Sidney's Comet

by Brian Herbert

  Now Sidney was in pain, as he relived the grand mal seizure of that terrible evening in the Sky Ballroom. In his mind’s eye, he writhed in the sidechair again, then slipped to the ballroom floor, screaming, twitching and drooling as a horrified crowd looked down at him, their faces contorted in revulsion.

  “Rule sixty-three, section twelve-point-six-two, paragraph three,” Dr. Arroyo replied. “All clients must complete an application.”

  “He’s refusing, then?”

  “I would, say so, yes.”

  “What should we do?”

  “All clients must complete an application.”

  “That’s all it says?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Call in the advisers.”

  In a hushed conference held minutes later, the advisers determined that something might be faulty with the application equipment. So Sidney was placed in another application booth. But the same thing happened again. They tried yet another booth, and then another. All to no avail.

  By this time, Mayor Nancy Ogg was made aware of the unusual situation, and she immediately recognized who Sidney was. She issued orders that he was to be sent to a holding room for the time being. The whole situation resulted in a very confused and upset group of Bu-Prog employees. They had never seen anything like it before, and were anxious not to displease the Mayor.

  In a semi-conscious state in the holding room, Sidney wondered, Why did the voices help me again? The fire, and now. . . . His own thoughts floated across his consciousness as if thought by someone else, and he almost felt able to answer them himself. The answers seemed on the very tip of his tongue, there but not there at the same instant.

  It was warm that noonhour in the Spartan Cafeteria. Lastsayer Steven stood with his tray of bread and holy water, scanning the tables for a place to sit. The cafeteria was a glassplexed greenhouse at one side of the Black Box of Democracy’s roof. He saw an autocopter landing on the rooftop helipad outside, heard the whine and thump of the engine and rotors. The cafeteria was beginning to fill, and sayermen spoke to one another in low, polite tones.

  Seeing Twosayer William seated alone at a corner table, he rolled over and asked if he might join him.

  “Why, certainly,” Twosayer replied somberly. “Go right ahead.” Twosayer thought of the comet, wondered if the intercept mission was proceeding smoothly.

  Lastsayer noticed that all the sayermen threw their hoods back as they sat down. He did the same, and loosened a drawstring at his neck. “Frightfully hot,” Lastsayer said. He smiled nervously, lifted a red cup of holy water to his lips and sipped.

  “That it is,” Twosayer said, shifting in his seat so that he sat higher than Lastsayer. “Sometimes it is a supreme test of our faith to keep the robes on.”

  Lastsayer laughed uneasily, then said in a low tone, “I have a problem, Twosayer. I need to confide in someone.”

  “Oh?” the elder sayerman said, touching one side of his hooked nose. Smiling compassionately, he asked, “How could someone with us only a few days have such an ominous problem?”

  Lastsayer took a deep breath.

  Twosayer tore a piece of white bread off the portion on his plate, added, “Surely it is not as earthshaking as all that!”

  Lastsayer looked around as Twosayer ate the bread, watched sayermen at nearby tables to be certain they were not listening. “Could we speak somewhere privately, Twosayer? It is a most delicate matter.”

  “THERE ARE NO SECRETS IN THE SAYERHOOD, YOUNGSAYER! Speak up! I will listen!” Twosayer nibbled at another piece of bread, stared across the table with grey green eyes.

  Lastsayer rubbed a finger nervously against his red paper cup of holy water. “I had my first audience with Uncle Rosy Sunday,” he said.

  “So I understand. A bit late too, I hear.”

  “Onesayer was not prepared at the appointed time. I awaited him, but—”

  “A sayerman does not cast aspersions upon one of his brothers!” Twosayer snapped. Lastsayer noted the voice was angry but the eyes seemed bright and alert, almost pleased.

  “I was taught properly on Pleasant Reef,” the younger devotee said. “Normally, I would not have said anything about it.”

  “Normally, I would not listen to such talk,” Twosayer huffed. ‘Tell me why I should.”

  Lastsayer shook his head sadly. “Onesayer was in his suite, apparently high on Happy Pills.”

  “You are qualified to make such a judgment?”

  “He told me had taken a couple.”

  “Continue.”

  “When I came upon him, he was behaving strangely.”

  “Be specific.” Twosayer’s eyes narrowed to intense slits as he stared across the table.

  Lastsayer glanced around, met Twosayer’s gaze and said, He did . . . well . . . urn . . . he did impressions of Uncle Rosy.”

  Lastsayer saw a smile glimmer at the corners of Twosayer’s mouth, but it faded quickly. “Come now,” Twosayer said. “I can hardly believe such a thing!” He took a drink of holy water, sloshed it casually in his mouth.

  “It is true. I swear it! Could it have been a test, Twosayer William?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To see if I am loyal to Uncle Rosy?”

  “We do not use . . . tests . . . of that sort.”

  Twosayer finished his bread, took a gulp of water. “There are no secrets in the Sayerhood,” he said.

  “Does that mean I should inform the Master?”

  Twosayer’s eyes flared, and Lastsayer detected hostility in them. “That is all I wish to say on the matter,” Twosayer said.

  “As you wish.” Lastsayer finished his bread and holy water hurriedly, then excused himself from the table.

  At the same moment, Onesayer Edward stood done in his kitchen module, looking around. According to Uncle Rosy’s rules, he was permitted to eat in his own kitchen every other day, and the fare there was not limited to bread and holy water. That was for the gathering places of the Sayerhood, where ceremony was essential. The vibrating sound of a circulating air fan touched Onesayer’s consciousness, then receded. He felt dull. Something seemed to be blocking out a portion of his mind.

  He rubbed a fat cheek thoughtfully with one hand, said, “What will I have for lunch today?” I must be discreet, he thought. It would be too obvious to ask anyone for a weapon. Sayermen have no use for such things. He stared at a built-in microwave oven, looked at the plastichrome food door above a countertop conveyor strip. Shouldn’t tear anything apart. . . .

  Atheists in Hell! he thought, placing his hands on his hips. Everything is automatic or built-in! I see no heavy objects which could be concealed beneath my robe. . . .

  Onesayer mentoed a dispenser next to the food conveyor, watched a cellophane-wrapped package of eating utensils pop out. Removing the white plastic knife from the package, he fingered it. The blade was blunt, serrated. It chafed the tip of his finger a little bit. This would not even penetrate Uncle Rosy’s skin, he thought.

  Onesayer placed the knife on the counter, next examining the plastic fork. He pushed one of the tongs with his forefinger to test its strength, broke the tong. With a furious grimace, he slammed the fork to the counter, shattering the utensil into many pieces.

  “Plastic is fantastic,” he intoned. “Every break is a new task.”

  Whirling angrily, he left the penthouse suite and moto-shoed toward the elevator bank. Onesayer considered sneaking into the Master’s suite to sabotage one of the consumer products there, but discarded the idea. What if he has an armadillo meckie in there?

  Seeing Twosayer William approaching, Onesayer placed a hand over his eyes to make it appear he was scratching his forehead.

  “Peace be upon you,” Twosayer said cheerily, stopping as he neared Onesayer.

  “Yes, yes,” Onesayer replied hurriedly, rolling past the other sayerman with his hand still over his eyes. “Peace be upon you. Excuse me, please. I am very busy.”

  He does act strangely, Twosa
yer thought. Hiding in the shadows . . . covering his face.

  Onesayer reached the elevator bank, mentoed for an elevator. I have never seen an armadillo meckie near the Master, he thought. Maybe I can rush him in the Central Chamber. There should be something lying around that I can use as a weapon . . . something I did not notice before. He decided to search every floor of the Black Box of Democracy.

  A bell rang, signifying the elevator’s arrival. I will strangle him if necessary, Onesayer thought.

  When the elevator doors opened, one of Uncle Rosy’s green-and-white delivery meckies rolled off, carrying a bundle wrapped in white cloth. “Master sent this for you,” the meckie said, extending its mechanical arms with the bundle. “You are to open it when alone.” A frosted white dome on top of the headless little mechanical servant pulsated with a dim light.

  Onesayer felt his pulse quicken as he accepted the bundle. It was not heavy. Two flat cloth strips were wrapped around the girth. “Did he say what it is?” Onesayer asked.

  “I know nothing about it.” The meckie moto-whirled, returned to the elevator.

  A bomb, Onesayer thought nervously as he rolled back to his suite. Uncle Rosy plans to till me first!

  He set the bundle on the kitchen table, stood back and stared at it. What if I do not open it? he thought. But surely the Master will ask me about it. . . .

  Onesayer touched the bundle, thought: He could order me killed at any moment anyway. If the Master knows my intentions, I might as well die this way as another. Onesayer wiped perspiration from his brow, took a deep breath.

  He removed the cloth straps slowly, pulled at an edge of the bundle. Expecting it to explode, he twisted his face as he unraveled. Something hard inside, he thought, feeling the remaining unwrapped portion. It is long and thin. . . .

  An object clattered to the table, ringing metallically. “A knife!” the startled Onesayer whispered, hardly able to believe what he saw. “And it is steel!”

  Onesayer rubbed one finger across a flat side of the gleaming blade, watched moisture from his finger fog the surface and then disappear. The handle was black pearl, topped with delicate scroll work. He studied the scroll work, saw this: “For my good friend, Willard . . . from Alafin Inaya.”

  Willard expects me to kill myself, Onesayer thought angrily. Well, I won’t do it! Onesayer lifted the knife, rubbed a thumb against the lettering on the handle.

  I will get HIM with this. He knows I am desperate . . . will be prepared. It might be suicidal for me. . . .

  Onesayer looked at the reflection of his face in the gleaming blade. The image was distorted, but he saw deep lines framing his eyes and beginning to crease his cheeks. I must hurry, he thought. There is not much time.

  At five minutes before two that afternoon, Mayor Nancy Ogg stood at the Hub Control Room viewing window, watching as two grey cylindrical mass driver shells were pulled by space tug to the waiting Shamrock Five. She held a lime tintette nervously in one hand, stared intently as the four-hundred-twenty-meter-long mass driver shells were connected behind the space cruiser like railroad cars behind an engine. She knew the fin-like chrome thrust deflectors at the rear of the Shamrock Five would keep rocket exhaust away from the trailers.

  A computer printout slip lay on the counter to her left. It was the memory slip on Madame Bernet. The last day and a half is blank, she thought, taking a deep puff on the tintette. What a time for an equipment breakdown! She wondered if the meckie had killed Javik, and blew a thick cloud of red smoke through her mouth. Where in the Hooverville is he? she thought.

  Her security personnel had been searching for Javik since midmorning. Now the ship was nearly ready to leave, exactly on schedule, and it had no captain! It occurred to her that Sidney Malloy was the titular captain. He’s an enigma, she thought. A milquetoast weakling, I’ve been told . . . but we can’t get an application out of him!

  These problems aren’t my fault. I can’t be blamed for them! But the Mayor had been associated with the government long enough to know how easily the blame could be pointed at her. After all, Javik had been on Saint Elba when he disappeared. And never before had a cappy defied an application machine.

  She picked a bit of tobacco from the tip of her tongue with quivering fingers, glared down across the loading dock to the Shamrock Five. Madame Bernet stood inside the dock’s glass-plex waiting area, talking with two black-uniformed security men.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg turned at the. hum of approaching moto-boots, watched the muscular Sergeant Rountree roll to a stop and deliver the rotating wrist salute of the Security Brigade.

  “You’ve found Javik?” she asked nervously.

  “No, Honorable Mayor,” the sergeant replied. “I am here to report that the fire is under control. Patching ships are repairing holes in the radiation shield.”

  “And the escaped clients?”

  “We believe all have been recaptured. They’ve been routed into the cargo holds of two surplus freight rockets, as you instructed.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you have transfer authorizations on them?”

  “Yes,” the Mayor said. “Saint Michaels will take all our overflow.”

  “I hate to see a reduction in your client count, Honorable Mayor. But we’ll get more cappies when the burned-out wings have been rebuilt.”

  I don’t give a Hoover’s dam about client counts! she thought, raging inside. I just want to get off this dismal orbiter!

  “Shall we run an identity scan on the escapees before shipping them out?’ Rountree asked.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg was deep in thought. “Eh? Oh . . . I don’t think that will be necessary. We have more important matters to consider.” She lifted a shaking tintette to her lips, inhaled deeply. Cool nicotine entered her lungs, then surged out of her nostrils in a red puff. “Get the LD. data from Saint Michaels,” she said.

  “Yes, Honorable Mayor.”

  “Put out the word, Sergeant Rountree. . . . Fifty thousand dollars to the man who finds Javik! I want him located . . . NOW!”

  The sergeant saluted brusquely, spun on his moto-boots and sped away.

  Mayor Nancy Ogg glanced at a red console-mounted security phone, mentoed the receiver. “Get me Dr. Hudson,” she said into a tele-cube which floated in front of her mouth. “Priority One.”

  By radio telephone from the Hub Control Room seconds later, Mayor Nancy Ogg reached Dr. Hudson’s office.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” a receptionist at the other end of the line said. “Dr. Hudson is no longer with us.”

  “NO LONGER WITH YOU? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

  “That is all I know,” the receptionist said. “Shall I connect you with personnel?”

  Seeing the conversation going nowhere, Mayor Nancy Ogg ended the call and rang President Ogg instead. Her brother took the call in his office.

  “Sony about Hudson,” President Ogg said.

  “He’s been fired?”

  “He’s dead, Nancy. Product failure.”

  “Huh?” The Mayor leaned forward on her stool, felt numbness in her brain.

  The line beeped. It was on scramble code.

  “Moto-shoe fatality. Happened this morning, near Tech Square.”

  “Oh my God!” She coughed. Mayor Nancy Ogg knew she should be happy at the news of a product failure. There could be no finer way to die. But tears welled up in her eyes, overflowed her lower lids and poured down her cheeks.

  “Nancy . . . are you all right?’

  She cleared her throat, asked, “Have you ordered an investigation?”

  “Not necessary, Sis. A Product Failure team has already stamped his body. It’s all approved.”

  “Did they analyze his moto-shoes?”

  “What on Earth for? No one wants to jeopardize Hudson’s admission to the Happy Shopping Ground!”

  “I WANT TO KNOW IF THE SHOES WERE SABOTAGED!” she blurted, unable to keep her composure.

  “No one would want to harm Hudson,” President Ogg said, trying not to b
etray uncertainty in his voice. The Black Box did this one, he thought, and I’m not going to tamper with it!

  Mayor Nancy Ogg wiped tears from her face angrily, asked: “What about the comet intercept mission?”

  “I’m not directly involved in that,” President Ogg said. “But it’s in competent hands.”

  “Didn’t Dick discuss it with you this morning?”

  “No. There was a recorded message that he called quite early. He started to say something, then said he’d call back.”

  “Lieutenant Javik is missing! That’s what Dick wanted to tell you!”

  “What? You mean the pilot?”

  “I have the ship ready, Mr. President,” she said in a sarcastic tone, “and there’s no one here to operate it! Do you have any bright ideas?”

  “Certainly,” he said, presidentially. “I’ll appoint a committee to look into it.” He sat back in his chair, pleased with himself at seeing an opportunity for additional employment through committeeship.

  “We’re talking about a very large garbage comet, dear brother. This is Tuesday. It’s due to hit Earth late Friday afternoon!”

  “I know . . . I know. . . . ”

  “Why don’t you just send a substitute fly boy?”

  “Without going through channels? I couldn’t do that! Uncle Rosy would never have approved such a thing!” The Black Box will stop the comet anyway, he thought. I can make myself look good on this one!

  Knowing her brother and seeing it was hopeless to argue the point, Mayor Nancy Ogg said, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Jobs are sacred, you know,” he intoned.

  I’d better find Javik soon, the Mayor thought as she hung up the telephone receiver. Or we’ll never stop that comet! Mento-activating the speakercom on the Hub Control Room console, she said, “Sergeant Rountree, stake out all nightclubs and taverns on the habitat.”

  “Yes, Honorable Mayor,” the speakercom blared.

  “And round up everyone we have who might be able to operate the Shamrock Five.” I’m not waiting for instructions on this baby, she thought.