The Three Galaxies are an island group, like Hawaii State, they haven't any other close neighbours. Civilization spread through the Lesser Cloud, then through the Greater Cloud and is seeping slowly through our own Galaxy—that is taking longer; there are fifteen or twenty times as many stars in our Galaxy as in the other two.
When I began to get these things straight I wasn't quite as sore. The Mother Thing was a very important person at home but here she was a minor official—all she could do was bring us in. Still, I wasn't more than coolly polite for a while—she might have looked the other way while we beat it for home.
They housed us in that enormous building in a part you could call a "transients' hotel," although "detention barracks" or "jail" is closer. I can't complain about accommodations but I was getting confoundedly tired of being locked up every time I arrived in a new place. A robot met us and took us down inside—there are robots wherever you turn on Lanador. I don't mean things looking like the Tin Woodman; I mean machines that do things for you, such as this one which led us to our rooms, then hung around like a bellhop expecting a tip. It was a three-wheeled cart with a big basket on top, for luggage if we had any. It met us, whistled to the Mother Thing in Vegan and led us away, down a lift and through a wide and endlessly long corridor.
I was given "my" room again—a fake of a fake, with all errors left in and new ones added. The sight of it was not reassuring; it shrieked that they planned to keep us there as long as—well, as long as they chose.
But the room was complete even to a rack for Oscar and a bathroom outside. Just beyond "my" room was a fake of another kind—a copy of that Arabian Nights horror Peewee had occupied on Vega Five. Peewee seemed delighted, so I didn't point out the implications.
The Mother Thing hovered around while we got out of space suits. ("Do you think you will be comfortable?")
"Oh, sure," I agreed unenthusiastically.
("If you want food or anything, just say so. It will come.)
"So? Is there a telephone somewhere?"
("Simply speak your wishes. You will be heard.")
I didn't doubt her—but I was almost as tired of rooms that were bugged as of being locked up; a person ought to have privacy.
"I'm hungry now," Peewee commented. "I had an early breakfast."
We were in her room. A purple drapery drew back, a light glowed in the wall. In about two minutes a section of wall disappeared; a slab at table height stuck out like a tongue. On it were dishes and silverware, cold cuts, fruit, bread, butter, and a mug of steaming cocoa. Peewee clapped and squealed. I looked at it with less enthusiasm.
("You see?") the Mother Thing went on with a smile in her voice. ("Ask for what you need. If you need me, I'll come. But I must go now.")
"Oh, please don't go, Mother Thing."
("I must, Peewee dear. But I will see you soon. By the bye, there are two more of your people here.")
"Huh?" I put in. "Who? Where?"
("Next door.") She was gone with gliding swiftness; the bellhop speeded up to stay ahead of her.
I spun around. "Did you hear that?"
"I certainly did!"
"Well—you eat if you want to; I'm going to look for those other humans."
"Hey! Wait for me!"
"I thought you wanted to eat."
"Well..." Peewee looked at the food. "Just a sec." She hastily buttered two slices of bread and handed one to me. I was not in that much of a hurry; I ate it. Peewee gobbled hers, took a gulp from the mug and offered it to me. "Want some?"
It wasn't quite cocoa; there was a meaty flavour, too. But it was good. I handed it back and she finished it. "Now I can fight wildcats. Let's go, Kip."
"Next door" was through the foyer of our three-room suite and fifteen yards down the corridor, where we came to a door arch. I kept Peewee back and glanced in cautiously.
It was a diorama, a fake scene.
This one was better than you see in museums. I was looking through a bush at a small clearing in wild country. It ended in a limestone bank. I could see overcast sky and a cave mouth in the rocks. The ground was wet, as if from rain.
A cave man hunkered down close to the cave. He was gnawing the carcass of a small animal, possibly a squirrel.
Peewee tried to shove past me; I stopped her. The cave man did not appear to notice us which struck me as a good idea. His legs looked short but I think he weighed twice what I do and he was muscled like a weight lifter, with short, hairy forearms and knotty biceps and calves. His head was huge, bigger than mine and longer, but his forehead and chin weren't much. His teeth were large and yellow and a front one was broken. I heard bones crunching.
In a museum I would have expected a card reading "Neanderthal Man—circa Last Ice Age." But wax dummies of extinct breeds don't crack bones.
Peewee protested, "Hey, let me look."
He heard. Peewee stared at him, he stared toward us. Peewee squealed; he whirled and ran into the cave, waddling but making time.
I grabbed Peewee. "Let's get out of here!"
"Wait a minute," she said calmly. "He won't come out in a hurry." She tried to push the bush aside.
"Peewee!"
"Try this," she suggested. Her hand was shoving air. "They've got him penned."
I tried it. Something transparent blocked the arch. I could push it a little but not more than an inch. "Plastic?" I suggested. "Like Lucite but springier?"
"Mmm . . ." said Peewee. "More like the helmet of my suit. Tougher, though—and I'll bet light passes only one way. I don't think he saw us."
"Okay, let's get back to our rooms. Maybe we can lock them."
She went on feeling that barrier. "Peewee!" I said sharply. "You're not listening."
"What were you doing talking," she answered reasonably, "when I wasn't listening?"
"Peewee! This is no time to be difficult."
"You sound like Daddy. He dropped that rat he was eating—he might come back."
"If he does, you won't be here, because I'm about to drag you—and if you bite, I'll bite back. I warn you."
She looked around without a trace of animosity. "I wouldn't bite you, Kip, no matter what you did. But if you're going to be stuffy—oh, well, I doubt if he'll come out for an hour or so. We'll come back."
"Okay." I pulled her away.
But we did not leave. I heard a loud whistle and a shout: "Hey, buster! Over here!"
The words were not English, but I understood—well enough. The yell came from an archway across the corridor and a little farther on. I hesitated, then moved toward it because Peewee did so.
A man about forty-five was loafing in this doorway. He was no Neanderthal; he was civilized—or somewhat so. He wore a long heavy woolen tunic, belted in at the waist, forming a sort of kilt. His legs below that were wrapped in wool and he was shod in heavy short boots, much worn. At the belt and supported by a shoulder sling was a short, heavy sword; there was a dagger on the other side of the belt. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven save for a few days' grey stubble. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly; it was sharply watchful.
"Thanks," he said gruffly. "Are you the jailer?"
Peewee gasped. "Why, that's Latin!"
What do you do when you meet a Legionary? Right after a cave man? I answered: "No, I am a prisoner myself." I said it in Spanish and repeated it in pretty fair classical Latin. I used Spanish because Peewee hadn't been quite correct. It was not Latin he spoke, not the Latin of Ovid and Gaius Julius Caesar. Nor was it Spanish. It was in between, with an atrocious accent and other differences. But I could worry out the meaning.
He sucked his lip and answered, "That's bad. I've been trying for three days to attract attention and all I get is another prisoner. But that's how the die rolls. Say, that's a funny accent you have."
"Sorry, amigo, but I have trouble understanding you, too." I repeated it in Latin, then split the difference. I added, in improvised lingua franca, "Speak slowly, will you?'
"I'l
l speak as I please. And don't call me 'amico'; I'm a Roman citizen—so don't get gay."
That's a free translation. His advice was more vulgar—I think. It was close to a Spanish phrase which certainly is vulgar.
"What's he saying?" demanded Peewee. "It is Latin, isn't it? Translate!"
I was glad she hadn't caught it. "Why, Peewee, don't you know 'the language of poetry and science'?"
"Oh, don't be a smartie! Tell me."
"Don't crowd me, hon. I'll tell you later. I'm having trouble following it."
"What is that barbarian grunting?" the Roman said pleasantly. "Talk language, boy. Or will you have ten with the flat of the sword?"
He seemed to be leaning on nothing—so I felt the air. It was solid; I decided not to worry about his threat. "I'm talking as best I can. We spoke to each other in our own language.
"Pig grunts. Talk Latin. If you can. He looked at Peewee as if just noticing her. "Your daughter? Want to sell her? If she had meat on her bones, she might be worth a half denario."
Peewee clouded up. "I understood that!" she said fiercely. "Come out here and fight!"
"Try it in Latin," I advised her. "If he understands you, he'll probably spank you."
She looked uneasy. "You wouldn't let him?"
"You know I wouldn't."
"Let's go back."
"That's what I said earlier." I escorted her past the cave man's lair to our suite. "Peewee, I'm going back and see what our noble Roman has to say. Do you mind?"
"I certainly do!"
"Be reasonable, hon. If we could be hurt by them, the Mother Thing would know it. After all, she told us they were here."
"I'll go with you."
"What for? I'll tell you everything I learn. This may be a chance to find out what this silliness means. What's he doing here? Have they kept him in deep-freeze a couple of thousand years? How long has he been awake? What does he know that we don't? We're in a bad spot; all the data I can dig up we need. You can help by keeping out. If you're scared, send for the Mother Thing."
She pouted. "I'm not scared. All right—if that's the way you want it."
"I do. Eat your dinner."
Jo-Jo the dogface boy was not in sight; I gave his door a wide berth. If a ship can go anywhere in no time, could it skip a dimension and go anywhere to any time? How would the math work out? The soldier was still lounging at his door. He looked up. "Didn't you hear me say to stick around?"
"I heard you," I admitted, "but we're not going to get anywhere if you take that attitude. I'm not one of your privates."
"Lucky for you!"
"Do we talk peacefully? Or do I leave?"
He looked me over. "Peace. But don't get smart with me, barbarian."
He called himself "Iunio." He had served in Spain and Gaul, then transferred to the VIth Legion, the "Victrix" —which he felt that even a barbarian should know of. His legion's garrison was Eboracum, north of Londinium in Britain, but he had been on advance duty as a brevet centurion (he pronounced it "centurio")—his permanent rank was about like top sergeant. He was smaller than I am but I would not want to meet him in an alley. Nor at the palisades of a castra.
He had a low opinion of Britons and all barbarians including me ("nothing personal—some of my best friends are barbarians"), women, the British climate, high brass, and priests; he thought well of Caesar, Rome, the gods, and his own professional ability. The army wasn't what it used to be and the slump came from treating auxiliaries like Roman citizens.
He had been guarding the building of a wall to hold back barbarians—a nasty lot who would sneak up and slit your throat and eat you—which no doubt had happened to him, since he was now in the nether regions.
I thought he was talking about Hadrian's Wall, but it was three days' march north of there, where the seas were closest together. The climate there was terrible and the natives were bloodthirsty beasts who dyed their bodies and didn't appreciate civilization—you'd think the Eagles were trying to steal their dinky island. Provincial... like me. No offense meant.
Nevertheless he had bought a little barbarian to wife and had been looking forward to garrison duty at Eboracum—when this happened. Iunio shrugged. "Perhaps if I had been careful with lustrations and sacrifices, my luck wouldn't have run out. But I figure that if a man does his duty and keeps himself and his weapons clean, the rest is the C.O.'s worry. Careful of that doorway; it's witched."
The longer he talked the easier it was to understand him. The "-us" endings turned to "-o" and his vocabulary was not that of De Bello Gallico—"horse" wasn't "equus"; it was "caballo." His idioms bothered me, plus the fact that his Latin was diluted by a dozen barbarian tongues. But you can blank out every third word in a newspaper and still catch the gist.
I learned a lot about the daily life and petty politics of the Victrix and nothing that I wanted to know. Iunio did not know how he had gotten where he was nor why—except that he was dead and awaiting disposition in a receiving barracks somewhere in the nether world—a theory which I was not yet prepared to accept.
He knew the year of his "death"—Year Eight of the Emperor and Eight Hundred Ninety-Nine of Rome. I wrote out the dates in Roman numerals to make sure. But I did not remember when Rome was founded nor could I identify the "Caesar" even by his full name there have been so many Caesars. But Hadrian's Wall had been built and Britain was still occupied; that placed Iunio close to the third century.
He wasn't interested in the cave man across the way—it embodied to him the worst vice of a barbarian: cowardice. I didn't argue but I would be timid, too, if I had sabre-toothed tigers yowling at my door. (Did they have sabre-tooths then? Make it "cave bears.")
Iunio went back and returned with hard dark bread, cheese, and a cup. He did not offer me any and I don't think it was the barrier. He poured a little of his drink on the floor and started to chomp. It was a mud floor; the walls were rough stone and the ceiling was supported by wooden beams. It may have been a copy of dwellings during the occupation of Britain, but I'm no expert.
I didn't stay much longer. Not only did bread and cheese remind me that I was hungry, but I offended Iunio. I don't know what set him off, but he discussed me with cold thoroughness, my eating habits, ancestry, appearance, conduct, and method of earning a living. Iunio was pleasant—as long as you agreed with him, ignored insults, and deferred to him. Many older people demand this, even in buying a thirty-nine-cent can of talcum; you learn to give it without thinking—otherwise you get a reputation as a fresh kid and potential juvenile delinquent. The less respect an older person deserves the more certain he is to demand it from anyone younger. So I left, as Iunio didn't know anything helpful anyhow. As I went back I saw the cave man peering out his cave. I said, "Take it easy, Jo-Jo," and went on.
I bumped into another invisible barrier blocking our archway. I felt it, then said quietly, "I want to go in." The barrier melted away and I walked in—then found that it was back in place.
My rubber soles made no noise and I didn't call out because Peewee might be asleep. Her door was open and I peeped in. She was sitting tailor-fashion on that incredible oriental divan, rocking Madame Pompadour and crying.
I backed away, then returned whistling, making a racket, and calling to her. She popped out of her door, with smiling face and no trace of tears. "Hi, Kip! It took you long enough."
"That guy talks too much. What's new?"
"Nothing. I ate and you didn't come back, so I took a nap. You woke me. What did you find out?"
"Let me order dinner and I'll tell you while I eat."
I was chasing the last bit of gravy when a bellhop robot came for us. It was like the other one except that it had in glowing gold on its front that triangle with three spirals. "Follow me," it said in English.
I looked at Peewee. "Didn't the Mother Thing say she was coming back?"
"Why, I thought so."
The machine repeated, "Follow me. Your presence is required."
I laid my ears back.
I have taken lots of orders, some of which I shouldn't have, but I had never yet taken orders from a piece of machinery. "Go climb a rope!" I said. "You'll have to drag me."
This is not what to say to a robot. It did.
Peewee yelled, "Mother Thing! Where are you? Help us!"
Her birdsong came out of the machine. ("It's all right, dears. The servant will lead you to me.")
I quit struggling and started to walk. That refugee from an appliance dealer took us into another lift, then into a corridor whose walls whizzed past as soon as we entered. It nudged us through an enormous archway topped by the triangle and spirals and herded us into a pen near one wall. The pen was not apparent until we moved—more of that annoying solid air.
It was the biggest room I have ever been in, triangular, unbroken by post or pillar, with ceiling so high and walls so distant that I half expected local thunderstorms. An enormous room makes me feel like an ant; I was glad to be near a wall. The room was not empty—hundreds in it—but it looked empty because they were all near the walls; the giant floor was bare.
But there were three wormfaces out in the center—Wormface's trial was in progress.
I don't know if our own Wormface was there. I would not have known even if they had not been a long way off as the difference between two wormfaces is the difference between having your throat cut and being beheaded. But, as we learned, the presence or absence of the individual offender was the least important part of a trial. Wormface was being tried, present or not—alive or dead.
The Mother Thing was speaking. I could see her tiny figure, also far out on the floor but apart from the wormfaces. Her birdsong voice reached me faintly but I heard her words clearly—in English; from somewhere near us her translated words were piped to us. The feel of her was in the English translation just as it was in her bird tones.
Have Space Suit - Will Travel Page 19