by Mike Resnick
“I thought the only return you were concerned with was the death of the Dreamwish Beast,” said Vostuvian.
“What makes you think this little gimmick can kill it?” said Lane, still staring at it.
“It will kill it,” said Vostuvian. “With the entirety of your ship's power channeled through it, you will be surprised at what it can do.”
“How did your race ever lose the war with these little things in your ships?” asked Lane.
“Because my race only destroyed military targets,” said Vostuvian. “Your progenitors were less selective, and when we realized that there was virtually no home world to return to, we surrendered.”
“That's not quite the way I remember it from my history books,” said Lane.
“History is written by the victors,” said Vostuvian emotionlessly.
“Perhaps,” said Lane. “But I seem to recall a little encounter called the Battle of Sirius V, in which a handful of our ships decimated the bulk of your fleet.”
“Indeed they did,” said Vostuvian. “But they did so under a flag of truce.”
“I don't recall it that way,” said Lane. “And since there were no Dorne survivors, I think I might be allowed to question the authenticity of your version.”
“Question it all you wish,” said Vostuvian. “Are you here to reawaken old hostilities, or to arm yourself for new ones?”
Lane glared at the Dorne for a long moment, then shrugged and went back to examining the diluter.
“Where will the firing mechanism be?” he asked at last.
“Anywhere you wish. Since you won't be using your laser cannon, we can hook it up there, modify the tracking and locking mechanisms, and tie it in to your main power output.”
“If you know how to do that, why have your people lost the secret of space flight?” said Lane sharply.
“We haven't lost the secret,” said Vostuvian. “Only the economy and the desire. You find it inconceivable that I should be content to sit here on my home world, awaiting the death of my race. I find it equally inconceivable that you have spent the bulk of your adult life flying all around the galaxy, hastening the death of other races. Which life-style is more in harmony with the nature of things?”
“I never thought it was the nature of things—or at least of thinking things—to squat in the dirt and contemplate their own deaths without lifting a finger to fend off their fates,” said Lane. “And, in case you've forgotten, it was the Dornes who tried to exterminate the Dreamwish Beasts, and it was you yourself who wanted to come along with me while I hunt down the last of them.”
Vostuvian was about to answer him when another Dorne entered the shanty, placed two trays of food on the ground, and left. Lane, who hadn't eaten for about twenty hours, sat down on the dirt and examined the contents of the nearer tray. It consisted of a number of desert vegetables, most of them resembling red-hued cacti, and a piece of meat, which was somewhere between an eel and a snake but very definitely not of either immediate family.
“Do you have any eating implements?” Lane asked Vostuvian.
“Fingers and teeth have always sufficed,” replied the Dorne.
Lane shrugged. He'd been forced to eat some pretty unappetizing meals on various other worlds, and the lack of silverware bothered him less man it would have bothered most people. He reached out, grabbed the meat, and brought it toward his mouth.
It wriggled.
“Is this damned thing alive?” he asked, holding it up for Vostuvian to see.
“No,” said the Dorne. “Its muscular fiber is such that it approximates independent motion even after being cut and cooked. I assure you it is quite dead.”
“It better be,” muttered Lane, staring at it.
“We rather like it this way,” said Vostuvian, taking an enormous bite of his own meat.
Lane watched the Dorne wolf down the meat in unchewed chunks, not unlike a large carnivore, and decided to do the same. He soon understood why Vostuvian hadn't masticated. It was the toughest, least-cooked hunk of meat he'd ever tasted. Just tearing off a piece between his teeth was a major effort, and he found that the primary purpose in cooking it at all was to immerse it in enough greasy juices so that the oversized chunk would slide down his throat without too much difficulty. He tried to categorize the animal by its taste, but was unable to do so, which may have been for the best; he concluded that he would like it better—or dislike it less—if he remained ignorant of its origins.
He took two more huge bites of the meat, decided that it wasn't worth the effort, and concentrated on nibbling the cactus without cutting his tongue to ribbons. He'd had worse meals, many of them, but he nonetheless began thinking very fondly of his food concentrates back at the Deathmaker.
When the repast was finished he leaned back, belched twice, and pushed the tray aside.
“Did you like it?” asked Vostuvian.
“About as much as you'd like a well-done steak, I imagine,” replied Lane. “Am I to sleep here tonight, or back at my ship?”
“Whichever you prefer,” said Vostuvian. “Where will you begin your search for the Dreamwish Beast?”
“Somewhere between Alphard and Canphor,” replied Lane. “I have enough fuel for three years. That ought to be more than sufficient.”
“I hope so,” said Vostuvian.
“Why wouldn't it be?” said Lane.
“In the past, Dreamwish Beasts have been known to leave the dust cloud for even longer periods of time.”
“Perhaps,” said Lane. “But whether or not it's intelligent, it is a creature of habit. I don't think it will leave unless it's running away from me—or after me—and in either case I'll have a clear shot at it. Which leads me to another question: just how many times can I fire the diluter without completely draining the Deathmaker's power reserves?”
“Three times, perhaps four,” said Vostuvian. “Do you plan to miss?”
“I never miss.”
“Then you shall fire it only once,” said the Dorne.
“I like to know all my capabilities before I go on a hunt,” said Lane. “Any objections?”
“None at all,” whispered Vostuvian. “I just assumed, killer of animals, that—”
“Another thing,” interrupted Lane. “My name is Lane, not killer of animals. If you want to address me, use my name.”
“As you wish, Lane,” said Vostuvian.
“Another question: When I fire the diluter, what will happen to my ship's systems?”
“I will set up the circuitry so that the life-support system will remain unaffected,” said the Dorne. “The other systems will go dead for the duration of the firing time, and perhaps even a little beyond that.”
“What's the maximum time I can keep the diluter working without burning out all the circuits?” asked Lane.
“Ten seconds, perhaps eleven,” said Vostuvian. “It will take about eight seconds to kill the Dreamwish Beast, so if I were you, Lane, I would aim very carefully.”
“I'll take it under advisement,” said Lane dryly.
“Three years may not be enough time in which to kill the Dreamwish Beast,” said Vostuvian after a long silence.
“Then I'll take four years, or ten, or fifty.”
“It will take less time with me than without me,” said Vostuvian.
“No,” said Lane.
“You are being impractical, Lane,” said the Dorne.
“Vostuvian, I don't like you very much right now. I would like you even less if we were cooped up together in the ship for any length of time.”
“Are you looking for comradery, or hunting the Dreamwish Beast?” said Vostuvian.
“The two are not mutually exclusive,” said Lane. “I have the Mufti for companionship, and the creature for a quarry.”
“Nonetheless, you would hunt it more efficiently if you took me along,” said the Dorne.
“I'm already efficient,” said Lane. “Why should I let you come along?”
“To make sure you f
ire the diluter and not the vibrator,” said Vostuvian.
Lane was on his feet in a second. Another second saw the two empty trays flying across the room, barely missing Vostuvian's head. Lane stormed over to the Dorne and a powerful hand shot out, grabbing Vostuvian's incredibly slender neck and shaking it.
“If you ever say anything like that again,” rasped Lane between clenched teeth, “the race of Dorne is going to be extinct even sooner than you expected. Understand?”
Vostuvian made no attempt to answer him, or even to nod his head. He stood stock-still, eyes closed, not breathing. For a minute Lane thought he had killed him, but when he relaxed his grip and stepped back the Dorne opened his eyes as if nothing had happened.
“If I were you, I would save my anger for the Dreamwish Beast,” said Vostuvian in a hoarse whisper.
“I've got a lot of it to spare,” said Lane coldly.
“I am aware of that,” said the Dorne, gently stroking his neck. “Have you ever asked yourself why?”
“Never,” said Lane. “Now, have you got anything else to say before I go back to my ship?”
“Only a question,” said Vostuvian. “As I mentioned once before, the Dreamwish Beast will not approach your ship once the entropy weapon is installed. What will you do when you cannot find it?”
“I'll worry about that problem if and when it arises,” said Lane. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“Good. Be at the Deathmaker at sunrise and get the hell off the premises as soon as you're through working.”
Then he was outside, walking back to his ship, and vaguely wondering when and where he had acquired a temper.
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CHAPTER 15
Time was running out.
Lane had been in space for thirty-two Standard months without sighting the creature. He estimated that he had perhaps five months’ worth of fuel remaining, and even less food and water.
It had been a hideously frustrating trip thus far. He couldn't take a Deepsleep, for fear of missing the creature. He couldn't land on a planet, for fear of using up too much fuel. He couldn't even be sure his diluter worked; its potency was so ephemeral that it could be tested only in battle.
And, of course, the major frustration was the absence of the creature. Before he had installed the diluter into his ship, it had followed him all over the galaxy, bringing forth that dark, secret self that lived deep inside of him. Now that he was ready to do battle, the creature was well-nigh impossible to find.
And time, he knew, was not all that was running out. There was no money left to pay for the fuel and supplies he would soon need.
Lane checked his star charts again, examining those options that still remained. He could continue searching the dust cloud for another three months, but then the only known source of work and/or money within the Deathmaker's range would be William Campbell Blessbull XXIII, and his lawsuit against Blessbull was still in the courts. On the other hand, if he diverted now, he could make it to the Deluros system with a few days’ fuel to spare—and, while he hadn't done any work for the Vainmill Syndicate in almost eight years, at least they had nothing against him.
His decision made, Lane left the dust cloud and set out for Deluros VIII, the capital world of the race of Man, the cultural, political, financial, and military epicenter of humanity. Man had long since outgrown Earth, and while he viewed his birthplace with an almost religious devotion, he had moved his government lock, stock, and barrel to the Deluros system, which was more centrally located and had one of those rare worlds that possessed Earthlike conditions while boasting ten times its surface area.
Even this proved inadequate to man's needs, and Deluros VI, another oxygen world, had been broken up into forty-eight planetoids, each of them housing some huge-domed governmental agency or department. The military had immediately taken over four of the worldlets and was already cramped for room.
But the planetoids were merely the backstage area of the Deluros system. It was Deluros VIII, that shining, temperate blue-and-gold-and-green world, that possessed the power to act and to lead. As Lane approached it, he was ordered to assume orbit and then to enter one of the literally hundreds of thousands of planet-circling hangars and refueling stations. He did as he was instructed, leaving the Deathmaker snugly ensconced in one of the stations, and boarded a shuttle flight for the surface.
He had seen pictures and paintings of Deluros VIII and talked to people who had lived and visited there, but no second-or third-hand descriptions could adequately have prepared him for the enormous world. He had often wondered why no inhabitant of Deluros VIII had ever evinced any sectionalism or nationalism. Now he knew.
The surface area of the planet was covered by one gigantic megalopolis. There were parks and farms and lakes and even a pair of deserts, but snaking through all of them was the city. It sprawled, shiny and new—for most of it was less than a millennium old, and all of it was in a state of constant repair and refurbishment—stretching huge metal and plastic and cement tentacles in every direction, covering both polar areas and even burrowing beneath the oceans. The structures, which could just as easily have been coldly and impersonally functional, highlighted the current culmination of the architect's art. Where Lodin XI had been completely incomprehensible to him, this world, even from a height of forty miles, seemed sensible to the nth degree. Huge, broad thoroughfares followed the paths of least resistance from one section of the planet-city to another, monorails encircled large, densely populated sections of the city, industrial complexes seemed to be clustered together, and everything had a familiar, if enlarged, feel to it.
The shuttle landed in what seemed a combination airport/ spaceport/monorail terminal, and the passengers were informed that they could now make connections for any sector of the planet they wished to visit. If, on the other hand, they had business with a governmental agency, it would behoove them to first determine whether that business could be transacted here, or whether they would have to go to one of the Deluros VI planetoids.
Lane walked over to a computerized directory and requested the address of Ector Allsworth. He was informed that Allsworth no longer maintained a permanent residence on Deluros VIII, but had been planetbound for almost a week. His exact whereabouts were unknown.
Lane then tried the Vainmill Syndicate, but ran into so much front-office red tape when he contacted them via videophone that he gave up the effort to hunt Allsworth down through his corporation.
Finally, on a hunch, he fed the name of Ilse Vescott into the computer, which spat it back out almost instantly along with a small red classified notice. Lane knew enough not to persist.
His next stop was a local newstape office, where he searched through the social and financial sections until he found a female reporter who had mentioned Vescott thrice in a month. He sought out the woman, bribed her with half of his last four thousand Maria Theresa dollars, and went to the address given him. Fortunately, it wasn't halfway around the planet, and his transportation for the two-hundred-mile journey left him with most of his remaining money intact.
That afternoon he approached Ilse Vescott's house on foot. The structure, set almost a mile back from the thoroughfare and looking out over a perfectly manicured lawn of mutated, light-blue grass that was dotted here and there with formal gardens, was more palace than house, more sumptuous hotel than private dwelling place. Lane estimated it to have fully three hundred rooms, each the size of a normal house. It stood fifteen stories high, was smooth, sleek and shiny, and had about it the atmosphere of an impregnable fortress.
If he felt uneasy about presenting himself in his standard hunting togs—the only type of clothing he had worn for years—he made no show of it. He walked to the head of the huge, belted driveway, stepped onto it, and was quickly transported to the main entrance of the mansion.
The ornate door opened silently and he stepped into an obsidian foyer. There were numerous doors leading into the in
terior of the house, but all were closed.
“I am the completely automated Spy-Eye Security System,” said a metallic voice. “Please state your name and business here.”
“Nicobar Lane, killer.”
“I have no record of a Nicobar Lane,” said the voice. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Some security system!” snorted Lane. “Tell Ilse Vescott that she's got a killer in her house.”
“You have not answered my question,” said the Spy-Eye System. “Have you an appointment?”
“Absolutely,” said Lane. “Now let me in.”
“I have no record of such an appointment,” said the voice.
And suddenly the foyer echoed with a peal of high-pitched feminine laughter.
“This is absolutely priceless!” said the voice, still laughing. “Come in, Mr. Lane. The fifth door on your right.”
Lane walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into a room that, at a conservative estimate, had cost twice the price of the Deathmaker to furnish. The floor was covered by a white, fluffy carpet made of the pelts and heads of literally thousands of tiny arctic animals, each approximately the size of the Mufti. The walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors—but they were mirrors with a difference, each shaped so as to give a totally different and mind-bending picture of the room repeated to infinity. Chairs and tables of baroque design filled the room, each composed of gold or platinum and inlaid with jewels of a type Lane had never seen. And at the far end of the enormous chamber was a Bafflediver. Its hide had been encrusted with glowing and glistening jewels, and its enormous, bafflelike snout had been hollowed out to form a cushioned chair.
On—or in—the chair sat Ilse Vescott. At first glance he concluded that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but as he walked closer he began revising his opinion. She wore a low-cut, skin-tight, and very revealing one-piece suit in the haute-couture fashion of the moment, and something struck him as being very wrong. That skin, displayed in such quantity, was too perfect, too free from blemishes. Not even plastic rejuvenation treatments could do that.