Procrustes

by Larry Niven

  They had scissors. Riiight. Wil tried to shape my hair, laughed at the result, and suggested I finish the job at Booty Island.

  So I tried to forget the rest of the world and just sail. It was what Wilhelmin and Toranaga were doing. One day at a time. Islands and boats grew more common as we neared the Central Isles. Another day for Feather to forget me, or lose me. Another day of safety for Sharrol, if Feather followed me to her. I'd have to watch for that.

  And peace would have been mine, but that my ragged vest was in a locker that wouldn't open to my fingerprints

  Wil and Tor talked about themselves, a little, but I still didn't know their identities. They slept in a locked cabin. I noticed also an absence. Wil was a lovely woman, not unlike Sharrol herself; but her demeanor and body language showed no sign that she considered herself female, or me male, let alone that she might welcome a pass.

  It might mean anything, in an alien culture: that my hair style or shape of nose or skin color were distasteful, or I didn't know the local body language, or I lacked documentation for my gene pattern. But I wondered if they wanted no life gift, in any sense, from a man they might have to give to the police

  What would a police detective think of those holes? Why, he'd think some kinetic weapon had torn a hole through the occupant, killing him instantly, after which someone (the killer?) had stolen the vest for himself. And if Wil and Tor were thinking that way.... What I did at the caller, might it be saved automatically?

  Now there was a notion.

  I borrowed the caller again. I summoned the encyclopedia and set a search for a creature with boneless arms. There were several on Fafnir, all small. I sought data on the biggest, particularly those local to the North Coral Quadrant. There were stories ... no hard evidence....

  And another day passed, and I learned that I could cook while a kitchen was rolling randomly.

  At dinner that night Wil got to talking about Fafnir sea life. She'd worked at Pacifica, which I gathered was a kind of underwater zoo; and had I ever heard of a Kdatlyno life form like a blind squid?

  “No,” I said. “Would the kzinti bring one here?"

  “I wouldn't think so. The kzinti aren't surfers,” Tor said, and we laughed.

  Wil didn't. She said, “They meant it for the hunting jungle. On Kdat the damn things can come ashore and drag big animals back into the ocean. But they've pretty well died out around Shasht, and we never managed to get one for Pacifica."

  “Well,” I said, and hesitated, and, “I think I was attacked by something like that. But huge. And it wasn't around Shasht, it was where you picked me up."

  “Jan, you should report it."

  “Wil, I can't. I was fast asleep and half dead of cold, lost at sea at midnight. I woke up under water. Something was squeezing my chest and back. I got my knife out and slashed. Slashed something rubbery. It pulled apart. It pulled my jacket apart. If it had ripped the shoulder floats I'd still be down there. But I never saw a thing."

  Thus are legends born.

  * * * *

  Booty Island is several islands merged. I counted eight peaks coming in; there must have been more. We had been sailing for twelve days.

  Buildings sat on each of the lamplighter nests. They looked like government buildings or museums. No two were alike. Houses were scattered across the flatlands between. A mile or so of shopping center ran like a suspension bridge between two peaks. On Earth this would have been a park. Here, a center of civilization.

  A line of transfer booths in the mall bore the familiar flickering Pelton logo. They were all big cargo booths, and old. I didn't instantly see the significance.

  We stopped in a hotel and used a coin caller. The system read my retina prints: Persial January Hebert, sure enough. Wil and Tor waited while I moved some money, collected some cash and a transfer booth card, and registered for a room. I tried again for records of Milcenta Adelaide Graynor. Sharrol's rescue was still there. Nothing for Feather.

  Wil said, “Jan, she may have been recovering from a head injury. See if she's tried to find you."

  I couldn't be Mart Graynor while Wil and Tor were watching. The net registered no messages for Jan Hebert. Feather didn't know that name. Sharrol did; but Sharrol thought I was dead.

  Or maybe she was crazy, incapacitated. With Tor and Wil watching I tried two worst-cases.

  First: executions. A public ‘doc can cure most varieties of madness. Madness is curable, therefore voluntary. A capital crime committed during a period of madness has carried the death penalty for seven hundred years, on Earth and on every world I knew.

  It was true on Fafnir too. But Sharrol had not been executed for any random homicide, and neither, worse luck, had Feather.

  Next: There are still centers for the study of madness. The best known is on Jinx. On Earth there are several, plus one secret branch of the ARM. There was only one mental institution to serve all of Fafnir, and that seemed to be half empty. Neither Feather's nor Sharrol's retina prints showed on the records.

  The third possibility would have to wait.

  * * * *

  We all needed the hotel's styler, though I was worst off. The device left my hair long at the neck, and theirs too, a local style to protect against sunburn. I let it tame my beard without baring my face. The sun had had its way with me: I looked like an older man.

  I took Wil and Tor to lunch. I found ‘gullfish’ on the menu, and tried it. Like much of Fafnir sea life, it tasted like something that had almost managed to become red meat.

  I worked some points casually into conversation, just checking. It was their last chance to probe me too, and I had to improvise details of a childhood in the North Sea. Tor found me plausible; Wil was harder to read. Nothing was said of a vest or a great sea monster. In their minds I was already gone.

  I was Schroedinger's cat: I had murdered and not murdered the owner of a shredded vest.

  * * * *

  At the caller in my room I established myself as Martin Wallace Graynor. That gave me access to my wives’ autodoc records. A public ‘doc will correct any of the chemical imbalances we lump under the term ‘crazy', but it also records such service.

  Milcenta Graynor—Sharrol—had used a ‘doc eight times in four-plus months, starting a week after our disastrous landing. The record showed much improvement over that period, beginning at a startling adrenalin level, acid indigestion and some dangerous lesser symptoms. Eight times within the Central Islands ... none on Shasht.

  If she'd never reached the mainland, then she'd never tried to reach Outbound Enterprises. Never tried to find Carlos, or Louis and Tanya.

  Adelaide Graynor—Feather—had no ‘doc record on this world. The most obvious conclusion was that wherever she was, she must be mad as a March hare.

  Boats named Gullfish were everywhere on Fafnir. Fifty-one registries. Twenty-nine had sail. Ten of those would sleep four. I scanned for first names: no Wilhelmin, no Toranaga. Maybe Gullfish belonged to a parent, or to one of the departed spouses.

  I'd learned a term for Gullfish's sail and mast configuration: sloop rig.

  Every one of the ten candidates was a sloop rig!

  Wait, now. Wil had worked at Pacifica?

  I did some research. Pacifica wasn't just a zoo. It looked more like an underwater village, with listings for caterers, costume shops, subs, repair work, travel, hotels ... but Wil had worked with sea life. Might that give me a handle?

  I couldn't see how.

  It wasn't that I didn't have an answer; I just didn't like it. Wil and Tor had to hand my vest to the cops. When Persial January Hebert was reported rescued, I would send them a gift.

  Feather didn't know my alternate name. But if she had access to the Fafnir police, she'd tanj sure recognize that vest!

  * * * *

  With the rest of the afternoon I bought survival gear: a backpurse, luggage, clothing.

  On Earth I could have vanished behind a thousand shades of dyes. Here ... I settled for a double dose of tan
nin secretion, an underdose of sunblock, a darkened pair of mag specs, my height, a local beard and hairstyle.

  Arming myself was a problem.

  The disk hadn't spoken of weapons on Fafnir. My safest guess was that Fafnir was like Earth: they didn't put weapons in the hands of civilians. Handguns, rifles, martial arts training belong to the police.

  The good news: everyone on the islands carried knives. Those flying sharks that attacked me during the sunbunny run were one predator out of thousands.

  Feather would arm herself somehow. She'd look through a sporting goods store, steal a hunting rifle ... nope, no hunting rifles. No large prey on Fafnir, unless in the kzinti jungle, or underwater.

  There were listings for scuba stores. I found a stun gun with a big parabolic reflector, big enough to knock out a one-gulp, too big for a pocket. I took it home, with more diving gear for verisimilitude, and a little tool kit for repairing diving equipment. With that I removed the reflector.

  Now I couldn't use it underwater; it would knock me out, because water conducts sound very well. But it would fit my pocket.

  * * * *

  I took my time over a sushi dinner, quite strange. Some time after sunset I stepped into a transfer booth, and stepped out into a brilliant dawn on Shasht.

  Outbound Enterprises was open. I let a Ms. Machti take Martin Wallace Graynor's retina prints. “Your ticket is still good, Mr. Graynor,” Ms. Machti said. “The service charge will be eight hundred stars. You're four months late!"

  “I was shipwrecked,” I told her. “Did my companions make it?"

  Iceliner passengers are in no hurry. The ships keep prices down by launching when they're full. I learned that the Zombie Queen had departed a week after our landing, about as expected. I gave Ms. Machti the names. She set the phone system searching, and presently said, “Your husband and the children boarded and departed. Your wives’ tickets are still outstanding."

  “Both?"

  “Yes.” She did a double-take. “Oh, good heavens, they must think you're dead!"

  “That's what I'm afraid of. At least, John and Tweena and Nathan would. They were revived in good shape?"

  “Yes, of course. But the women, could they have waited for you?"

  Stet: Carlos, Tanya, and Louis were all safe on Home and had left the spaceport under their own power. Feather and Sharrol—"Waited? But they'd have left a message."

  She was still looking at her screen. “Not for you, Mr. Graynor, but Mr. John Graynor has recorded a message for Mrs. Graynor ... for Mrs. Adelaide Graynor."

  For Feather. “But nothing for Milcenta? But they both stayed? How strange.” Ms. Machti seemed the type of person who might wonder about other people's sexual arrangements. I wanted her curious, because this next question—"Can you show me what John had to say to Adelaide?"

  She shook her head firmly. “I don't see how—"

  “Now, John wouldn't have said anything someone else couldn't hear. You can watch it yourself—” Her head was still turning left, right, left. “In fact, you should. Then you can at least tell me if there's been, if, well. I have to know, don't I? If Milcenta's dead."

  That stopped her. She nodded, barely, and tapped in the code to summon Carlos's message to Feather.

  She read it all the way through. Her lip curled just a bit; but she showed only solemn pity when she turned the monitor to face me.

  * * * *

  It was a posed scene. Carlos looked like a man hiding a sickness. The view behind him could have been a manor garden in England, a tamed wilderness. Tanya and Louis were playing in the distance, hide-and-seek in and out of some Earthly tree that dripped a cage of foliage. Alive. Ever since I first saw them frozen, I must have been thinking of them as dead.

  Carlos looked earnestly out of the monitor screen. “Adelaide, you can see that the children and I arrived safely. I have an income. The plans we made together, half of us have carried out. Your own iceliner slots are still available.

  “I know nothing of Mart. I hope you've heard from him, but he should never have gone sailing alone. I fear the worst.

  “Addie, I can't pretend to understand how you've changed, how Mil changed, or why. I can only hope you'll both change your mind and come back to me. But understand me, Addie: you are not welcome without Milcenta. Your claim on family funds is void without Milcenta. And whatever relationship we can shape from these ashes, I would prefer to leave the children out of it."

  He had the money!

  Carlos stood and walked a half-circle as he spoke. The camera followed him on automatic, and now it showed a huge, sprawling house of architectural coral, pink and slightly rounded everywhere. Carlos gestured. “I've waited. The house isn't finished because you and Milcenta will have your own tastes. But come soon.

  “I've set credit with Outbound. Messages sent to Home by hyperwave will be charged to me. I'll get the service charges when you and Milcenta board. Call first. We can work this out."

  * * * *

  The record began to repeat. I heard it through again, then turned the monitor around.

  Ms. Machti asked, “You went sailing alone?"

  She thought I'd tried to commit suicide after our wives changed parity and locked the men out: an implication Carlos had shaped with some skill. I made a brush-off gesture and said, “I've got to tell him I'm still alive."

  “The credit he left doesn't apply—"

  “I want to send a hyperwave message, my expense. Let's see ... does Outbound Enterprises keep a camera around?"

  “No."

  “I'll fax it from the hotel. When's the next flight out?"

  “At least two weeks, but we can suspend you any time."

  * * * *

  I used a camera at the hotel. The first disk I made would go through Outbound Enterprises. “John, I'm all right. I was on a dead island eating fish for awhile.” A slightly belligerent tone: “I haven't heard a word from Adelaide or Milcenta. I know Milcenta better than you do, and frankly, I believe they must have separated by now. Home looks like a new life, but I haven't given up on the old one. I'll let you know when I know myself."

  So much for the ears of Ms. Machti.

  Time lag had me suddenly wiped out. I floated between the sleeping plates ... exhausted but awake. What should I put in a real message?

  Carlos's tape was a wonderful lesson in communication. He wants to talk to Feather. The children are not to be put at risk. Beowulf is presumed dead, c'est la vie, Carlos will not seek vengeance. But he wants Sharrol alive. Feather is not to come to Home without Sharrol. Carlos can enforce any agreement. He hadn't said so because it's too obvious. A frozen Feather, arriving at Home unaccompanied, need never wake.

  And he had the money! Not just his own funds, but the money Feather knew about, “family funds": he must have reached civilization ahead of her and somehow sequestered what Feather funneled through the ARM. If Feather was loose on Fafnir, then she was also broke. She owned nothing but the credit that would get her a hyperwave call to Home, or herself and Sharrol shipped frozen. Though Carlos didn't know it, even Sharrol had escaped.

  Nearly five months. How was Feather living? Did she have a job? Something I could track? With her training she might be better off as a thief.

  Yah! I tumbled out of the sleepfield and tapped out my needs in some haste. She hadn't been caught at any capital crime, but any jail on Shasht would record Adelaide Graynor's retina prints. The caller ran its search....

  Nothing.

  Okay, job. Feather needed something that would allow her time to take care of a prisoner. She had to have that if she had Sharrol, or in case she recaptured Sharrol, or captured Beowulf.

  So I looked through some job listings, but nothing suggested itself. I turned off the caller and hoped for sleep. Perhaps I dozed a little.

  Sometime in the night I realized that I had nothing more to say to Carlos.

  Even Sharrol's escape wasn't information unless she stayed loose. Feather was a trained ARM. I was a self-train
ed tourist; I couldn't possibly hunt her down. There was only one way to hunt Feather.

  It was still black outside, and I was wide awake. The caller gave me a listing of all night restaurants.

  I ordered an elaborate breakfast, six kinds of fish eggs, gulper bacon, cappuccino. Five people at a table demanded I join them, so I did. They were fresh from the coral isles via dirigible, still timelagged, looking for new jokes. I tried to oblige. And somewhere in there I forgot all about missing ladies.

  We broke up at dawn. I walked back to the hotel alone. I had sidetracked my mind, hoping it would come up with something if I left it alone; but my answer hadn't changed. The way to hunt Feather was to pretend to be Feather, and hunt Sharrol.

  Stet, I'm Feather Filip. What do I know about Sharrol? Feather must have researched her; she sure as tanj had researched me!

  Back up. How did Sharrol get loose?

  The simplest possible answer was that Sharrol dove into the water and swam away. Feather could beat her at most things, but a woman who lived beneath the ocean for thirty years would swim just fine.

  Eventually a boat would find her.

  Eventually, an island. Penniless. She needs work now. What kind of work is that? It has to suit a flat phobe. She's being hunted by a murderer, and the alien planet around her forces itself into her awareness every second. Dirigible stewardess is probably out. Hotel work would be better.

  Feather, days behind her, seeks work for herself; but the listings will tell her Sharrol's choices too. And now I was back in the room and scanning through work listings.

  Qualifications—I couldn't remember what Milcenta Graynor was supposed to be able to do. Sharrol's skills wouldn't match anyway, any more than mine matched Mart Graynor's. So look for unskilled.

  Low salaries, of course. Except here: servant, kzinti embassy. Was that a joke? No: here was museum maintenance, must work with kzinti. Some of them had stayed with the embassy, or even become citizens. Could Sharrol handle that? She got along with strangers ... even near-aliens, like me.

  Fishing boats, period of training needed. Hotel work. Underwater porter work, unskilled labor in Pacifica.