Another World

by Gardner Duzois

  “Yes, sir,” said the bellhop despairingly.

  The house phone rang. Vane crossed the room and thumbed the key down, watching the bellhop from the corner of his eye. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Vane,” said the voice of the desk clerk, “if I may ask, did the refreshments you ordered arrive?”

  “The bottle came,” Vane answered. “Why?”

  The bellhop was listening, balling his fists on his knees. Sweat stood out on his brown forehead.

  “Oh nothing really, Mr. Vane,” said the clerk’s voice, “only the boy did not come back. He is usually very reliable, Mr. Vane. But excuse me for troubling you.”

  “All right,” said Vane stonily, and turned the phone off. He came back to the jar. He swayed a little, rocking back and forth from heels to toes. In one hand he had the highball glass; with the other he was playing with the little osmiridium knife that hung by an expanding chain from his lapel. After a while he said, “Why didn’t you call for help?”

  The bellhop did not answer. Vane went on softly, “Those hotel phones will pick up a voice across the room, I know. So why were you so quiet?”

  The bellhop said unhappily, “If I did yell, sir, they would find me in this jar.”

  “And so?”

  The bellhop grimaced. “There’s some other people that still believe in Maracks, sir. I have to be careful, with my eyes. They would know there could only be the one reason why you would treat me like this.”

  Vane studied him for a moment. “And you’d take a chance on the air weed, and the bay, just to keep anyone from finding out?”

  “It’s a long time since we had any Marack hunts on this planet, sir.”

  Vane snorted softly. He glanced up at the wall clock. “Forty minutes,” he said, and went back to his chair by the door.

  The bellhop said nothing. The room was silent except for the faint whir of the clock. After a while Vane moved to the writing desk. He put a printed customs declaration form in the machine and began tapping keys slowly, muttering over the complicated Interstellar symbols.

  “Sir,” said the bellhop quietly, “you know you can’t kill a biped person and just get away. This is not like the bad old times.”

  Vane grunted, tapping keys. “Think not?” He took a sip from his highball and set it down again with a clink of ice.

  “Even if they find out you have mistreated the headman upcountry, sir, they will be very severe.”

  “They won’t find out,” Vane said. “Not from him.”

  “Sir, even if I could make you your diamond, it would only be worth a few thousand stellors. That is nothing to a man like you.”

  Vane paused and half turned. “Flawless, that weight, it would be worth a hundred thousand. But I’m not going to sell it.” He turned back to the machine, finished a line, and started another.

  “No, sir?”

  “No. I’m going to keep it.” Vane’s eyes half closed; his fingers poised motionless on the keys. He seemed to come to himself with a start, hit another key, and rolled the paper out of the machine. He picked up an envelope and rose, looking over the paper in his hand.

  “Just to keep it, sir, and look at it now and then?” the bellhop asked softly. Sweat was running down into his eyes, but he kept his fists motionless on his knees.

  “That’s it,” said Vane with the same faraway look. He folded the paper slowly and put it into the envelope as he walked toward the message chute near the door. At the last moment he checked himself, snapped the paper open again and stared at it. A slow flush came to his cheeks. Crumpling the paper slowly in his hands, he said, “That almost worked.” He tore the paper across deliberately, and then again, and again, before he threw the pieces away.

  “Just one symbol in the wrong box,” he said, “but it was the right wrong symbol. I’ll tell you where you made your mistake though, boy.” He came closer.

  “I don’t understand,” said the bellhop.

  “You thought if you could get me to thinking about that diamond, my mind would wander. It did—but I knew what was happening. Here’s where you made your mistake. I don’t give a damn about that diamond.”

  “Sir?” said the bellhop in bewilderment.

  “A stellor to you is a new pair of pants. A stellor to me, or a thousand stellors is just a poker chip. It’s the game that counts. The excitement.”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

  Vane snorted. “You know, all right. You’re getting a little dangerous now, aren’t you? You’re cornered, and the time’s running out. So you took a little risk.” He stooped, picked up one of the scraps of paper, unfolded it and smoothed it out. “Right here, in the box where the loyalty oath to the Archon is supposed to go, I wrote the symbol for ‘pig.’ If I sent that down, the thought police would be up here in fifteen minutes.” He balled up the paper again, into an even smaller wad, and dropped it on the carpet. “Think you can make me forget to pick that up again and burn it, before I leave?” he said amiably. “Try.”

  The bellhop swallowed hard. “Sir, you did that yourself. You made a slip of the finger.”

  Vane smiled at him for the first time, and walked away.

  The bellhop put his back against the wall of the jar and pushed with all his strength against the opposite side. He pushed until the muscles of his back stood out in knotted ropes. The pottery walls were as solid as rock.

  He was sweating more than ever. He relaxed, breathing hard; he rested his head on his knees and tried to think. The bellhop had heard of bad Earthmen before, but he had never seen one like this.

  He straightened up. “Sir, are you still there?”

  The chair creaked and Vane came over, glass in hand.

  “Sir,” said the bellhop earnestly, “if I can prove to you that I’m really not a Marack, will you let me go? I mean, you’ll have to let me go then, won’t you?”

  “Why, certainly,” said Vane agreeably. “Go ahead and prove it.”

  “Well, sir, haven’t you heard other things about the Marack—some other test?”

  Vane looked thoughtful; he put his chin down on his chest and his eyes filmed over.

  “About what they can or can’t do?” the bellhop suggested. “If I tell you, sir, you might think I made it up.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Vane. He was swaying slightly, back and forth, his eyes half closed. His string tie was still perfectly tied, his striped moth-wing jacket immaculate. He said. “I remember something. The Marack hunters used this a good deal, I understand. Maracks can’t stand liquor. It makes them sick.”

  “You’re positive about that, sir?” the bellhop said eagerly.

  “Of course I’m positive. It’s like poison to a Marack.”

  “All right then, sir!”

  Vane nodded, and went to the table to get the bottle of Ten Star. It was still two-thirds full. He came back with it and said, “Open your mouth.”

  The bellhop opened his mouth wide and shut his eyes. He did not like Earth liquor, especially brandy, but he thought he could drink it if it would get him out of this jar.

  The liquor hit his teeth and the back of his mouth in one solid splash; it poured down both cheeks and some of it ran up his nose. The bellhop choked and strangled. The liquor burned all the way down his throat and windpipe; tears blinded him; he couldn’t breathe. When the paroxysm was over, he gasped, “Sir—sir—that wasn’t a fair test. You shouldn’t have poured it on me like that. Give me a little bit, in a glass.”

  “Now, I want to be fair,” said Vane. “We’ll try it again.” He found an empty glass, poured two fingers of brandy into it, and came back. “Easy does it,” he said, and trickled a little into the bellhop’s mouth.

  The bellhop swallowed, his head swimming in brandy fumes. “Once more,” said Vane, and poured again. The bellhop swallowed. The liquor was gathering in a ball of heat inside him. “Again.” He swallowed.

  Vane stood back. The bellhop opened his eyes and looked blissfully up at him. “You see, sir? No sickness
. I drank it, and I’m not sick!”

  “Hmm,” said Vane with an interested expression. “Well, imagine that. Maracks can drink liquor.”

  The bellhop’s victorious smile slowly faded. He looked incredulous. “Sir, don’t joke with me,” he said.

  Vane sniffed. “If you think it’s a joke—” he said with heavy humor.

  “Sir, you promised.”

  “Oh, no. By no means,” said Vane. “I said if you could prove to me that you are not a Marack. Go ahead, prove it. Here’s another little test for you, incidentally. An anatomist I know looked at that skeleton and told me it was constricted at the shoulders. A Marack can’t lift his hand higher than his head. So begin by telling me why you stood on a chair to get my bundle down—or better yet, just put your arm out the neck of that jar.”

  There was a silence. Vane took another cigar out of the green-lizard case, cut it with the little osmiridium knife, and lit it without taking his eyes off the bellhop. “Now you’re getting dangerous again,” he said. “You’re thinking it over, down there. This begins to get interesting. You’re wondering how you can kill me from inside that jar, without using your Marack powers. Go ahead. Think about it.”

  He breathed smoke, leaning toward the jar. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  Working without haste, Vane rolled up all the blankets and other souvenirs and strapped them into bundles. He removed some toilet articles from the dresser and packed them away in his grip. He took a last look around the room, saw the paper scraps on the floor and picked up the tiny pellet he had made of one of them. He showed it to the bellhop with a grin, then dropped it into the ash-receiver and burned it. He sat down comfortably in the chair near the door. “Five minutes,” he said.

  “Four minutes,” he said.

  “Three minutes.

  “Two minutes.”

  “All right,” said the bellhop.

  “Yes?” Vane got up and stood over the jar.

  “I’ll do it—make the diamond.”

  “Ahh?” said Vane, half questioningly. He picked up the lump of graphite and held it out.

  “I don’t need to touch it,” the bellhop said listlessly. “Just put it down on the table. This will take about a minute.”

  “Umm,” said Vane, watching him keenly. The bellhop was crouched in the jar, eyes closed; all Vane could see of him was the glossy green-black top of his head.

  His voice was muffled. “If you just hadn’t had that air weed,” he said sullenly.

  Vane snorted. “I didn’t need the air weed. I could have taken care of you in a dozen ways. This knife”—he held it up—“has a molar steel blade. Cut through anything, like cheese. I could have minced you up and floated you down the drain.”

  The bellhop’s face turned up, pale and wide-eyed.

  “No time for that now, though,” Vane said. “It would have to be the air weed.”

  “Is that how you’re going to get me loose, afterward?” the bellhop asked. “Cut the jar, with that knife?”

  “Mm? Oh, certainly,” said Vane, watching the graphite lump. Was there a change in its appearance, or not?

  “I’m disappointed, in a way,” he said. “I thought you’d give me a fight. You Maracks are overrated, I suppose.”

  “It’s all done,” said the bellhop. “Take it, please, and let me out.”

  Vane’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t look done to me,” he said.

  “It just looks black on the outside, sir. Just rub it off.”

  Vane did not move.

  “Go ahead, sir,” said the bellhop urgently. “Pick it up and see.”

  “You’re a little too eager,” Vane said. He took a fountain pen out of his pocket and used it to prod the graphite gingerly. Nothing happened; the lump moved freely across the tabletop. Vane touched it briefly with one finger, then picked it up in his hand. “No tricks?” he said quizzically. He felt the lump, weighed it, put it down again. There were black graphite smears in his palm.

  Vane opened his lapel knife and cut the graphite lump down the middle. It fell into two shiny black pieces. “Graphite,” said Vane, and with an angry gesture he struck the knife blade into the table.

  He turned to the bellhop, dusting off his hands. “I don’t get you,” he said, prodding the oval bundle of the air weed experimentally. He picked it up. “All you did was stall. You won’t fight like a Marack, you won’t give in like a Marack. All you’ll do is die like a Meng-boy, right?” He shook his head. “Disappointing.” The dry wrappings came apart in his hands. Between the fibers a dirty-white bulge began to show.

  Vane lifted the package to drop it into the jar, and saw that the bellhop’s scared face filled the opening. While he hesitated briefly, the gray-white floss of the air weed foamed slowly out over the back of his hand. Vane felt a constriction, and instinctively tried to drop the bundle. He couldn’t. The growing, billowing floss was sticky—it stuck to his hand. Then his sleeve. It grew, slowly but with a horrifying steadiness.

  Gray-faced, Vane whipped his arm around, trying to shake off the weed. Like thick lather, the floss spattered downward but did not separate. A glob of it hit his trouser leg and clung. Another, swelling, dripped down to the carpet. His whole right arm and side were covered deep under a mound of white. The floss had now stopped growing and seemed to be stiffening.

  The bellhop began to rock himself back and forth inside the jar. The jar tipped, then fell back. The bellhop rocked harder. The jar was inching its way across the carpet.

  After a few moments the bellhop paused to put his face up and see which way he was going. Vane, held fast by the weed, was leaning toward the table, straining hard, reaching with his one free hand toward the knife he had put there. The carpet bulged after him in a low mound, but too much furniture was holding it.

  The bellhop lowered his head and rocked the jar again, harder. When he looked up, Vane’s eyes were closed tight, his face red with effort. He was extended as far as he could reach across the table, but his fingers were still clawing air an inch short of the knife. The bellhop rocked hard. The jar inched forward, came to rest solidly against the table, pinning Vane’s arm against it by the flaring sleeve.

  The bellhop relaxed and looked up. Feeling himself caught, the Earthman had stopped struggling and was looking down. He tugged, but could not pull the sleeve free.

  Neither spoke for a moment.

  “Stalemate,” said Vane heavily. He showed his teeth to the bellhop. “Close, but no prize. I can’t get at you, and you can’t hurt me.”

  The bellhop’s head bowed as if in assent. After a moment his long arm came snaking up out of the jar. His fingers closed around the deadly little knife.

  “A Marack can lift his arm higher than his head, sir,” he said.

  OLD

  HUNDREDTH

  Brian W. Aldiss

  “Old Hundredth” depicts a muted, autumnal future, full of echoes and old ghosts: an ancient and ruinous Earth from which humankind has forever departed, inherited now by dolphins and sloths and mutated baluchitheriums; a strange world of Involutes and Impures and musicolumns, with Venus for a moon, and hogs as big as hippos; a world of stately, living music under dusty umbrella trees.

  Hugo- and Nebula-winner Brian W. Aldiss has gained an international reputation as a novelist, editor, and critic, and “Old Hundredth” is Aldiss at his most vivid and evocative.

  THE ROAD climbed dustily down between trees as symmetrical as umbrellas. Its length was punctuated at one point by a musicolumn standing on the sandy verge. From a distance, the column was only a faint stain in the air. As sentient creatures neared it, their psyches activated it, it drew on their vitalities, and then it could be heard as well as seen. Their presence made it flower into pleasant noise, instrumental or chant.

  All this region was called Ghinomon, for nobody lived here any more, not even the odd hermit Impure. It was given over to grass and the weight of time. Only a few wild goats activated the musicolumn nowadays, or a scampering vole wrung
a brief chord from it in passing.

  When old Dandi Lashadusa came riding down that dusty road on her baluchitherium, the column began to intone. It was just an indigo trace on the air, hardly visible, for it represented only a bonded pattern of music locked into the fabric of that particular area of space. It was also a transubstantio-spatial shrine, the eternal part of a being that had dematerialized itself into music.

  The baluchitherium whinnied, lowered its head, and sneezed onto the gritty road.

  “Gently, Lass,” Dandi told her mare, savouring the growth of the chords that increased in volume as she approached. Her long nose twitched with pleasure as if she could feel the melody along her olfactory nerves.

  Obediently, the baluchitherium slowed, turning aside to crop fern, although it kept an eye on the indigo stain. It liked things to have being or not to have being; these half-and-half objects disturbed it, though they could not impair its immense appetite.

  Dandi climbed down her ladder onto the ground, glad to feel the ancient dust under her feet. She smoothed her hair and stretched as she listened to the music.

  She spoke aloud to her mentor, half the world away, but he was not listening. His mind closed to her thoughts, he muttered an obscure exposition that darkened what it sought to clarify.

  “. . . useless to deny that it is well-nigh impossible to improve anything, however faulty, that has so much tradition behind it. And the origins of your bit of metricism are indeed embedded in such a fearful antiquity that we must needs—”

  “Tush, Mentor, come out of your black box and forget your hatred of my ‘metricism’ a moment,” Dandi Lashadusa said, cutting her thought into his. “Listen to the bit of ‘metricism’ I’ve found here, look at where I have come to, let your argument rest.”