by Keith Laumer
I pulled out a box of junk and slid the sand box in its place. Itzenca promptly lost interest and instead jumped up on the junk box which fell off the bench and scattered small objects of khaff and metal in all directions.
“Come back here, blast you,” I said, “and help me pick up this stuff.”
Itz bounded after a dull-gleaming silver object that was still rolling. I was there almost as quick as she was and grabbed up the cylinder. Suddenly the horsing around was over. This thing was somebody’s memory.
I dropped onto a bench to examine it, my Vallonian-inspired pulse pounding. “Where the heck did this come from, cat?” I said.
Itz jumped up into my lap and nosed the cylinder. I was trying to hark back to those days three years before when I had loaded the lifeboat with all the loot it would carry, for the trip back to earth.
“Listen, Itz, we’ve got to do some tall remembering. Let’s see: there was a whole rack of blanks in the memory-recharging section of the room where we found the three skeletons. Yeah, now I remember: I pulled this one out of the recorder set, which means it had been used, but not yet color-coded. I showed it to Foster when he was hunting his own trace. He didn’t realize I’d pulled it out of the machine and he thought it was an empty. But I’ll bet you somebody had his mind taped, and then left in a hurry, before the trace could be color-coded and filed.
“On the other hand, maybe it’s a blank that had just been inserted when somebody broke up the play-house…. But wasn’t there something Foster said…about when he woke up, way back when, with a pile of fresh corpses around him? He gave somebody emergency treatment and to a Vallonian that would include a complete memory-transcription…. Do you realize what I’ve got here in my hand, Itz?”
She looked up at me inquiringly.
“This is what’s left of the guy that Foster buried: his pal, Ammaerln, I think he called him. What’s inside this cylinder used to be tucked away in the skull of the ancient sinner. The guy’s not so dead after all. I’ll bet his family will pay plenty for this trace, and be grateful besides. That’ll be an ace in the hole in case I get too hungry on Vallon.”
I got up and crossed the apartment; Itz followed me out to my sleeping couch. I dropped the trace in a drawer beside Foster’s own memory.
“Wonder how Foster’s making out without his past, Itz? He claimed the one I’ve got here would only be a copy of the original stored at Okk-Hamiloth, but my briefing didn’t say anything about copying memories. He must be somebody pretty important to rate that service.”
Suddenly my eyes were riveted to the markings on Foster’s trace lying in the drawer. “’Sblood! The royal colors!” I sat down on the bed with a lurch. “Itzenca, old gal, it looks like we’ll be entering Vallonian society from the top. We’ve been consorting with a member of the Vallonian nobility!”
During the days that followed, I tried again and again to raise Foster on the communicator…without result. I wondered how I’d find him among the millions on the planet. My best bet would be to get settled down in the Vallonian environment, then start making a few inquiries.
I would play it casually: act the part of a Vallonian who had merely been travelling for a few hundred years—which wasn’t unheard of—and play my cards close to my gravy stains until I learned what the score was. With my Vallonian briefing I ought to be able to carry it off. The Vallonians might not like illegal immigrants any better than they did back home, so I’d keep my interesting foreign background to myself.
I would need a new name. I thought over several possibilities and selected “Drgon”. It was as good a Vallonian jawbreaker as any.
I canvassed the emergency wardrobe that was standard equipment on Far-Voyager lifeboats. There was everything from fur-lined parka-type suits for outings on worlds like Pluto to sheer silk one-man-air-conditioner balloon over-alls for stepping out on Venus. In amongst them was a selection of dresses reminiscent of ancient Greece. They had been the sharp style of Vallon when Foster left home. They looked comfortable. I picked one in a sober color, then got busy with the cutting and seaming unit to fit it to my frame. I didn’t plan to attract unnecessary attention with ill-fitting garments when I crossed my first Vallonians.
Itzenca watched with interest. “What the heck am I going to do with you on Vallon?” I asked her. “The only cat on the planet. You may have to put up with an iggrfn for a boy friend,” I said searching my Vallonian memory. “They’re about the nearest thing to you in size and shape…but they’re kind of objectionable, personality wise.”
I finished off my new duds, then dug through the handicrafts gear and picked out a sheet of khaffite, a copper-like Vallonian alloy that was supposed to have almost the durability of khaff without being so hard to work. There were appropriate tools in the little workshop for shaping it and adding decoration.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Itz. “You won’t go ashore shabbily clad either. You’ll be a knockout in this item.” I parked her on the workbench and sat down to my tools. I clipped out an inch-wide strip of the khaffite, shaped it in a circle, and fitted it with a slip-out catch. After a leisurely meal I spent what passed for an evening etching “ITZENCA” on the new collar with plenty of curlicues. Then I fitted it on her; she didn’t seem to mind a bit.
“There. All set to wow those Vallonians like they’ve never been wowed.” Itzenca purred.
We strolled into the observation lounge. Strange bright-hued star systems glowed far away. “We’ll be stepping out with our memories any night now,” I said.
* * * *
The proximity alarms were ringing. I watched the screen with its image of a great green world rimmed on one edge with glaring white from the distant giant sun, on the other flooded with a cool glow reflected from the blue outer planet. The trip was almost over and my confidence was beginning to fray around the edges. In a few minutes I would be stepping into an unknown world, all set to find my old pal Foster and see the sights. I didn’t have a passport, but there was no reason to anticipate trouble. All I had to do was let my natural identity take a back seat and allow my Vallonian background to do the talking. And yet….
Now Vallon spread out below us, a misty grey-green landscape, bright under the glow of the immense moonlike sister world, Cinte. I had set the landing monitor for Okk-Hamiloth, the capital city of Vallon. That was where Foster would have headed, I guessed. Maybe I could pick up the trail there.
The city was directly below: a vast network of blue-lit avenues. I hadn’t been contacted by Planetary Control. That was normal enough, however. A small vessel coming in on auto could handle itself.
A little apprehensively I ran over my lines a last time: I was Drgon, citizen of the Two Worlds, back from a longer-than-average season of far-voyaging and in need of briefing rods to bring me up to date on developments at home. I also required assignment of quarters. My tailoring was impeccable, my command of the language a little rusty from long non-use, and the only souvenirs I had to declare were a tattered native costume from my last port of call, a quaint weapon from the same, and a small animal I had taken a liking to.
* * * *
The landing ring was visible on the screen now, coming slowly up to meet us. There was a gentle shock and then absolute stillness. I watched the port cycle open; I went to it and looked out at the pale city stretching away to the hills. I took a breath of the fragrant night air spiced with a long-forgotten perfume, and the part of me that was now Vallonian ached with the inexpressible emotion of homecoming.
I started to buckle on my pistol and gather up a few belongings, then decided to wait until I’d met the welcoming committee. I whistled to Itzenca and we stepped out and down. We crossed the clipped green, luminous in the glow from the lights over the high-arched gate marking the path that curved up toward the bright-lit terraces above. There was no one in sight. Bright Cintelight showed me the gardens and walks and, when I reached the terraces, the avenues beyond…but no people. I stood by a low wall of polished marble and thought a
bout it. It was about midnight, and the nights on Vallon lasted twenty-eight hours, but there should have been some activity here. This was a busy port: scheduled vessels, private yachts, official ships, all of them came and went from Okk-Hamiloth. But not tonight.
The cat and I walked across the terrace, passed through the open arch to a refreshment lounge. The low tables and cushioned couches stood empty under the rosy light from the ceiling panels. My slippered feet whispered on the polished floor.
I stood and listened: dead silence. There wasn’t even the hum of a mosquito; all such insect pests had been killed off long ago. The lights glowed, the tables waited invitingly. How long had they waited?
I sat down at one of them and thought hard. I had made a lot of plans, but I hadn’t counted on a deserted spaceport. How was I going to ask questions about Foster if there was no one to ask?
I got up and moved on through the empty lounge, past a wide arcade, out onto a terraced lawn. A row of tall poplar-like trees made a dark wall beyond a still pool, and behind them distant towers loomed, colored lights sparkled. A broad avenue swept in a wide curve between fountains, slanted away to the hills. A hundred yards from where I stood a small vehicle was parked at the curb; I headed for it.
It was an open two-seater, low-slung, cushioned, finished in violet inlays against bright chrome. I slid into the seat, looked over the controls, while Itzenca skipped to a place beside me. There was a simple lever arrangement: a steering tiller. It looked easy. I tried a few pulls and pushes; lights blinked on the panel, the car quivered, lifted a few inches, drifted slowly across the road. I moved the tiller, twiddled things; the car moved off toward the towers. I didn’t like the controls; a wheel and a couple of foot pedals would have suited me better; but it beat walking.
* * * *
Two hours later we had cruised the city…and found nothing. It hadn’t changed from what my extra memory recalled—except that all the people were gone. The parks and boulevards were trimmed, the fountains and pools sparkled, the lights glowed…but nothing moved. The automatic dust precipitators and air filters would run forever, keeping things clean and neat; but there was no one there to appreciate it. I pulled over, sat watching the play of colored lights on a waterfall, and considered. Maybe I’d find more of a clue inside one of the buildings. I left the car and picked one at random: a tall slab of pink crystal. Inside, I looked around at a great airy cavern full of rose-colored light and listened to the purring of the cat and my own breathing. There was nothing else to hear.
I picked a random corridor, went along it, passed through empty rooms. It was all in the old Vallonian style: walls paneled in jade, brocades hangings in iridescent colors, rugs like pools of fire. In one chamber I picked up a cloak of semi-velvet and put it over my shoulders; I was getting cold in my daytime street dress. Walking among the tangible ghosts of the long past didn’t warm me up any. We climbed a wide spiral stair, passed from vacant room to vacant room. I thought of the people who had once used them. Where were they now?
I found a clarinet-like musical instrument and blew a few notes on it. It had a deep mellow tone that echoed along the deserted corridor. I thought it sounded a lot like I felt: sad and forgotten. I went out onto a lofty terrace overlooking gardens, leaned on a balustrade, and looked up at the brilliant disc of Cinte. It loomed enormous, its diameter four times that of the earthly moon.
“We’ve come a long way to find nothing,” I said to Itzenca. She pushed her way along my leg and flexed her tail in a gesture meant to console. But it didn’t help. After the long wait, the tension of expectation, I felt suddenly as empty as the silent halls of the building.
I sat on the balustrade and leaned back against the polished pink wall, took out the clarinet and blew some blue notes. That which once had been was no more; remembering it, I played the Pavane for a Dead Princess, and felt a forlorn nostalgia for a glory I had never known….
I finished and looked up at a sound. Four tall men in grey cloaks and a glitter of steel came toward me from the shadows.
* * * *
I had dropped the clarinet and was on my feet. I tried to back up but the balustrade stopped me. The four spread out. The man in the lead fingered a wicked-looking short club and spoke to me—in gibberish. I blinked at him and tried to think of a snappy comeback.
He snapped his fingers and two of the others came up; they reached for my arms. I started to square off, fist cocked, then relaxed; after all, I was just a tourist, Drgon by name. Unfortunately, before I could get my fist back, the man with the club swung it and caught me across the forearm. I yelled, jumped back, found myself grappled by the others. My arm felt dead to the shoulder. I tried a kick and regretted that too; there was armor under the cloaks. The club wielder said something and pointed at the cat….
It was time I wised up. I relaxed, tried to coax my alter ego into the foreground. I listened to the rhythm of the language: it was Vallonian, badly warped by time, but I could understand it:
“——musician would be an Owner!” one of them said.
Laughter.
“Whose man are you, piper? What are your colors?”
I curled my tongue, tried to shape it around the sort of syllables I heard them uttering; it seemed to me a gross debasement of the Vallonian I knew. Still I managed an answer:
“I…am a…citizen…of Vallon.”
“A dog of a masterless renegade?” The man with the club hefted it, glowered at me. “And what wretched dialect is that you speak?”
“I have…been long a-voyaging,” I stuttered. “I ask…for briefing rods…and for a…dwelling place.”
“A dwelling place you’ll have,” the man said. “In the men’s shed at Rath-Gallion.” He gestured, and handcuffs snapped on my wrists.
He turned and stalked away, and the others hustled me after him. Over my shoulder I got a glimpse of a cat’s tail disappearing over the balustrade. Outside, a long grey air-car waited on the lawn. They dumped me in the back seat, climbed aboard. I got a last look at the spires of Okk-Hamiloth as we tilted, hurtled away across the low hills.
Somewhere in the shuffle I had lost my new cloak. I shivered. I listened to the talk, and what I heard didn’t make me feel any better. The chain between my wrists kept up a faint jingling. I gathered I’d be hearing a lot of that kind of music from now on. I had had an idealistic notion of wanting to fit into this new world, find a place in its society. I’d found a place all right: a job with security.
I was a slave.
CHAPTER XIV
It was banquet night at Rath-Gallion, and I gulped my soup in the kitchen and ran over in my mind the latest batch of jingles I was expected to perform. I had only been on the Estate a few weeks, but I was already Owner Gope’s favorite piper. If I kept on at this rate, I would soon have a cell to myself in the slave pens.
Sime, the pastry cook, came over to me.
“Pipe us a merry tune, Drgon,” he said, “and I’ll reward you with a frosting pot.”
“With pleasure, good Sime,” I said. I finished off the soup and got out my clarinet. I had tried out half a dozen strange instruments, but I still liked this one best. “What’s your pleasure?”
“One of the outland tunes you learned far-voyaging,” called Cagu, the bodyguard.
I complied with the Beer Barrel Polka. They pounded the table and hallooed when I finished, and I got my goody pan. Sime stood watching me scrape at it.
“Why don’t you claim the Chief Piper’s place, Drgon?” Sime said. “You pipe rings around the lout. Then you’d have freeman status, and could sit among us in the kitchen almost as an equal.”
I went after the last of the chocilla frosting, licked my fingers, and laid the pot aside.
“I’d gladly be the equal of such a pastry cook as yourself, good Sime,” I said. “But what can a slave-piper do?”
Sime blinked at me. “You can challenge the Chief Piper,” he said. “There’s none can deny you’re his master in all but name. Don’t fear the
outcome of the Trial; you’ll triumph sure.” He glanced around at the kitchen staff. “Is it not so, goodmen?”
“I’ll warrant it,” the soup-master said. “If you lose, I’ll take your stripes for you.”
“You’re going too fast for me, goodmen,” I said. “How can I claim another’s place?”
Sime waved his arms. “You have far-voyaged long indeed, Piper Drgon. Know you naught of how the world wags these days? One would take you for a Cintean heretic.”
“As I’ve said, goodmen: in my youth all men were free; and the High King ruled at Okk-Hamiloth——”
“’Tis ill to speak of these things,” said Sime in a low tone. “Only Owners know their former lives…though I’ve heard it said that long ago no man was so mean but that he recorded his lives and kept them safe. How you came by yours, I ask not; but do not speak of it. Owner Gope is a jealous master. Though a most generous and worshipful lord,” he added hastily, looking around.
“I won’t speak of it then, good Sime,” I said. “But I have been long away. Even the language has changed, so that I wrench my tongue in the speaking of it. Advise me, if you will.”
Sime puffed out his cheeks, frowning at me. “I scarce know where to start,” he said. “All things belong to the Owners…as is only right.” He looked around for confirmation. The others nodded. “Men of low skill are likewise property; and ’tis well ’tis so; else would they starve as masterless strays…if the Greymen failed to find them first.” He made a sign and spat. So did everybody else.
“Now men of good skill are freemen, each earning rewards as befits his ability. I am Chief Pastry Cook to the Lord Gope, with the perquisites of that station, therefore that none other equals my talents.” He looked around truculently, saw no challengers. “And thus it is with us all.”
“And if some varlet claims the place of any man here,” put in Cagu, “then he gotta submit to the Trial.”
“Then,” said Sime, pulling at his apron agitatedly, “this upstart pastry cook must cook against me; and all in the Hall will judge; and he who prevails is the Chief Pastry Cook, and the other takes a dozen lashes for his impertinence.”