The Ring of Ritornel

by Charles L. Harness

  The advocate’s heart sank. The pilgrim had been drugged. Except for the eyes, the voluntary nervous system was probably paralyzed. With his clippers, Andrek cleared the elastic metal netting away from the body. There was still no movement.

  He moved around to face the other. “If you can hear and understand me,” he said, “blink your eyes—just once.”

  The pilgrim blinked his eyes—once.

  Andrek grinned. “Now, then, one blink means ‘yes.’ Two blinks mean ‘no.’ All right?”

  The other blinked once.

  “Have you been drugged?”

  One blink.

  “Is there an antidote?”

  One blink.

  “On the ship?”

  One blink.

  Probably in the dispensary, thought Andrek. Still, with a person of the pilgrim’s undoubted talents, the antidote might be closer.

  “Do you have the antidote here in your cabin?”

  One blink.

  Good! Andrek looked about the room. There was but one modest clothes-case, lying on the dressing table. He walked over and opened it. It was not a clothes-case. Andrek whistled under his breath. It was a medical kit. In the top half was a complete array of instruments, from syringe to stethoscope. The bottom section contained tray after tray of rubber-capped glass vials—thousands. One of these vials contained the antidote—he hoped. He released the magnetic clips and floated the case over to the friar.

  “Is it in here?”

  One blink.

  “I propose now to turn these trays, one at a time. At each tray, I will ask you whether it is the one with the vial we want, then we’ll try each row of vials on that tray, then each vial in the correct row.”

  He found it in seconds—twelfth tray—twelfth row—twelfth, vial. Alea all the way! As he sterilized the syringe, he asked: “Do you get the entire contents?”

  Two blinks—no.

  “How many cc.? Tell me by the number of blinks.”

  The pilgrim stared at him—then finally blinked twice.

  Andrek felt instantly that something was wrong. Did that mean two—or “no”? It was dangerous to permit a signal to mean two different things.

  “Two cc.?”

  Two blinks again.

  “Forget that,” said Andrek. “We’ll return to our original binary communication—everything is yes or no. Is the dosage less than one cc.?”

  One blink.

  “Is it more than one-tenth cc.?”

  Two blinks.

  “Is it exactly one-tenth?”

  One blink.

  Andrek thrust the needle through the rubber cap of the vial and drew up the requisite amount, then cleared the air bubble in the needle.

  “In the biceps?”

  There was a long pause; Andrek wondered for a moment whether he had asked the right question. But finally:

  One blink.

  Andrek raised the hair-shirt sleeve—and then blinked himself. The pilgrim’s arm—which looked more like a segmented broomstick than an arm—was completely covered with a close-fitting rubbery fabric, right down to the white gloves. And the arm seemed hard as steel, unyielding to the pressure of his fingers as he sought in vain for the biceps. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and shoved the needle into what he hoped was the right place. It took all his strength to force the metal bit into the arm. The pilgrim was a tough one!

  But the antidote acted quickly. In a few minutes the friar was flexing his arms and rubbing his spindly thighs. He stood up and offered his gloved hand to Andrek. “I’m Iovve. And of course you are James, Don Andrek.” He grinned at Andrek from his strangely whiskered mouth. “Rather embarrassing, meeting this way, but it couldn’t be helped. They were clever. I learned only at the last minute about your trip. Brother Vang was waiting for me with a syringe-bullet. I never even made it into the cabin. Hardly sporting.” He walked over to the medical case and folded it up carefully. “How did you know I was aboard?”

  Andrek told him what had happened to Hasard.

  Iovve frowned. “That leaves the two dangerous ones: Huntyr and Vang. Vang may be the worst. He’s a drug expert. He’s one reason I brought the medical case. Have you had anything to eat or drink with them?”

  Andrek struck his forehead. “How stupid of me! Vang and I drank to the wager.”

  “It could be…” muttered Iovve.

  “But it was from the table tankard.”

  “No matter. He could have taken the antidote later.”

  “Well, then, so can I. You seem to have all the antidotes, right here.”

  “True, I do—but they are all useless if we don’t know the drug.”

  “How did you know what drug they had given you?”

  The blue radiance around Iovve’s face seemed to flicker. “If I gave you a complete explanation, it would take a great deal of time, and in the end you might not believe me. Suffice it to say that the antidote was correct.”

  Andrek shrugged. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to wait until I develop some symptoms. Meanwhile, tell me this: Why are you on the ship now? And yesterday, why did you break into Huntyr’s office? Have we met before? Apparently you’re on my side. But why?”

  The pilgrim raised his thin arms in protest. “So many questions, my boy! Granted, they all deserve complete and honest answers. But honest answers take time, far more time than we have at the moment. And just now the complete truth would place too great a strain on your credulity. You must settle for this: Oberon wants you dead, and I want you alive.”

  “That much I had already surmised.” The advocate clenched his jaws in frustration. “At least tell me this, if you know: what am I to Oberon, that I must die?”

  “Oh. That part’s easy. The Aleans have convinced Oberon that you represent a threat to his life. It’s all in their crystomorphs. But that’s merely the main reason. There are side issues … Amatar, for example…”

  “I can’t believe Oberon would kill me merely because I’m in love with his daughter.”

  The pilgrim smiled bleakly. “Amatar—his daughter? A great deal needs to be explained to you, my boy, but now is not the time to do it. We have to get a force field up before we have any more visitors.” He slipped off his wristwatch and turned toward the dressing table.

  “How were you able to get a field generator aboard?” asked Andrek curiously. “And didn’t they search your things?”

  “Oh, they went through my poor belongings, all right. But they found only the medical kit—which amused them immensely. They didn’t bother that because they thought there would be no one on board to help me use it, especially since you were to receive their promptest attention, right after supper. And as for the generator, they didn’t find it because I carry it broken down into components that look like something else … autorazor, stylus, comb, and so on. Certain other elements I expect to find here as standard equipment in any cabin, such as the fluorolites, emergency kit in the closet, tape library, and parts of the intercom. And incidentally, we’ll set the field up around your cabin, since that’s where Huntyr will come looking for you when Hasard doesn’t return. Courtesy requires a proper welcome.”

  The pilgrim picked up his valise and medical kit and peeked out the cabin door. “Come on,” he said to Andrek.

  Inside Andrek’s cabin, Iovve got to work on the field generator. The apparatus rapidly took shape under his flying gloved fingers, and he explained as he worked. “This type of field has some built-in defects. The power drain is enormous. This means we have to plug it into the ship’s current.” He nodded in the direction of the cable, which terminated in a six-prong plug. “But we can’t simply turn the field on and leave it on. The wattage drain would be noticed immediately in the ship’s power room. The electrical engineer would tell the captain, and that would be the end of our cabin current. And it might happen at a highly critical moment. So we’ll superimpose a low-drain alert in series with a capacitor surge tank. The alert will detect any energy surge in the field area and will i
nstantly activate the capacitor.”

  This made only the vaguest sense to Andrek. In a general way he understood the principles of the force field. He had, however, been under the impression that tremendous power was required, something far beyond cabin amperage, even if accumulated in what his new friend termed the “capacitor,” which he took to be the entire outer shell of the ship. Nevertheless, he was inclined to accept Iovve’s flat statement that the jerry-built equipment could be plugged into the wall circuit and create an adequate field, if only because of the pilgrim’s very evident skill and immense self-confidence.

  Iovve straightened up. He seemed to be listening. “Ah,” he whispered. “A visitor, I think. Grab something and hold on!”

  Andrek seized the bunk post with both hands. As he did this, his eyes fell on the six-pronged plug. It had never been plugged into the wall socket!

  He was frozen in a momentary paralysis. Then he broke from the bunk stanchion in a flying leap, grabbed the line and was centimeters and milliseconds from the wall socket when the cabin lights flickered and a sudden painful pressure hit his eardrums.

  He knew the force field had just been activated.

  And then the plug was in the socket.

  Slowly he took his hand from the line and stood up. It was impossible. Or was it? Could the field exist before the plug was in? Or was he only imagining that he had been too late with the plug? No. He had not imagined the sequence. It was still fresh in his mind: “WHAM … click…” Iovve simply had not used the cabin current, but clearly wanted him, Andrek, to think it was necessary. Did the pilgrim have some strange power source, already integrated into the apparatus, which he wanted to keep secret? He suspected that the pilgrim had many secrets. This was just one more. Eventually, there would have to be some answers.

  11. A QUESTIONABLE ENTRANCE

  The pilgrim looked over at Andrek and grinned. “Did it knock you loose? They hit a wall panel, on the corridor side. They must be pretty sure we have a field, but they’ll try once more, to make sure.”

  Immediately, something exploded in Andrek’s stomach. He took a few steps toward the center of the room and steadied himself on the table. It seemed warm to the touch.

  “That was quite a wallop,” murmured Iovve. “So now they know for sure. They’ll go back to Cabin Twelve to figure out what to do next. And I’ll just take a peek out the door.”

  Andrek started to shout a warning, but the pilgrim was already at the door. He opened it a crack, then closed it immediately.

  “Just one man,” said Iovve thoughtfully. “Huntyr, I think. I wonder what happened to Brother Vang…”

  Andrek could guess. Huntyr had found the check on his companion and didn’t like the explanation. At the very least, Vang was a prisoner in Cabin Twelve. He explained his theory to Iovve. “That cuts the odds considerably, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

  “Depends on the point of view, my boy. Regardless of Vang, Huntyr is on an official mission for the Great House, and if need be he can call on the entire resources of the ship to destroy us. We’ll have to bring this little affair to a head before he decides he can’t handle us by himself. Which means we’ll soon have to carry the war into enemy territory. But first—”

  Andrek looked up. “Yes?”

  “Let’s feed Raq. I imagine she’s pretty hungry.”

  Andrek reached into the open courier case for the feeding kit that Amatar had given him. And then he stopped. He had, of course, explained to Iovve how Hasard had died. And Iovve’s recommendation was completely logical. In fact Andrek would have fed Raq without it. Even so, something about it jarred him. Several of the words were—wrong.

  He lifted the little leather box out of the case and turned in slow indecision. There was a very searching question that he could ask Iovve. But the simple act of asking would reveal to the monk that Andrek knew something about him, something, perhaps, that he was not supposed to know. He doubted the monk would answer the question, anyhow, but the means used to avoid answering might be revelatory. At this point, he felt he had nothing to lose.

  He said quietly, “I did not mention the name of my spider; yet you call her ‘Raq.’ Nor did I tell you her sex; yet you know she is a female. And finally, I have said nothing about this”—he held up the feeding kit—“yet you know about it.” He paused, then his voice became even softer. “Only one other person could have told you. Iovve, what are you to Amatar?”

  Iovve shifted uneasily. “I am her friend. And it is true, I know all about Raq—including a few things that neither you nor Amatar know. For example, I know there’s a very good reason for feeding her right now. And never fear; I’ll explain everything in good time. Meanwhile, roll back your sleeve. Now, then, we need an antiseptic … ah, the biem…”

  Under Iovve’s watchful supervision Andrek sterilized his left hand, together with the needle and syringe, with a mild cone spray from the biem-gun. Then he made a fist, and—wincing—thrust the needle into the ball of his thumb. In seconds he had filled the syringe barrel, which he then discharged beneath the plastic “chitin” of the false insect from Amatar’s little case. Gingerly, he carried it over to the fold in the drapes where Raq was hiding, and here he hung it cautiously in the fabric. He did not have to wait. Raq was on her way the instant the drape was touched. Andrek quickly stood away, but winced again as the great arachnid stabbed her mandibles into her “prey.”

  As he watched Raq feed, he wondered just how much Iovve really did know about Raq, and how he had gained the knowledge. Was it possible that Iovve had foreseen his need for Raq and had planned the whole thing, with Amatar’s enthusiastic cooperation? But that possibility raised even more questions. It would require long, careful, secret activity behind the scenes. But did it have to be secret? What if Iovve had access to the Great House, and could come and go as he pleased without arousing suspicion? Was that possible? If it were, who, then, was this creature? Questions. Too many questions. And no answers. Andrek felt himself caught in a strange and devious web of fate. The gods had spun their strands and caught him. He mused on. The more I thrash about, the more enmeshed I become. Ritornel must be some sort of celestial spider.

  Andrek realized that Iovve was watching him curiously. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” murmured Andrek. “To owe one’s life to an insect?”

  “The spider is not an insect,” chided the pilgrim. “Insects have six legs; spiders have eight. And there are other morphological differences. But in any case”—his eyes twinkled—“your spider equally owes her life to you. So the matter is in good balance.”

  “Curious that she can feed on human blood,” said Andrek.

  “No,” said Iovve. “It would be curious if she couldn’t. The blood cells, of course, she simply filters out. But the plasma has about the same analysis as insect hemolymph: amino acids, sugars, dissolved salts, proteins. She—”

  They both looked at Raq with startled eyes. She had leaped from the drapes, weightlessly, in a straight line for the ceiling of the cabin, where she paused a moment. Andrek could see that she had affixed an anchor line. After this she jumped straight to the floor, bringing the line with her, hooked in the comb of one of her hind legs. This line she fastened to the floor. Then she ran along the floor to the nearest wall, crawled up exactly midway, and sailed over to the opposite wall, to form a second perpendicular, which was soon tied neatly to the first. The third perpendicular was quickly made in the same manner, between the remaining two walls.

  Iovve drew Andrek over into one quarter of the cabin. “We’ll have to stay out of her way,” he said grimly. “She will need complete freedom of movement for this.”

  “What’s going on,” demanded Andrek in a hoarse whisper.

  “She has been drugged, my friend—by your blood. Which means, of course, that you have been drugged too. It was probably that wine of Vang’s. Raq is now making a web—of a peculiar kind. The type of web will define the drug, and then we can select an antidote. This is called web-analysis … when i
t works.” He studied Andrek with concern. “How do you feel?”

  “Just—a little dizzy. I think I’ll sit down.”

  “Web analysis can be quite complicated.” The pilgrim hugged his chest uneasily. “This will evidently be a three-dimensional web. Those are the X, Y, and Z coordinates. This type is quite rare, and weaving it in free space, with no gravity, may introduce all sorts of complications.” He shook his head. “You know the theory, of course. A spider dosed with a little alcohol weaves a drunken web. If stimulated with caffeine, she will build one which is a model of engineering precision: the strands and spokes are equi-spaced to a micron. With the mushroom drugs, she builds one circular strand with a couple of spokes, then hangs in the center, a spider god alone in a spider universe. With the really lethal drugs, such as the organic nitrites—”

  Iovve droned on, but the words were becoming blurred to Andrek. He just wanted to sit and think. It seemed to him that Iovve was unduly excited about the whole thing. There was nothing to worry about. His thoughts were turning inward, and pilgrim, cabin, Raq, everything, took on a hazy, remote, dreamlike quality. It was becoming rather pleasant. He wanted to stay this way. He liked being drugged. He hoped Iovve could not identify it, nor find an antidote. Meanwhile, he had a great deal to think about. Tomorrow they would land at the Node Station. He would have to attend the condemnation proceedings for the planet Terror. The terrible planet Terror. He had not yet been born when the last of her defenders died in the final bombardment by the revolutionaries. But he had seen the tri-di pictures. Her entire land area had been ablaze with nuclear fires. Nothing had been left. Nothing. But it was just. Terror had begun the war. Terror was to blame for the Horror. But now it was over and done. Space tugs had pulled her far out here, to the Node, and here she would be atomized. The titanic demolition charges had been placed long ago. Within another day she would be blown to bits. It was his job to see that nothing interfered with that. He concentrated now on the technique of presenting his motion for summary destruction to the arbiters.