Store of Infinity

by Robert Sheckley

  For half an hour, Brynne had talked, spread papers on Baxter’s desk, quoted figures, mentioned trends, predicted movements. He was perspiring anxiously now, waiting for a word out of Baxter.

  “Hmm,” said Ben Baxter.

  Brynne waited. His temples were pounding with a steady, dull ache and he was having trouble with the tight knots in his stomach. It was years since he had fought in anger; he wasn’t used to it. He hoped he could control himself until the meeting was over.

  “The terms you request,” said Baxter, “are just short of preposterous.”

  “Sir?”

  “Preposterous was the word, Mr. Brynne. You are, perhaps, hard of hearing?”

  “No,” said Brynne.

  “Excellent. These terms you present might be suitable for negotiation between two companies of equal holdings. But such is not the case, Mr. Brynne. It amounts to presumption that a company of your size should offer such terms to Baxter Enterprises.”

  Brynne’s eyes narrowed. He had heard about Baxter’s reputation for infighting. This was not personal insult, he reminded himself. It was the kind of business maneuver that he himself had often used. It must be dealt with as such.

  “Let me point out,” Brynne said, “the key nature of this forest area I have an option on. With sufficient capitalization, we could extend the holding enormously, to say nothing—”

  “Hopes, dreams, promises,” Baxter sighed. “You may have something worthwhile. As yet, it is inadequately demonstrated.”

  This is business, Brynne reminded himself. He does want to back me—I can tell. I expected to come down in the bargaining. Naturally. All he’s doing is beating down the terms. Nothing personal…

  But too much had happened to Brynne in one day. The red-faced Crusader, the voice in the restaurant, his short-lived dream of freedom, the fight with the two men—he knew he couldn’t take much more.

  “Suppose, Mr. Brynne,” said Baxter, “you make a more reasonable offer. One in keeping with the modest and subsidiary status of your holdings.”

  He’s testing me, Brynne thought. But it was too much. He was as nobly born as Baxter; how dare the man treat him this way?

  “Sir,” he said through numb lips. “I take exception.”

  “Eh?” said Baxter, and Brynne thought he glimpsed amusement in the cold eyes. “What do you take exception to?”

  “Your statements, sir, and the manner in which you say them. I suggest you apologize.”

  Standing up stiffly, Brynne waited. His head was pounding inhumanly now and his stomach refused to unknot itself.

  “I see nothing for which to apologize, sir,” said Baxter. “And I see no reason to deal with a man who cannot keep personalities out of a business discussion.”

  He’s right, Brynne thought. I’m the one who should apologize. But he could not stop. Desperately he said, “I warn you—apologize sir!”

  “We can do no business this way,” said Baxter. “And frankly, Mr. Brynne, I had hoped to do business with you. I will try to speak in a reasonable manner, if you will try to react in an equally reasonable manner. I ask you to withdraw your request for an apology and let us get on.”

  “I can’t!” Brynne said, wishing passionately he could. “Apologize, sir!”

  Baxter stood up, short and powerfully built. He stepped out from behind the desk, his face dark with anger. “Get out of here then, you insolent young dog! Get out or I’ll have you thrown out, you hotheaded fool! Get out!”

  Brynne, wishing to apologize, thought of the red-faced Crusader, the waiter, his two assailants. Something snapped in him. He lashed out with all his strength, the weight of his body behind the blow.

  It caught Baxter full in the neck and slammed him against the desk. Eyes glazed, Baxter slumped to the floor.

  “I’m sorry!” Brynne cried. “I apologize! I apologize!”

  He knelt beside Baxter. “Are you all right, sir? I’m truly sorry. I apologize…”

  A part of his mind, coldly functioning, told him that he had been caught in an unresolvable ambivalence. His need for action had been as strong as his need to apologize. And so he had solved the dilemma by trying to do both things, in the usual ambivalent muddle. He had struck—then apologized.

  “Mr. Baxter?” he called in alarm.

  Ben Baxter’s features were congested and blood drooled from a corner of his mouth. Then Brynne noticed that Baxter’s head lay at a queer angle from his body.

  “Oh…” Brynne said.

  He had served three years with the Knights Rampant. It was not the first broken neck he had seen.

  II

  On the morning of April 12, 1959, Ned Brynne awakened and washed and dressed. At 1:30 that afternoon, he had an appointment with Ben Baxter, the president of Baxter Industries. Brynne’s entire future hinged upon the outcome of that meeting. If he could get the backing of the gigantic Baxter Enterprises, and do so on favorable terms…

  Brynne was a tall, darkly handsome man of thirty-six. There was a hint of deep gentleness in his carefully bland eyes, a suggestion of uncompromising piety in his expressive mouth. His movements had the loose grace of an unself-conscious man.

  He was almost ready to leave. He tucked a prayer stick under his arm and slipped a copy of Norsted’s Guide to the Gentle Way into his pocket. He was never without that infallible guide.

  Finally he fixed to his lapel the silver moon decoration of his station. Brynne was a Restrainer, second class, of the Western Buddhist Congregation, and he allowed himself a carefully restrained pride over the fact. Some people thought him too young for lay-priestly duties. But they had to agree that Brynne carried the prerogatives and requirements of his office with a dignity quite beyond his years.

  He locked his apartment and walked to the elevator. There was a small crowd waiting, mostly Western Buddhists, but two Lamaists as well. All made way for him when the elevator came.

  “Pleasant day, Brother Brynne,” the operator said as the car started down.

  Brynne inclined his head an inch in the usual modest response to a member of the flock. He was deep in thought about Ben Baxter. But at the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the occupants of the car, a slim, beautiful, black-haired woman with a piquant golden face. Indian, Brynne thought, wondering what a woman like that was doing in his apartment building. He knew the other tenants by sight, though, of course, he would not be sufficiently immodest to recognize them.

  The elevator reached the lobby and Brynne forgot about the Indian woman. He had a lot on his mind today. There were some problems connected with Ben Baxter, problems he hoped to resolve before the meeting. He stepped outside, into a dismal gray April morning, and decided to go to the Golden Lotus Coffee Shop for a late breakfast.

  It was 10:25 am.

  “I could stay here and breathe this air forever!” said Janna Chandragore.

  Lan II smiled faintly. “Perhaps we can breathe it in our own age. How does he seem to you?”

  “Smug and over-righteous,” she said. They were following half a block behind Brynne. There was no losing Brynne’s tall, stooped figure, even in New York’s morning rush.

  “He absolutely stared at you in the elevator,” said Lan II.

  “I know.” She smiled. “He’s rather nice-looking, don’t you think?”

  Lan II raised both eyebrows, but didn’t comment. They continued to follow, noticing how the crowds parted out of respect for Brynne’s rank. Then it happened.

  Brynne, his attention turned inward, collided with a portly, florid-faced man who wore the yellow robe of a Western Buddhist priest.

  “My apologies for violating your meditation, Young Brother,” said the priest.

  “My fault entirely, Father,” Brynne said. “For it is written, ‘Youth should know its footsteps.’”

  The priest shook his head. “In youth,” he said, “resides the dream of the future; and age must make way.”

  “Age is our guide and signposts along the Way,” Brynne objected humbly but
insistently. “The writings are clear on the point.”

  “If you accept age,” said the priest, his lips tightening slightly, “then accept the dictum of age: youth must forge ahead! Kindly do not contradict me, Dear Brother.”

  Brynne, his eyes carefully bland, bowed deeply. The priest bowed in return and the men continued their separate ways.

  Brynne walked more quickly, his hands tight on his prayer stick. Just like a priest—using his age as a support for arguments in favor of youth. There were some strange contradictions in Western Buddhism, but Brynne did not care to think about them at the moment.

  He went into the Golden Lotus Coffee Shop and sat down at a table in the rear. He fingered the intricate carvings on his prayer stick and felt anger wash away from him. Almost immediately, he regained that serene and unruffled union of mind with emotions so vital to the Gende Way.

  Now was the time to think about Ben Baxter. After all, a man had to perform his temporal duties as well as his religious ones. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock. In two and a half hours, he would be in Baxter’s office and—

  “Your order, sir?” a waiter asked him.

  “A glass of water and some dried fish, if you please,” said Brynne.

  “French fries?”

  “Today is Visya. It is not allowed,” Brynne murmured softly.

  The waiter went pale, gulped, said, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” and hurried off.

  I shouldn’t have made him feel ridiculous, thought Brynne. I should simply have refused the French fries. Should I apologize to the man?

  He decided it would simply embarrass him. Resolutely Brynne put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on Ben Baxter. With Baxter’s power behind the forest area Brynne had optioned, and its potential, there was no telling—

  He became conscious of a disturbance at a nearby table. He turned and saw a golden-featured woman weeping bitterly into a tiny lace handkerchief. She was the woman he had seen earlier in his apartment building. With her was a small, wizened old man, who was trying in vain to console her.

  As the woman wept, she cast a despairing glance at Brynne. There was only one thing a Restrainer could do under the circumstances.

  He walked over to their table. “Excuse the intrusion,” he said. “I couldn’t help notice your distress. Perhaps you are strangers in the city. Can I help?”

  “We are past help!” the woman wailed.

  The old man shrugged his shoulders fatalistically.

  Brynne hesitated, then sat down at their table. “Tell me,” he begged. “No problem is unsolvable. It is written that there is a path through all jungles and a trail over the steepest mountains.”

  “Truly spoken,” the old man assented. “But sometimes the feet of Man cannot reach the trail’s end.”

  “At such times,” Brynne replied, “each helps each and the deed is done. Tell me your trouble. I will serve you in any way I can.”

  In actual fact, this was more than a Restrainer was required to do. Total service was the obligation of higher-ranking priests. But Brynne was swept away by the woman’s need and beauty, and the words were out before he could consider them.

  ‘“In the heart of a young man is strength,’” quoted the old man, “‘and a staff for weary arms.’ But tell me, sir, are you a believer in religious toleration?”

  “Absolutely!” said Brynne. “It is one of the essential tenets of Western Buddhism.”

  “Very well. Then know, sir, that my daughter Janna and I are from Lhagrama in India, where we serve the Daritria Incarnation of the Cosmic Function. We came here to America hoping to found a small temple. Unfortunately, the schismatics of the Marii Incarnation have arrived before us. My daughter must return to her home. But our lives are threatened momentarily by these Marii fanatics, who are sworn to stamp out the Daritria faith.”

  “But your lives can’t be in danger here!” Brynne exclaimed. “Not in the heart of New York.”

  “Here more than anywhere else,” said Janna. “For crowds are cloak and mask to the assassin.”

  “I shall not live long in any event,” the old man said with serene unconcern. “I must remain here and complete my work. It is so written. But I wish my daughter to return safely to her home.”

  “I won’t go without you!” Janna cried.

  “You will do as you are told!” the old man said.

  Janna looked meekly away from his steely black eyes. The old man turned to Brynne.

  “Sir, this afternoon a ship sails for India. My daughter needs a man, a strong, true man, to guide and protect her, to bring her home. My fortune must go to the man who performs this sacred duty for me.”

  “I can hardly believe this,” said Brynne, suddenly struck with doubt. “Are you sure—”

  As if in answer, the old man pulled a small chamois bag from his pocket and spilled its contents on the tablecloth. Brynne was not an expert in gems, though he had had some dealings with them as a religious-instruction officer in the Second World Jihad. Still, he was sure he recognized the true fire of ruby, sapphire, diamond, and emerald.

  “They are yours,” said the old man. “Take them to a jewelry store. When their authenticity is verified, perhaps you will believe the rest of my story. Or if these are not sufficient proof—”

  From another pocket, he pulled a thick billfold and handed it to Brynne. Opening it, Brynne saw that it was stuffed with high-denomination bills.

  “Any bank will verify their authenticity,” said the old man. “No, please, I insist. Keep it all. Believe me, it is only a portion of what I would like to bestow upon you for rendering me this sacred trust.”

  It was overwhelming. Brynne tried to remind himself that the gems could conceivably be clever fakes and the bills could be superb forgeries. But he knew they were not. They were real. And if this wealth, so casually given, was real, then didn’t the rest of the story have to be true?

  It would not be the first time a miraculous fairy-tale adventure happened in real life. Wasn’t the Book of Golden Replies filled with similar incidents?

  He looked at the beautiful, sorrowful, golden-featured woman. A great desire came over him to bring joy to those exquisite features, to make that tragic mouth smile. And in the way she looked at him, Brynne perceived more than simply the interest one gives to a protector.

  “Sir!” cried the old man. “Is it possible that you might—that you might consider—”

  “I’ll do it!” said Brynne.

  The old man clasped Brynne’s hand. Janna simply looked at him, but he had the sensation of being enfolded into a warm embrace.

  “You must leave at once,” the old man said briskly. “Come, there’s no time to lose. Even now, the enemy lurks in the shadows.”

  “But my clothes—”

  “Unimportant. I will provide you with a wardrobe.”

  “—and friends, business appointments. Wait! Hold on a minute!”

  Brynne took a deep breath. Haroun-al-Rashid adventures were all very well, but they had to be undertaken in a reasonable fashion.

  “I have a business appointment this afternoon,” Brynne said. “I must keep it. After that, I’m completely at your service.”

  “The danger to Janna is too great!” cried the old man.

  “You’ll both be perfectly safe, I assure you. You can even accompany me there. Or better yet, I’ve got a cousin on the police force. I’m sure I can arrange for a bodyguard—”

  Janna turned her beautiful sad face away from him. The old man said, “Sir, the ship sails at one p.m.—at one precisely.”

  “Those ships leave every day or so,” Brynne pointed out. “Let’s catch the next one. This appointment is very important. Crucial, you might say. I’ve worked for years to arrange it. And it’s not just me. I have a business, employees, associates. For their sake, I have to keep that appointment.”

  “Business before life,” the old man said bitterly.

  “You’ll be all right,” Brynne assure
d him. “It is written, you know, that the beast of the jungle shies from the tread—”

  “I know what is written. The word of death is painted large upon my forehead, and upon my daughter’s, unless you aid us now. She will be on the Theseus is stateroom 2A. The next stateroom, 3A, will be yours. The ship sails at one this afternoon. If you value her life, sir, you will be there.”

  The old man and his daughter stood up, paid and left, ignoring Brynne’s pleas for reason. As she went out the door, Janna turned for a moment and gazed at him.

  “Your dried fish, sir,” said the waiter. He had been hovering near waiting for a chance to serve it.

  “To hell with it!” Brynne shouted. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” he said in dismay to the shocked waiter. “No fault of yours.”

  He paid, leaving a sizable tip for the waiter, and hurried out. He had a lot of thinking to do.

  “All the energy expended on that one scene,” Lan II complained, “has probably cost me ten years of my life.”

  “You loved every minute of it,” said Janna Chandragore.

  “True, true,” Lan II admitted, nodding vigorously. He sipped a glass of wine that a steward had brought to the stateroom. “The question now is—will he give up his appointment with Baxter and come?”

  “He does seem to like me,” Janna said.

  “Which shows his excellent taste.”

  She inclined her head mockingly. “But really, that story! Was it necessary to make it so—so outrageous?”

  “Absolutely necessary. Brynne is a strong and dedicated man, but he has his romantic streak. Nothing less than a fairy tale to match his gaudiest dream could pull him from duty’s path.”

  “Perhaps even a fairy tale won’t,” Janna said thoughtfully.

  “We’ll see,” said Lan II. “Personally, I believe he will come.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You underestimate your attractiveness and acting ability, my dear. Wait and see.”

  “I have no choice,” said Janna, settling back in an arm chair.

  The desk clock read 12:42.

  Brynne decided to take a stroll along the waterfront to quiet his nerves. The sight of the great ships lying calm and steadfast in their berths never failed to soothe him. He walked steadily along, trying to reason out what had happened to him.