A man laughed. A woman said, “But, darling, are you sure we can afford a tour of the planets?” They passed along the aisle, Cayle assessing the casualness with which they were taking the trip.
He felt enormously self-conscious at first, but he also gradually grew casual. He read the news on his chair ‘stat. With idle glances he watched the scenery speeding by below, adjusting his chair scope for enlarged vision. He felt quite at home by the time the three men seated themselves opposite him and began to play cards.
It was a small game for tiny stakes. And, throughout two of the men were never addressed by name. The third one was called “Seal”. Unusual name, it seemed to Cayle. And the man was as special as his name. He looked about thirty. He had eyes as yellow as a cat’s. His hair was wavy, boyish in its unruliness. His face was sallow, though not unhealthy-looking. Jeweled ornaments glittered from each lapel of his coat. Multiple rings flashed colored fire from his fingers. When he spoke it was with slow assurance. And it was he who finally turned to Cayle and said:
“Noticed you watching us. Care to join us?”
Cayle had been intent, automatically accepting Seal as a professional gambler, but not quite decided about the others. The question was, which one was the sucker?
“Make the game more interesting,” Seal suggested.
Cayle was suddenly pale. He realized now that these three were a team. And he was their selected victim. Instinctively, he glanced around to see how many people were observing his shame. To his relief, nobody at all was looking. The man who had been sitting ten feet away was not in sight. A stout, well-dressed woman paused at the entrance of the section but turned away. Slowly the color trickled back into his face. So they thought they had found someone who would be an easy mark, did they. He stood up, smiling. i
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
He sat down in the vacant chair across from the yellow-eyed man. The deal fell to Cayle. In quick succession and honestly, he dealt himself a king down and two kings up. He played the hand to the limit and, even with the low stakes, eventually raked in about four credits in coins.
He won three out of the next eight games, which was below average for him. He was a callidetic, with temporary emphasis on automatic skill at cards, though he had never heard the word. Once, five years before when he was seventeen, while playing with four other boys for credit twentieths, he won nineteen out of twenty games of showdown. Thereafter, his gambling luck, which might have rescued him from the village, was so great that no one in Glay would play with him.
In spite of his winning streak now, he felt no sense of superiority. Seal dominated the game. There was a commanding air about him, an impression of abnormal strength, not physical. Cayle began to be fascinated.
“I hope you won’t be offended,” he said finally, “but you’re a type of person who interests me.”
The yellow eyes studied him thoughtfully, but Seal said nothing.
“Been around a lot, I suppose?” said Cayle.
He was dissatisfied with the question. It was not what he wanted. It sounded less than mature. Seal, mere gambler though he was, towered above such a naive approach. But he replied this time. “A bit,” he said non-committally.
His companion seemed to find that amusing. They both guffawed. Cayle flushed, but there was a will in him to know things. “To the planets?” he asked.
No answer. Seal carefully studied the cards that were down, then raised a credit-fortieth. Cayle struggled against the feeling that he was making a fool of himself. Then, “We all hear things,” he said apologetically, “and it’s sometimes hard to know what’s true and what isn’t. Are any of the planets worth going to?”
The yellow eyes studied him now with amusement “Listen, fella,” said Seal impressively, “don’t go near them. Earth is the heaven of this system and if anybody tells you that wonderful Venus is beckoning, tell ‘em to go to hell—that’s Venus. Hell, I mean. Endless sandstorms. And one day, when I was in Venusburg, the temperature rose to eight-four Centigrade.” He finished, “They don’t tell you things like that in the ads, do they?”
Cayle agreed hastily that they didn’t. He was taken aback by the volubility of the reply. It sounded boastful like—he couldn’t decide. But the man was abruptly less interesting. He had one more question.
“Are you married?” he asked.
Seal laughed. “Married! Listen, my friend, I get married every place I go. Not legally, mind you.” He laughed again, significantly. “I see I’m giving you ideas.”
Cayle said, “You don’t have to get ideas like that from other people.”
He spoke automatically. He hadn’t expected such a revelation of character. No doubt Seal was a man of courage. But the glamour was gone from him. Cayle recognized that it was his village morality, his mother’s ethics, that were assessing the other. But he couldn’t help it. For years he had had this conflict between his mother’s credos and his instinctive awareness that the world outside could not be compressed into the mores that encompassed village life.
Seal was speaking again, heartily. “This boy is really going to be somebody in ever-glorious Isher, eh, boys? And I’m not over-stating, either.” He broke off. “Where do you get all those good cards?”
Cayle had won again. He raked in the pot, and hesitated. He had won forty-five credits, and knew he had better quit before he caused irritation. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stop,” he said. “I’ve some things to do. It’s been a pleas—”
He faltered, breathless. A tiny, glittering gun peered at him over the edge of the table. The yellow-eyed man said in a monotone, “So you think it’s time to quit, eh?” His head did not turn, but his voice reached out directly at his companions. “He thinks it’s time to quit, boys. Shall we let him?” It must have been a rhetorical question, for the henchmen merely grimaced.
“Personally,” the leader went on, “I’m all in favor of quitting. Now, let me see,” he purred. “According to the transparency his wallet is in his upper right hand breast pocket and there are some fifty-credit notes in an envelope pinned into his shirt pocket. And then, of course, there’s the money he won from us in his trouser pocket.”
He leaned forward and his strange eyes were wide open and ironic. “So you thought we were gamblers who were going to take you, somehow. No, my friend, we don’t work that way. Our system is much simpler. If you refused to hand over, or tried to attract somebody’s attention, I’d fire this energy gun straight into your heart. It works on such a narrow beam that no one would even notice the tiny hole in your clothing. You’d continue to sit right there, looking a little sleepy perhaps, but who would wonder about that on this big ship, with all its busy, self-centered people?” His voice hardened. “Hand it over! Quick! I’m not fooling. I’ll give you ten seconds.”
It took longer than that to turn over the money but apparently the continuity of acquiescence was all that was required. He was allowed to put his empty pocketbook back into his pocket and several coins were ignored. “You’ll need a bite before we land,” Seal said generously.
The gun disappeared under the table and Seal leaned back in his chair with an easy relaxation. “Just in case,” he said, “you decide to complain to the captain, let me tell you that we would kill you instantly without worrying about the consequences. Our story is simple. You’ve been foolish and lost all your money at cards.” He laughed and climbed to his feet, once more imperturbable and mysterious. “Be seeing ya, fellow. Better luck next time.”
The other men were climbing to their feet. The three sauntered off and, as Cayle watched, they disappeared into the forward cocktail bar. Cayle remained in his chair, hunched and devastated.
His gaze sought the distant clock—July 15, 4784 Isher—two hours and fifteen minutes out of Ferd and an hour, still to Imperial City.
With closed eyes Cayle pictured himself arriving in the old city as darkness fell. His first night there, that was to have been so thrilling, would now be spent on the streets.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE COULDN’T SIT STILL. And three times, as he paced through the ship, he paused before full length energy mirrors. His bloodshot eyes glared back at him from the lifelike image of himself. And over and above the desperate wonder of what to do now, he thought: How had they picked him for victim? What was there about him that had made the gang of three head unerringly toward him?
As he turned from the third mirror he saw the weapon shop girl. Her gaze flicked over him without recognition. She wore a soft blue tailored dress, and a strand of creamy pearls around her tanned neck. She looked so smart and at ease that he didn’t have the heart to follow her. Hopelessly, Cayle moved out of her fine of vision and sank into a seat.
A movement caught his distracted gaze. A man was slumping into a chair at the table across the aisle. He wore the uniform of a colonel in Her Imperial Majesty’s Army. He was so drunk he could hardly sit, and how he had walked to the seat was a mystery rooted deep in the laws of balance. His head came around, and his eyes peered blearily at Cayle.
“Spying on me, eh?” His voice went down in pitch, and up in volume. “Waiter!”
A steward hurried forward. “Yes, sir?”
“The finest wine for my shadow n’me.” As the waiter rushed off, the officer beckoned Cayle. “Might as well sit over here. Might as well travel together, eh?” His tone grew confidential. “I’m a wino, y’know. Been trying to keep it from the Empress for a long time. She doesn’t like it.” He shook his head sadly. Doesn’t like it at all. Well, what’re you waiting for? C’mon over here.”
Cayle came hastily, cursing the drunken fool. But hope came too. He had almost forgotten, but the weapon shop girl had suggested he join the Imperial forces. If he could obtain information from this alcoholic and join up fast, then the loss of the money wouldn’t matter. “I’ve got to decide,” he told himself. He distinctly thought of himself as making a decision.
He sipped his wine presently, more tense than he cared to be, eyeing the older man with quick, surreptitious glances. The man’s background emerged slowly out of a multitude of incoherent confidences. His name was Laurel Medlon. Colonel Laurel Medlon, he would have Cayle understand, confident of the empress, intimate of the palace, head of a tax collecting district.
“Damned, hic, good one, too,” he said with a satisfaction that gave more weight to his words than the words themselves.
He looked sardonically at Cayle. “Like to get in on it, eh?” He hiccoughed. “Okay, come to my office—tomorrow.”
His voice trailed. He sat mumbling to himself. And, when Cayle asked a question, he muttered that he had come to Imperial City “. . . when I was your age. Boy, was I green!” He quivered in a spasm of vinous indignation. “Y’know, those damned clothes monopolies have different kinds of cloth they send out to the country. You can spot anybody from a village. I was sure spotted fast . . .”
His voice trailed off into a series of curses. His reminiscent rage communicated itself to Cayle.
So that was it—his clothes!
The unfairness of it wracked his body. His father had consistently refused to let him buy his suits even in nearby Ferd. Always Fara had protested, “How can I expect the local merchants to bring their repair work to me if my family doesn’t deal with them?” And having asked the unanswerable question, the older man would not listen to further appeals.
“And here I am,” Cayle thought, “stripped because that old fool—” The futile anger faded. Because large towns like Ferd probably had their own special brand of cloth, as easily identifiable as anything in Glay. The unfairness of it, he saw with reaching clarity, went far beyond the stubborn stupidity of one man.
But it was good to know, even at this eleventh hour.
The colonel was stirring. And, once more, Cayle pressed his question. “But how did you get into the Army? How did you become an officer in the first place?”
The drunken man said something about the Empress having a damned nerve complaining about tax money. And men there was something about the attack on the weapon shops being a damned nuisance, but that wasn’t clear. Another remark about some two-timing dames who had better watch out made Cayle visualize an officer who maintained several mistresses. And then, finally came the answer to his question.
“I paid five thousand credits for my commission—damn crime . . .” He gabbled again for a minute, then, “Empress insists on giving them out for nothing right now. Won’t do it. A man’s got to have his graft.” Indignantly, “I sure paid plenty.”
“You mean,” Cayle urged, “commissions are available now without money? Is that what you mean?” In his anxiety, he grabbed the man’s sleeve.
The officer’s eyes, which had been half closed, jerked open. They glared at Cayle suspiciously. “Who are you?” he snapped. “Get away from me.” His voice was harsh, briefly almost sober. “By God,” he said, “you can’t travel these days without picking up some leech. I’ve a good mind to have you arrested.”
Cayle stood up, flushing. He staggered as he walked away. He felt shaken and on the verge of panic. He was being hit too hard and too often.
The blur faded slowly from his mind. He saw that he had paused to peer into the forward cocktail bar. Seal and his companions were still there. The sight of them stiffened him and he knew why he had come back to look at them. There was a will to action growing in him, a determination not to let them get away with what they had done. But first he’d need some information.
He spun on his heel and headed straight for the weapon shop girl, who sat in one corner reading a book, a slim, handsome young woman of twenty years or so. Her eyes studied his face as he described how his money had been stolen. Cayle finished. “Here’s what I want to know. Would you advise me to go to the captain?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t do that. The captain and the crew receive a forty percent cut on most of these ships. They’d help dispose of your body.”
Cayle leaned back in his seat. He felt drained of vitality. The trip, his first beyond Ferd, was taking toll of his strength. “How is it?” he asked finally, straightening, “that they didn’t pick you? Oh, I know you probably aren’t wearing village type clothes, but how do they select?”
The girl snook her head. “These men,” she said, “go around surreptitiously using transparencies. The first thing they discover is, if you’re wearing a weapon shop gun. Then they leave you strictly alone.’
Cayle’s face hardened. “Could I borrow yours?” he asked tautly. “I’ll show those skunks.”
The girl shrugged. “Weapon shop guns are tuned to individuals,” she said. “Mine wouldn’t work for you. And, besides, you can use it only for defense. It’s too late for you to defend yourself.”
Cayle stared gloomily down through the myradel floor. The beauty below mocked him. The splendor of the towns that appeared every few minutes merely deepened his depression. Slowly the desperation came back. It seemed to him suddenly that Lucy Rail was his last hope and that he had to persuade her to help him. He said, “Isn’t there anything that the weapon shops do besides sell guns?”
The girl hesitated. “We have an information center,” she said finally.
“What do you mean—information? What kind of information?”
“Oh, everything. Where people were born. How much money they have. What crimes they’ve committed or are committing. Of course, we don’t interfere.”
Cayle frowned at her, simultaneously dissatisfied and fascinated. He had not intended to be distracted but for years there had been questions in his mind about the weapon shops.
And here was somebody who knew.
“But what do they do?’ He said insistently. “If they’ve got such wonderful guns why don’t they just take over the government?”
Lucy Rail smiled and shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “The weapon shops were founded more than two thousand years ago by a man who decided that the incessant struggle for power of differ
ent groups was insane and the civil and other wars must stop forever. It was a time when the world had just emerged from a war in which more than a billion people had died and he found thousands of people who agreed to follow him. His idea was nothing less than that whatever government was in power should not be overthrown. But that an organization should be set up which would have one principal purpose—to ensure that no government ever again obtained complete power over its people. A man who felt himself wronged should be able to go somewhere to buy a defensive gun. You cannot imagine what a great forward step that was. Under the old tyrannical governments it was frequently a capital offense to be found in possession of a blaster or a gun.”
Her voice was taking on emotional intensity now. It was clear that she believed what she was saying. She went on earnestly. “What gave the founder the idea was the invention of an electronic and atomic system of control which made it possible to build indestructible weapon shops and to manufacture weapons that could only be used for defense. That last ended all possibility of weapon shop guns being used by gangsters and other criminals and morally justified the entire enterprise. For defensive purposes a weapon shop gun is superior to an ordinary or government weapon. It works on mind control and leaps to die hand when wanted. It provides a defensive screen against other blasters, though not against bullets but since it is so much faster, that isn’t important.”
She looked at Cayle and the intentness faded from her face. “Is that what you wanted to know?” she asked.
“Suppose you’re shot from ambush?” Cayle asked.
She shrugged. “No defense.” She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You really don’t understand. We don’t worry about individuals. What counts is that many millions of people have the knowledge that they can go to a weapon shop if they want to protect themselves and their families. And, even more important, the forces that would normally try to enslave them are restrained by the conviction that it is dangerous to press people too far. And so a great balance has been struck between those who govern and those who are governed.”
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