I’m simply curious.” A yell: “Let him down!”

  “You could have had a pleasanter introduction,” her companion admitted. He scowled. “Crack, it is going on long, isn’t it? Let’s boost. If he does die, I don’t care to watch. He might not be revivable.”

  Shivering, she matched his stride. “Where are you bound?” she whispered, dry-throated.

  He smiled again. “Now that’s something you should enjoy seeing. A new attraction. Twelve-meter waterfall into a basin with stakes below the surface. I’ll go down it wearing a gillpiece. They change the positions of the stakes every day. Grandissimo.”

  “Ghastly, I’d call it.”

  He sounded genuinely puzzled. “What? It’s a clean sport. Not like the shark tank. Oh, I wouldn’t want you trying it. I wonder if you should have come at all.”

  “Maybe not.” Impulsively, she added, “I’ve been in danger myself, more than once. It goes with my job. But this is—is—why do you do it?”

  They went by a room that seemed empty except for an observer staring aloft. Something in Kyra compelled her to look. The space was three stories high. Under the ceiling stretched a wire. A man was making his way across. No net was beneath him.

  Bitterness astonished her: “What else is there, if you’ve got blood in your veins?”

  It was in the nature of the young human male to risk his neck, she thought dizzily. Wasn’t it? Or did this that she saw arise from some rebellion of the spirit against—against what?

  Her escort calmed. “Besides, my chances are excellent,” he said. “I’m not suicidal. This is just a way to be fully alive. Afterward I relax.” He turned oddly shy. “Uh, my name’s Sam, Samuel Jackson. I’m a junior scientist in protein design. If you care to watch me shoot the fall, I’d be delighted to invite you for dinner. We could talk some more.”

  Temptation tugged. He was attractive, and his mystique had the lure of being almost comprehensible. No. Lee, Guthrie, Fireball. “Gracias, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Enjoy yourself. Luck be with you.” Another hall branched off. She hurried down it.

  In an alcove she found seats, took one, and read the pamphlet. It included maps. They showed three exits, well apart. Leggatt would scarcely set his bandidos to watch so many. She could leave.

  Somehow that didn’t feel quite like a liberation. Was the Wilderness actually evil? It catered to the animal in man, but it didn’t force you in, nor did it try to remold you. Outside were the Avantists, their prisons and reeducation clinics, censorship and exhortation, controlled schools and controlled economy, all with the aim of raising humankind above the animal.

  Not too successful, were they? But the effort had killed a lot of people. It could still give her death or worse.

  Tensely she stepped forth into daylight, mingled with the meaningless swarm, and concentrated on putting distance between herself and the ruin.

  A booth caught her glance. YOUR FUTURE stood above it. A voice intoned: “—psychic projection forward along your world line, through the space-time continuum—” She forgot it. Hard by, another booth advertised FOOD.

  It was a decent little spot, where a woman cooked her two burritos and tapped her a mug of beer, beer! The cold catnip of it gushed over Kyra’s palate and down her throat. For dessert she got directions to Mama Lakshmi’s Tea House.

  That was a two-story, metal-sided building, undistinguished except for a verandah within which a wall-size screen presented an animation of the loves of Krishna. The lobby gave on a bar and restaurant to the right, a gaming parlor to the left. Nobody was about, aside from a dark woman at a desk. Kyra approached. “I’d like a room,” she said.

  “Ten dollars an hour,” replied the clerk. “No professionals.”

  Kyra’s face heated. “I want it for—overnight.”

  “Ten dollars an hour till twenty-one hundred. Then overnight rate, one hundred dollars. Checkout time nine.”

  Heartened by a full belly, Kyra said, “Too much. One hundred flat, counting from now.”

  “Done,” said the clerk instantly.

  She’d better learn how to bargain, Kyra thought as she paid. Her reserves could dwindle fast. “I’m expecting a visitor,” she said. “My name is Emma Bovary. B, O, V, A, R, Y.”

  The clerk made a note on her computer. “Who is the visitor?”

  “Do you need to know?”

  “For your safety. This is a secure house.”

  Kyra scanned her memory. “Uh, John Smith.” The clerk snickered but entered it and gave her a key.

  The room was upstairs, shabbily furnished though reasonably clean, with a bath cubicle and a barebones multi. Its walls muffled the noise outside to a minimum. Kyra considered tuning in the news. No, first she could use some rest. Take off her pack, kick off her shoes, flop onto the bed�
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  She was in space, in the Taurid Stream. Strange that that centuried menace was unseeable except as radar blips. Her eyes found only stars wintry bright in a crystal dark. Light within the cabin overrode all save a few hundred. Acceleration ended, she floated free, ghost-alone. Then a sight waxed slowly before her, a flicker of shadows and vague luminance as the comet turned, wobbled, orbited toward distant Earth. It was ice and rock and dust, three hundred million primordial tonnes. If it struck, it was death, wreck, and a year without a summer. It was too friable to deflect; the necessary force would crack it apart and the unmanageable fragments would be nearly as deadly. Instead it must be destroyed, and soon, turned into pieces scattered enough and small enough that when they reached the planet they would do no harm. But nuclear blasts of that magnitude would fill ambient space with the shrapnel, and she, the data-gathering scout, might be on an escape course that proved unlucky—

  A knock roused her. She sat up with a gasp. Sunbeams slanted low through the window. Jesus on a jet, had she slept so long? The knock repeated. She surged to unlock the door.

  Lee came in, wearing Western male clothes. He carried the pack that held Guthrie on his back and a small bag in his left hand. She noticed that his informant was missing from that wrist. Her look sought his countenance. It was drawn into harsh lines, though he managed a smile of sorts. “Hi,” he said. Strain flattened the voice.

  “Bienvenido,” Kyra answered uncertainly. “It took you a while, didn’t it? Trouble?”

  “Nothing serious.” Lee closed the door. “I had to search around longer than I’d expected before I found what I was after.”

  “Get me out of this poke and explain what the hell it was,” Guthrie growled.

  Lee removed him and put him on the dresser. “They wouldn’t let me past the entryroom at that place,” the man related. “I had to dicker over an intercom. It’s a new location. They’ve grown ultra-cautious.”

  “I thought anything went in Quark Fair,” Kyra said.

  “Not quite. If the Sepo got wind that this stuff is being dealt—” Lee slumped into a chair and stared before him.