A Treasury of Great Science Fiction 1

by Anthony Boucher (ed)

  Cayle stared at her in bitter disappointment. “You mean that a person has to save himself? Even when you get a gun you have to nerve yourself to resist? Nobody is there to help you?”

  It struck him with a pang that she must have told him this in order to show him why she couldn’t help him.

  Lucy spoke again. “I can see that what I’ve told you is a great disappointment to you. But that’s the way it is. And I think you’ll realize that’s the way it has to be. When a people lose the courage to resist encroachment on their rights, then they can’t be saved by an outside force. Our belief is that people always have the kind of government they want and mat individuals must bear the risks of freedom, even to the extent of giving their lives.”

  There must have been an expression on his face, a reflection of the strain that was in him. For she broke off.

  “Look,” she urged, “let me alone for a while to think over what you’ve told me. I won’t promise anything. But I’ll give you my decision before we reach our destination. All right?”

  He thought it was a nice way of getting rid of him. He stood up, smiling wryly, and took an empty seat in an adjoining salon. Later, when he glanced in the doorway, the corner where she had been sitting was unoccupied.

  It was that that decided him. She was evading the problem. He had been tensing again and now he climbed to his feet and headed for the forward bar.

  He came upon Seal from behind and struck him a cruel blow on the side of the face. The smaller man was plummeted out of his stool and knocked to the floor. His two companions jumped to their feet. Cayle kicked the nearer man in the groin, mercilessly. The fellow moaned, and staggered, clutching his stomach.

  Ignoring him, Cayle dived at the third man who was trying to get his gun from a shoulder holster. He struck the gambler with the full weight of his body, and from that moment the advantage was his. It was he who secured the gun, struck savagely with it at the man’s groping hand and drew blood and a cry of pain, followed by a mad scramble to break free.

  Cayle whirled, in time to see Seal climb to his feet. The man rubbed his jaw and they stood staring at each other.

  “Give me back my money,” said Cayle. “You picked the wrong man.”

  Seal raised his voice. “Folks, I’m being robbed. This is the most barefaced—”

  He stopped. He must have realized that this was not a matter of being clever or reasonable. He must have realized it for he suddenly held up his hands and said quickly, “Don’t shoot, you fool! After all, we didn’t shoot you.”

  Cayle, finger on trigger, restrained himself. “My money?” he snapped.

  There was an interruption. A loud voice said, “What’s going on here? Put up your hands, you with the gun.”

  Cayle turned and backed toward the near wall. Three ship’s officers with portable blasters stood just inside the door, covering him. Not once during the argument that followed did Cayle lower his own gun.

  He told his story succinctly and refused to surrender. “I have reason to believe,” he said, “that the officers of a ship on which such incidents can occur are not above suspicion. Now, quick, Seal, my money.”

  There was no answer. He sent a swift look to where Seal had been—and felt a sense of emptiness.

  The gambler was gone. There was no sign of the two henchmen.

  “Look,” said the officer who seemed to be in command, “put up your gun and we’ll forget the whole matter.”

  Cayle said, “I’ll go out of that door.” He motioned to his right. “When I’m through there I’ll put up my gun.”

  That was agreeable and Cayle wasted no time. He searched the ship, then, from stem to stern, but found no sign of Seal or his companions. In a fury, he sought out the Captain. “You scum, you,” he said coldly, “you let them get away in an airboat.”

  The officer stared at him coolly. “Young man,” he said finally, satirically, “you are discovering that the ads are right. Travel is very educational. As a result of being aboard our ship, you have become more alert. You have discovered within yourself qualities of courage hitherto unsuspected. Within the space of a few hours, in short, you’ve grown up a little. The value of that in terms of survival cannot be estimated. In terms of money, you’ve paid a small amount. If you should desire, at some future date to pay an additional gratuity, I shall be happy to give you my address.”

  Cayle said, “I’ll report you to your firm.”

  The officer shrugged. “Complaint forms are available in the lounge. You’ll have to attend a hearing at our Ferd office at your own expense.”

  “I see,” said Cayle grimly. “It works out very nicely for you, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t make the rules,” was the reply. “I just live under them.”

  Quivering, Cayle walked back to the salon where he had last seen the weapon shop girl. But she was still not in sight. He began to tense himself for the landing, now less than half an hour away. Below he could see that the shadows of approaching darkness were lengthening over the world of Isher. The whole eastern sky looked dark and misty as if out there, beyond the far horizon, night had already come.

  A few minutes after Cayle had walked away from her, the girl closed her book and strolled in a leisurely fashion into a private telestat booth. She locked the door, then pulled the switch that disconnected the instrument from the main board in the captain’s cabin.

  She took one of the rings from her fingers, manipulated it into a careful integration with the government ‘stat. A woman’s face took shape on the screen, said matter-of-factly, “Information Center.”

  “Connect me with Robert Hedrock.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The man’s face that came almost immediately onto the screen was rugged rather than handsome but it looked sensitive as well as strong and there was a pride and vitality in every muscular quirk, in every movement, that was startling to see. The personality of the man poured forth from the image of him in a ceaseless, magnetic stream. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet though resonant:

  “Coordination department.”

  “This is Lucy Rail, guardian of Imperial Potential, Cayle Clark.” She went on to describe briefly what had happened to Cayle. “We measured him as a callidetic giant and are watching him in the hope that his rise will be so rapid that we can use him in our fight to prevent the empress from destroying the weapon shops with her new time weapon. This is in accord with the directive that no possibility be neglected provided there is someone available to do something about it. I think he should be given some money.”

  “I see.” The virile face was thoughtful. “What is his village index?”

  “Middling. He may have a hard time in the city for a while. But he’ll get over his small town attitudes quickly. The trouble he is involved in now will toughen him. But he needs help.”

  There was decision on Hedrock’s face. “In such cases as this the smaller the amount of money the greater the subsequent gratitude—” he smiled—“we hope. Give him fifteen credits and let him regard it as a personal loan from you. Provide no other protection of any kind. He’s on his own completely. Anything else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Goodbye then.”

  It required less than a minute for Lucy Rail to restore the ‘stat to its full government status.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CAYLE WATCHED THE FACE of the landlady as she looked him over. This decision was out of his hands.

  He actually thought of it as that—a decision. The question was, would she spot him as village? He couldn’t be sure. Her expression, when she nodded, was enigmatic. The room she rented him was small but it cost only a credit-fourth a day.

  Cayle lay down on the bed and relaxed by the rhythm system. He felt amazingly well. The theft of his money still stung but it was no longer a disaster. The fifteen credits the weapon shop girl had given him would tide him over for a few weeks. He was safe. He was in Imperial City. And the very fact that the girl had loaned him money
and given him her name and address must prove something. Cayle sighed with pleasure, finally, and went out to get some supper.

  He had noticed an automat at the corner. It was deserted except for a middle-aged man. Cayle bought a steak from the instantaneous cooking machine, and then deliberately sat down near the other diner.

  “I’m new here,” he said conversationally. “Can you give me a picture of the city? I’d appreciate it.”

  It was a new tack, for him, admitting naiveté. But he felt very sure of himself, and very convinced that he needed data more than he needed to protect his own self-conscious pride. He was not too surprised when the stranger cleared his throat importantly and then said:

  “New to the big city, eh? Been anywhere yet?”

  “No. Just arrived.”

  The man nodded, half to himself, a faint gleam of interest in his gray eyes. Cayle thought cynically: “He’s wondering how he can take advantage of me.”

  The other spoke again, his tone half-ingratiating now. “My name is Gregor. I live just around the corner in a skytel. What do you want to know?”

  “Oh,” Cayle spoke quickly, “where’s the best residential district? Where’s the business section? Who’s being talked about?”

  Gregor laughed. “That last—the empress, of course. Have you ever seen her?”

  “Only on the ‘stats.”

  “Well, you know then that she’s just a kid trying hard to be tough.”

  Cayle knew nothing of the kind. Despite his cynicism, he had never thought of any member of the ruling family of Isher except in terms of their titles. Automatically, he rejected this man’s attempt to make a human being out of Imperial Innelda.

  He said, “What about the empress?”

  “They’ve got her trapped in the palace—a bunch of old men who don’t want to give up power.”

  Cayle frowned, dissatisfied with the picture. He recalled the last time he had seen the empress on the ‘stats. It was a willful face as he remembered it; and her voice had had in it great pride as well as determination. If any group was trying to use her as a tool, then they had better watch out. The young empress had a mind of her own.

  Gregor said, “You’ll want to try the games. That’s on the

  Avenue of Luck. And then there’s the theatres, and the restaurants, and—”

  Cayle was losing interest. He should have known better than to expect that a casual acquaintance in a cheap residential district would be able to tell him what he wanted to know. This man had a small mind. What he had to say would not be important.

  The man was continuing: “I’ll be very happy to take you around. I’m a little short myself right now but—”

  Cayle smiled wryly. So that was the extent of this man’s machinations. It was part of the corrupt pattern of Isher life, but in this case such a mean and miserable part that it didn’t matter. He shook his head and said gently:

  “I’ll be happy to go out some other time. Tonight, I’m kind of tired—you know, long trip—just got in.”

  He applied himself to his food, not at all unhappy. The conversation had done him no harm, in fact, he felt slightly better. Without ever having been in Imperial City, he had a better idea than Gregor as to what was, and what was not, sensible.

  The meal cost more than he had expected. But even that he decided not to regret. After his experiences on the plane he needed sustenance. He went out onto the street contentedly. The neighborhood swarmed with children, and though it was already dark the play went on relentlessly.

  Cayle paused for a moment to watch them. Their ages seemed to vary from about six to twelve years. Their play was of the group-rhythm type taught in all the schools, only this was heavily overlaid with a sex-motif that he had never seen before. He was startled, then rueful.

  “Good heavens!” he thought. “I had the reputation for being a devil of a fellow. To these kids I’d be just plain naive.”

  He went up to his room, conscious that the young man over whom the elders of Glay had many times shaken their heads was really a simple, honest soul. He might come to a bad end but it would be because he was too innocent, not the other way around.

  It disturbed him. In Glay there had been a certain pleasure in defying the conventions. In Glay he had thought of himself as being “city.” Lying on the bed he knew that was true up to a point only. He lacked experience and knowledge, automatic response and awareness of dangers. His immediate plans must include remedies for these weaknesses. The vagueness of the purpose disturbed him. He had an uneasy feeling that he was making stop-gap decisions, that somehow he was not comprehending the main decision he must make one of these days.

  He drifted into sleep, worrying about it. Twice, when he stirred on the edge of wakening, the thought was still there, unpleasant, urgent, a jarring background to his first night in the city of dreams. He awoke tired and unhappy. Only gradually did the uneasiness wear off.

  He avoided the expensive automat, eating breakfast for a credit-eighth in a restaurant that offered personal service and featured “home” cooking. He regretted his miserliness. The weight of the indigestible meal on his stomach did not lighten until he was in the Penny Palace, an ornate gambling establishment on the world famous Avenue of Luck.

  According to a guidebook which dealt exclusively with the avenue and its games, the Penny Palace owners “have put up glitter signs which modestly claim that it is possible for anyone to come in with a penny and walk out with a million, meaning, of course, a million credits.” Whether or not this good fortune has ever been achieved the signs do not indicate.

  The write-up concluded generously, “The Penny Palace has the distinction of having more fifty-fifty games for the number of machines it has in operation than any other establishment on the Avenue of Luck.”

  It was that plus the low stakes that interested Cayle. His immediate plans did not include walking out “with a million.” He wanted five hundred credits to Degin with. After that—well, then he could afford to enlarge his horizon.

  He laid his first bet on a machine that pumped the words odd and even into a swirling pool of light. When ten of each had been pumped into the pool the liquid-looking stuff suffered a chemical change, after which it would support only one of the words on its surface. All the others sank through a screen and vanished.

  The winning words floated easily face up and somehow set in motion the paying mechanism or the collecting mechanism. The bettors either saw their bets vanish with a click or else their winnings would slide automatically to the square before which they stood. Cayle heard the click of defeat.

  He doubled his bet and this time won. He withdrew his original stake, and played with the coin he had won. The intricate lights fused, the pump squished, then up floated the word even. The pleasant sound of money sliding softly toward him assailed Cayle’s ears. It was a sound that he was to hear often during the next hour and a half for, despite the fact that he played cautiously and only with pennies, he won just over five credits.

  Tired at last he retreated to a connecting restaurant. When he came back into the “treasure room,” as it was called, he noticed a game that was played in an even more intimate fashion by the player himself.

  The money went into a slot, releasing a lever, and when this was pulled a light sequence was set up. The movement was very rapid but it resolved swiftly into red or black. The game was thus but another variation of the odd and even sequence, since the player had the same fifty-fifty chance of winning.

  Cayle slipped a half credit coin into the proper slot, pulled the activating lever—and lost. His second guess was equally wrong, and his third, also. The fourth time his color shimmered into place and he had his first win. He won the next ten straight, lost four, then won seven out of another ten series. In two hours, by playing carefully, limiting his luck rather than forcing it, he won seventy-eight credits.

  He withdrew to one of the bars for a drink, and pondered his next move. So many things to do—buy a new suit, protect his
winnings, prepare for another night and pay back the money Lucy Rail had loaned him.

  His mind poised, titillated. He felt comfortable and very sure of himself. A moment later he was putting through a ‘stat call to the weapon shop girl.

  Making more money could wait.

  She came in almost immediately. “I’m out on the street now,” she answered his request.

  Cayle could see what she meant. Her face almost filled the screen. Extens-stats magnified from a tiny image. People used them on the street, keeping them connected with their home ‘stats. One of the fellows in Glay had one.

  Before Cayle could speak, the girl said, “I’m on my way to my apartment. Wouldn’t you like to meet me there?’

  Would he!

  Her apartment turned out to be a four room affair, unique only in the abundance of automatic devices. After a quick look around, it was clear to Cayle that Lucy Rail never did a stroke of housework. What puzzled him, however, was that the place seemed unprotected. The girl came out of her bedroom dressed for the street and shrugged at his comment.

  “We weapon shop people,” she said, ‘live just like anyone else, usually in the nicer residential districts. Only our shops and—” she hesitated—“a few factories and, of course, the Information Center are protected from interference.”

  She broke off. “You said something about buying a suit. If you wish I’ll help you select it. I’ve only two hours, though.”

  Cayle held the door open for her, exhilarated. The invitation to her apartment must have a personal meaning. Whatever her duties for the weapon shops, they couldn’t possible include inviting obscure Cayle Clark to her apartment, even if only for a few moments. He decided to assume that she was interested in him as an individual.