Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  Dar stiffened, eyes widening. Next to the old man stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with the body of Venus outlined by a flowing, sleeveless, calf-length gown that clung to every curve. Her face was comprised of a high, smooth brow, delicate eyebrows; large, wide-set eyes heavily lidded; a small, tip-tilted nose; and a mouth with a hint of a smile that promised delights and challenged him to seek them. Tawny hair rippled down to her waist. It was the face from the dreams of his boyhood, the face that he had never thought could be, the face that could never let the grown man rest.

  The unfairness of it hit him like a stiletto—that she should be with that old geezer, instead of with him!

  The old geezer was turning on the portly indigestion case, who had made some outraged noises. “And I'll thank you to let your remarks go public! Don't you know what happens to people who won't talk politics? They stop caring about their government! And do you know what happens when they stop caring? One night, some sneaky, unprincipled scoundrel sneaks in and changes their government on them! And the next morning, they wake up and find their taxes are as high as their collarbones, and they can't go anyplace without a permit, and, taken all in all, they're not much better than slaves! And that's what happens when you keep your remarks to yourself!”

  “Sir!” The fat one recoiled as though he'd stepped on slime. “This is obscene!”

  “I'd rather be obscene, and not absurd—but since you seem to think the other way, I think my friends and I had better go look for some fresher air!” He turned to Father Marco, Dar, and Sam. “How about it, oh ones with spirit? You'll find a breeze blowing by the stage that's amazingly fresh! We're going down there, my niece and I—join us, if you're up to it!” And he turned away, limping between the tables in a rush, as though life would get away from him if he didn't hurry to catch it.

  The girl turned to follow him—and did her gaze linger just a moment on Dar?

  Imagination. Had to be. But . . .

  She was only his niece!

  “Huh? What?” His head snapped around toward Father Marco.

  “I said, shall we join them?” There was a gleam in the priest's eye.

  “Uh . . . yeah. Seem like nice folks.”

  “Why not?” Sam was a monotone in a frigid face. “It's sure to be lively.”

  They got up, with their glasses, and filed after the loud voice on the old legs.

  “Sit down, sit down!” The geezer waved them to chairs around a large table as he slid into one himself. His niece sat demurely next to him. “So you're a Cathodean,” the oldster greeted Father Marco. “What's a live order like yours doing in a dead place like this?”

  “Where is a minister of Life more needed than among the moribund?” Father Marco countered.

  “Wait a minute. Hold on, there.” Dar held up a palm. “Back that up a few lines, will you? I think I missed something.”

  “What?”

  “How'd you know he was a Cathodean?”

  “Huh? Why, the emblem of his order, of course!” the old man exclaimed.

  “This.” Father Marco tapped the tiny yellow screwdriver in his breast pocket. “Used to be the sign of an electrical engineer—like a fraternity pin. We just made if official.”

  “Oh.” Dar pulled his head down, feeling dense.

  “You've got the advantage of me now,” Father Marco informed the geezer.

  “Yeah, I know.” The old man grinned wickedly. “Ain't it great?”

  “Grandfather!” the vision reproved, and the old man winced (her shoes did have very sharply pointed toes).

  “Well, I can't have everything,” he sighed. “I'm Whitey, Father, and this is Lona, my . . . niece,” he added, with a glare at her.

  She tried to look chastened. “Anything you say, Grandfather.”

  “Must you make me feel my age, lass?” Whitey sighed. “I know you have a fixation about absolute honesty in all the little things—but have mercy! I don't ask for much—just that you call me ‘Uncle' when other people are around. Is that so much to ask?”

  “Not at all, now that they know the truth.” She gave the rest of the company a dazzling smile, and lied, “He's my uncle.”

  “Glad to meet him,” Dar muttered, his eyes on Lona.

  Father Marco cleared his throat and stretched out a hand. “I'm Father Marco Ricci. And this is Dar Mandra, and Sam Bine.”

  “Here y' are, Whitey.” A waiter set a large glass of wine in front of the old man. “And you, Lona.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the cocktail with a smile that was polite, but warm too, then deliberately turned her eyes away. The waiter hesitated a moment hopefully, then sighed and turned away.

  “Whitey the Wino?” Father Marco guessed.

  Whitey held up his glass in a semi-toast and nodded approval. “You're quick.”

  “Not really; I've been hearing about you in every tavern and taproom for the last three parsecs. Glad I finally caught up with you.”

  The name fitted, Dar decided. The old man's hair was stark white, and his eyes were so light a blue that they verged on being colorless. Even his skin had a bleached look—weathered and toughened, as though it ought to have a deep space-tan; but he was almost white.

  And the second name seemed to fit, too. He'd drained half the glass at a gulp.

  “ ‘Caught up with me,' is it?” Whitey grinned. “If it weren't for the cassock, I'd worry.”

  Father Marco grinned too. “No, I'm not the Revenue Service.”

  “Or an angry husband,” Lona added.

  “My dear!” Whitey protested, wounded. “Would I come between a man and his wife?”

  “Only if you had a chance to,” she murmured, and sipped at her drink.

  Whitey turned to Father Marco with a sigh of despair. “Ah, the cynicism of this latter generation! Are there no ideals left, Father? No faith?”

  “I believe in you implicitly, Grandfather—I'm just not saying what for.”

  “To move around, for one thing,” Father Marco said. “You don't seem to have stayed on any one planet any longer than I have, Whitey.”

  The Wino nodded. “I can take any of these fat, complacent peoples, for just so long.”

  “Or they you,” Lona murmured.

  “Well, they usually do offer to pay my expenses to the next planet. I'm getting a bit restless in my old age, Father—moving outward, hoping to find a place that isn't sliding down into decadence.”

  “It's about time, Whitey.” A tallow-ketch of a man stopped by the table.

  “And I have to keep finding new audiences.” Whitey slid a flat keyboard out of his tunic and stood up. “If you'll excuse me for a few minutes, folks . . .”

  “You're the entertainment?” Dar said, astonished.

  “Aren't I always?” he answered. Lona added, “Not much security, but it's a living.”

  “Better than it was in the old days, my dear,” Whitey reminded her, “before I met your grandmother. I sold narcotics back then, Father—not entirely legally. Before I saw the light—when I went under the name of Tod Tambourin.” He turned away toward the stage, following Lona.

  Sam sat stiff and rigid, her eyes bulging. “That's Tod Tambourin?”

  “Couldn't be.” But Dar felt a sinking certainty. “Great poets don't sing in bars.”

  “I can think of a few exceptions.” Father Marco leaned back and sipped his drink. “Let's judge the product, shall we?”

  The “product” didn't bear judgment at all. Whitey settled himself on a low stool while Lona slid onto a high one, heels hooked on a rung, knees together, hands clasped in her lap. Whitey struck a rippling crescendo from his keyboard. It filled the room, leaving a moment of silence behind it. Into that silence Whitey pumped a vigorous song which had its roots in the best of the bad old days, a bit of bawdy nonsense about a lady spacer, who was scarcely a lady, and whose interest in space was confined to some interesting spaces. Lona sat through it, amused, joining in on the choruses with almost as much relish as her gran
dfather.

  “This is the poet laureate of the Terran Sphere?” Sam cried, scandalized.

  Dar felt a trifle disillusioned too—but not in Whitey.

  The song ended with a rocketing crescendo that sounded like a spaceship taking off. The patrons roared their approval, stomping and laughing; and when the racket slackened and died, it blended into a slower, almost melancholy tune that nonetheless had a feeling of quiet certainty underlying it.

  Then Lona began to sing, not looking at Whitey, gazing off into space a little above the audience's heads, in a voice as sweet as spring and as clear as a fountain. The words didn't quite register; they seemed to slide around and envelop Dar in a dazzle of consonants—but the meaning sank in: a lament for the wilderness that was, but never was, the primeval beauty that men hearkened back to when the name “Terra” was spoken.

  Then Whitey joined in on the chorus, in a quiet, sad-but-satisfied judgment that the wilderness had passed, but that it had had to, as all things must. Then Lona took up the verse again, in lilting wonder that the same wilderness had greeted men anew, on distant planets, under suns unseen from Terra.

  Then the chorus again, that these too had passed, as they'd had to; and another verse, another planet, a hundred more, each greeting humankind with wilderness, to tame and then destroy within the bars of hedges; then the chorus, and one final verse, in notes that soared with triumph—for bit by bit, men had learned to live within the wilderness, and preserve it—and yonder, past the marches, new planets beckoned with their forests—the ancient home of humans, which they must ever seek.

  Dar sat, stunned. How could he have ever thought that poem was great when he'd read it without hearing its music?

  Then the keyboard slashed out a great, jarring discord, and they were off into another bawdy song. And so it went—bits of poetry sandwiched in between carousing, continually taking the audience by surprise. When Whitey finally bade the audience give the singer time for a drink, Dar was on his feet with the rest of them, applauding wildly and shouting, “More! More!” Then Lona and Whitey came up to the table, she flushed and glowing, he smiling, grinning, and Dar felt very foolish.

  “Sit, sit!” Whitey waved him into his chair. “And thousands of thanks, youngling. That's the greatest praise a singer can get—that you forget yourself in the music.”

  Lona didn't say anything, but she answered with a look that set Dar's blood thrilling through him and gave his teeth a tingle.

  Then the waiter broke the spell by plunking glasses down in front of the singers.

  “I can believe it!” Sam exploded. “I couldn't believe such a distinguished poet would be playing in taverns—but I've heard you! I believe it!”

  “Well—I'm glad to know I'm still myself,” Whitey said, with a twinkle in his eye. “And a poet I am—but ‘distinguished' I most emphatically am not!”

  “Don't let him bother you,” Lona assured Sam. “You couldn't have known it was an insult.”

  “But what're you doing, playing in a backwater bar on a boondock planet?”

  “Looking for a clean breath of air.” Whitey's mouth tightened a little. “The bars on Terra, now, they're so damn polite you can't get away with anything but poetry, and that takes all the fun out of it. Also, they don't really listen—they just want you for background while they try to make time with each other. And say a word about politics, and wham! you're out the door! They've gone effete, they've gone gloomy, they've gone hopeless, and the finest songs in the world won't cheer 'em! Things get better as you go away from Sol—but even here, though there's some life, they've lost the sense of joy and wonder. They want to just sit back behind thick walls and taste fat meat, and they don't want to hear about hunting dragons.”

  “It's true enough,” Lona agreed, “but you're not so young any more, Grandfather.”

  “That's so.” Whitey nodded. “That's why I need to seek for life and freshness.”

  “But I am fresh,” Lona pointed out, “and fully alive, and no doubt of it! Just give me a try at being decadent, Grandfather—just give me a little try!”

  Whitey sighed, and started to answer, but a huge slab of lard interrupted him, six feet four in height and three feet wide, four feet at the waist, with little, squinting, piggy eyes and an outhrust jaw. “Whatsa matter, singer? Don't like progress?”

  Whitey's eyes kindled. “Progress? Just because you get more goods doesn't mean your soul's better!”

  “So, who are you, my father confessor?” The thickened thug grabbed Whitey's shirtfront and yanked him out of his chair. “Disgusting little bastard! First talking politics, and now religion! Why, I oughta paste you up on the wall.”

  “Go ahead,” Whitey caroled, “try!”

  The thug stared at him for a moment; then his eyes narrowed, and he wound up for a pitch with a snarl.

  Whitey chopped down on his elbow, hard.

  The beefy one dropped him with a howl, and two more slabs of meat waded in, reaching for Whitey. Someone yanked Dar out of his chair and flipped him around with a fist to his jaw. He slammed back against the tabletop and sat up, blinking, the roar of a full-scale brawl coming faintly through the ringing in his ears. Most of the patrons were squealing and clearing back against the walls, looking for an exit. A knot of thugs kept trying to form around Whitey, but Father Marco kept roaring in, yanking them out of the way by their collars and bumping them away with his back when they tried to swing back in. The ones who did get in kept popping back as Whitey caught them with undercuts.

  Sam and Lona fought back-to-back, with clips to the chin, and kicks to the shin. So far, they'd yielded a lot of hoppers.

  Then Dar saw the glint of steel swinging up at Sam's belly.

  He shouted and leaped forward, lurching in between Sam and her attacker. The blade slid along his side, opening the skin; he bleated in pain and anger, and pivoted to face the slice artist.

  He was tall and fat, with a gloating grin. “You'll do just as well.” The knife snaked out at his liver.

  Dar swung to the side, grabbing the man's wrist, cradling the elbow on top of his own, and snapping down. The thug yelled, high and hoarsely; his hand opened, and the knife fell out. Then a grenade exploded on the back of Dar's neck.

  He lifted his head, blinking blearily, and got a great view of feet kicking and lunging all around him. Through the singing in his ears, he heard the hoot of police horns. About time! Then it occurred to him that the tangling feet all around him might think he was part of the floor. He stumbled to his feet, and looked up into a breast-patch that said “Police.” He looked on up to a grinning face underneath a helmet, and noticed an electroclub swinging down at him. He spun away, to find a stun-gun level with his chest, with another police-patch behind it. He yelled and leaped to the side just as the club came crashing down and the stun-gun fired. The one cop was shocked, the other was stunned, and a third caught Dar around the middle. Dar slammed a fist down—right on a helmet. The cop dropped him and leveled a stun-gun. Then the cop dropped, period, and Father Marco grabbed Dar's arm and yanked him over the scrambling uniform. “Follow me! Fast!” He turned away, and Dar stumbled after him. He bumped into Sam, coming up on his right, and caromed off Whitey on his left. Father Marco yanked open a door, and Lona darted through ahead of them. “Follow her!” the priest snapped.

  Well, it went along with Dar's natural inclinations; he just wished he hadn't had so much company. He clattered down a set of narrow steps, following Lona's slim form, and came out in a cellar surrounded by shelves of kegs and racks of bottles. The door slammed behind him, and the noise of the fight diminished to a far-off rumble.

  “Quick! It won't take them but a few minutes to think of the cellar!” Father Marco brushed past them, fumbled at a bolthead in the paneled wall, and swung open a hidden door. Lona darted through, and Dar followed.

  Father Marco slammed the door behind Whitey, and Dar found himself suddenly in total darkness. Something soft and curved brushed against him. Lona sprang to h
is mind's eye, and he wished she hadn't brushed away so quickly.

  “Dar?” Sam whispered, right next to him, and he fairly jumped. “Yeah, right here,” he whispered back through a whirl of emotions. She'd sounded shy and unsure of herself— feminine. It roused every protective reflex he had—and a full flood of hormones behind them. And the touch of her . . .

  “Where are we?” she whispered.

  “I don't know,” he answered. “Why are we whispering?”

  Then a spot of light glared. They turned to see Father Marco's face, illuminated from below by a tiny glow-globe in the handle of his miniature screwdriver. “The reflex is correct," he said in a very low tone. “Keep your voices down; I don't think the police know about this bolthole, but they might search the tavern basement, and we don't want them to get curious.”

  “Perish the thought!” Whitey agreed. “Where are we, Father? In a, you should pardon the phrase, priest-hole?”

  “No, the persecutions on this planet have never been religiously oriented.” Father Marco grinned. “We're in the basement of the establishment next door.”

  “Which one—Leong Chakov's Foot Laundry?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Oh, Madame Tessie's Tenderloin Chop House.” Whitey raised his eyebrows, nodding. “Pretty good, Father. Even I didn't know there was any, ah, connection, between the two establishments.”

  The priest nodded. “Only a few select patrons know.”

  “You're one of them?”

  “Well—let's just say it's surprising what you pick up in moments of confidence.” Father Marco turned away, groping along the wall.

  “Oh.” Whitey fell in beside him. “You picked it up in the confessional.”

  “No, because of it. They had something of an emergency here last month, calling for the Last Rites and all possible discretion.” There was a loud clunk, and the light bobbed. Father Marco hissed something under his breath. Dar wondered why “blue” should be sacred.

  “I think I've found the stairs.” Father Marco's voice was strained. “Slowly and quietly, now.” The light began to bob upward. “The net result is, the ladies here have come to trust me. I think they'll be discreet about our passage through their quarters.” His light shone on a richly-grained door. “Quietly, now,” he murmured, and turned the knob.