American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “I’d like to see it, though. Very much. I think I’d even like to live there.”

  “I do not believe you would be happy there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because non-Vegan immigrants are non-Vegan immigrants. You are not of a low caste here. I know you do not use that term, but that is what it amounts to. Your Office personnel and their families are the highest caste on this planet. Wealthy non-Office persons come next, then those who work for the wealthy non-Office persons, followed by those who make their own living from the land; then, at the bottom, are those unfortunates who inhabit the Old Places. You are at the top here. On Taler you would be at the bottom.”

  “Why must it be that way?” she asked.

  “Because you see a white flower.” I handed it back.

  There was a long silence and a cool breeze.

  “Anyhow, I’m happy you came here,” she said.

  “It is an interesting place.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “Was the man called Conrad really your lover?”

  I recoiled at the suddenness of the question.

  “It’s none of your blue business,” she said, “but the answer is yes.”

  “I can see why,” he/I said, and I felt uncomfortable and maybe something like a voyeur, or—subtlety of subtleties—one who watches a voyeur watching.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you want the strange, the powerful, the exotic; because you are never happy being where you are, what you are.”

  “That’s not true. . . . Maybe it is. Yes, he once said something like that to me. Perhaps it is true.”

  I felt very sorry for her at that moment. Then, without realizing it, as I wanted to console her in some way, I reached out and took her hand. Only it was Myshtigo’s hand that moved, and he had not willed it to move. I had.

  I was afraid suddenly. So was he, though. I could feel it.

  There was a great drunk-like, room-swimming feeling, as I felt that he felt occupied, as if he had sensed another presence within his mind.

  I wanted away quickly then, and I was back there beside my rock, but not before she’d dropped the flower and I heard her say, “Hold me!”

  Damn those pseudotelepathic wish-fulfillments! I thought. Someday I’ll stop believing that that’s all they are.

  I had seen two colors in that flower, colors for which I have no words. . . .

  I walked back toward the camp. I passed through the camp and kept on going. I reached the other end of the warning perimeter, sat down on the ground, lit a cigarette. The night was cool, the night was dark.

  Two cigarettes later I heard a voice behind me, but I did not turn.

  “‘In the Great House and in the House of Fire, on that Great Day when all the days and years are numbered, oh let my name be given back to me,’” it said.

  “Good for you,” I said softly. “Appropriate quote. I recognize the Book of the Dead when I hear it taken in vain.”

  “I wasn’t taking it in vain, just—as you said—appropriately.”

  “Good for you.”

  “On that great day when all the days and years are numbered, if they do give you back your name, then what name will it be?”

  “They won’t. I plan on being late. And what’s in a name, anyhow?”

  “Depends on the name. So try ‘Karaghiosis.’”

  “Try sitting down where I can see you. I don’t like to have people standing behind me.”

  “All right—there. So?”

  “So what?”

  “So try ‘Karaghiosis.’”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it means something. At least, it did once.”

  “Karaghiosis was a figure in the old Greek shadow shows, sort of like Punch in the European Punch and Judy plays. He was a slob and a buffoon.”

  “He was Greek, and he was subtle.”

  “Ha! He was half-coward, and he was greasy.”

  “He was also half-hero. Cunning. Somewhat gross. Sense of humor. He’d tear down a pyramid. Also, he was strong, when he wanted to be.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Because that is the name Hasan called you on the night you fought the golem.”

  “Oh . . . I see. Well, it was just an expletive, a generic term, a synonym for fool, a nickname—like if I were to call you ‘Red.’ —And now that I think of it, I wonder how you look to Myshtigo, anyhow? Vegans are blind to the color of your hair, you know?”

  “I don’t really care how I look to Vegans. Wonder how you look, though. I understand that Myshtigo’s file on you is quite thick. Says something about you being several centuries old.”

  “Doubtless an exaggeration. But you seem to know a lot about it. How thick is your file on Myshtigo?”

  “Not very, not yet.”

  “It seems that you hate him more than you hate everyone else. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a Vegan.”

  “So?”

  “I hate Vegans, is all.”

  “No, there’s more.”

  “True. —You’re quite strong, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “In fact, you’re the strongest human being I’ve ever seen. Strong enough to break the neck of a spiderbat, then fall into the bay at Piraeus and swim ashore and have breakfast.”

  “Odd example you’ve chosen.”

  “Not so, not really. Did you?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know, need to know.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry is not good enough. Talk more.”

  “Said all.”

  “No. We need Karaghiosis.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “The Radpol. Me.”

  “Why, again?”

  “Hasan is half as old as Time. Karaghiosis is older. Hasan knew him, remembered, called you ‘Karaghiosis.’ You are Karaghiosis, the killer, the defender of Earth—and we need you now. Very badly. Armageddon has come—not with a bang, but a checkbook. The Vegan must die. There is no alternative. Help us stop him.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  “Let Hasan destroy him.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What is he to you?”

  “Nothing, really. In fact, I dislike him very much. But what is he to you?”

  “Our destroyer.”

  “Then tell me why, and how, and perhaps I’ll give you a better answer.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know.”

  “Then good night. That’s all.”

  “Wait! I really do not know—but the word has come down from Taler, from the Radpol liaison there: He must die. His book is not a book, his self is not a self, but many. I do not know what this means, but our agents have never lied before. You’ve lived on Taler, you’ve lived on Bakab and a dozen other worlds. You are Karaghiosis. You know that our agents do not lie, because you are Karaghiosis and you established the spy-circuit yourself. Now you hear their words and you do not heed them. I tell you that they say he must die. He represents the end of everything we’ve fought for. They say he is a surveyor who must not be permitted to survey. You know the code. Money against Earth. More Vegan exploitation. They could not specify beyond that point.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve pledged myself to his defense. Give me a better reason and maybe I’ll give you a better answer. —And Hasan tried to kill me.”

  “He was told only to stop you, to incapacitate you so that we could destroy the Vegan.”

  “Not good enough; not good enough, no. I admit nothing. Go your ways. I will forget.”<
br />
  “No, you must help us. What is the life of one Vegan to Karaghiosis?”

  “I will not countenance his destruction without a just and specific cause. Thus far, you have shown me nothing.”

  “That’s all I have.”

  “Then good night.”

  “No. You have two profiles. From the right side you are a demigod; from the left you are a demon. One of them will help us, must help us. I don’t care which one it is.”

  “Do not try to harm the Vegan. We will protect him.”

  We sat there. She took one of my cigarettes and we sat there smoking.

  “. . . Hate you,” she said after a time. “It should be easy, but I can’t.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’ve seen you many times, swaggering in your Dress Blacks, drinking rum like water, confident of something you never share, arrogant in your strength. —You’d fight your weight in anything that moves, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not red ants or bumblebees.”

  “Do you have some master plan of which we know nothing? Tell us, and we will help you with it.”

  “It is your idea that I am Karaghiosis. I’ve explained why Hasan called me by that name. Phil knew Karaghiosis and you know Phil. Has he ever said anything about it?”

  “You know he hasn’t. He is your friend and he would not betray your confidence.”

  “Is there any other indication of identity than Hasan’s random name-calling?”

  “There is no recorded description of Karaghiosis. You were quite thorough.”

  “All right then. Go away and don’t bother me.”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  “Hasan tried to kill me.”

  “Yes; he must have thought it easier to kill you than to try keeping you out of the way. After all, he knows more about you than we do.”

  “Then why did he save me from the boadile today, along with Myshtigo?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Then forget it.”

  “No, I will tell you. —The assagai was the only thing handy. He is not yet proficient with it. He was not aiming to hit the boadile.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he was not aiming at you, either. The beast was writhing too much. He wanted to kill the Vegan, and he would simply have said that he had tried to save you both, by the only means at hand—and that there had been a terrible accident. Unfortunately, there was no terrible accident. He missed his target.”

  “Why did he not just let the boadile kill him?”

  “Because you had already gotten your hands upon the beast. He feared you might still save him. He fears your hands.”

  “That’s nice to know. Will he continue trying, even if I refuse to cooperate?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That is very unfortunate, my dear, because I will not permit it.”

  “You will not stop him. Neither will we call him off. Even though you are Karaghiosis, and hurt, and my sorrow for you overflows the horizons, Hasan will not be stopped by you or by me. He is Hasan the Assassin. He has never failed.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Yes you have. You have just failed the Radpol and the Earth, and everything that means anything.”

  “I keep my own counsel, woman. Go your ways.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “If you don’t know, then Karaghiosis is indeed the fool, the buffoon, the figure in a shadow play.”

  “A man named Thomas Carlyle once wrote of heroes and hero-worship. He too was a fool. He believed there were such creatures. Heroism is only a matter of circumstance and expediency.”

  “Ideals occasionally enter into the picture.”

  “What is an ideal? A ghost of a ghost, that’s all.”

  “Do not say these things to me, please.”

  “I must—they are true.”

  “You lie, Karaghiosis.”

  “I do not—or if I do, it is for the better, girl.”

  “I am old enough to be anyone’s grandmother but yours, so do not call me ‘girl.’ Do you know that my hair is a wig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know that I once contracted a Vegan disease—and that that is why I must wear a wig?”

  “No. I am very sorry. I did not know.”

  “When I was young, long ago, I worked at a Vegan resort. I was a pleasure girl. I have never forgotten the puffing of their horrid lungs against my body, nor the touch of their corpse-colored flesh. I hate them, Karaghiosis, in ways that only one such as you could understand—one who has hated all the great hates.”

  “I am sorry, Diane. I am so sorry that it hurts you still. But I am not yet ready to move. Do not push me.”

  “You are Karaghiosis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am satisfied—somewhat.”

  “But the Vegan will live.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Yes, we shall. Good night.”

  “Good night, Conrad.”

  And I rose, and I left her there, and I returned to my tent. Later that night she came to me. There was a rustling of the tent flap and the bedclothes, and she was there. And when I have forgotten everything else about her—the redness of her wig and the little upside-down “v” between her eyes, and the tightness of her jaws, and her clipped talk, and all her little mannerisms of gesture, and her body warm as the heart of a star, and her strange indictment of the man I once might have been, I will remember this—that she came to me when I needed her, that she was warm, soft, and that she came to me. . . .

  After breakfast the following morning I was going to seek Myshtigo, but he found me first. I was down by the river, talking with the men who would be taking charge of the felucca.

  “Conrad,” he said softly, “may I speak with you?”

  I nodded and gestured toward a gully.

  “Let’s walk up this way. I’ve finished here.”

  We walked.

  After a minute he said, “You know that on my world there are several systems of mental discipline, systems which occasionally produce extrasensory abilities. . . .”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “Most Vegans, at sometime or other, are exposed to it. Some have an aptitude along these lines. Many do not. Just about all of us, though, possess a feeling for it, a recognition of its operations.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am not telepathic myself, but I am aware that you possess this ability because you used it on me last night. I could feel it. It is quite uncommon among your people, so I had not anticipated this and I had taken no precautions to prevent it. Also, you hit me at the perfect moment. As a result, my mind was opened to you. I have to know how much you learned.”

  So there apparently had been something extrasensory connected with those sight-vision overlays. All they usually contained were what seemed the immediate perceptions of the subject, plus a peek at the thoughts and feelings that went into the words he made—and sometimes I got them wrong. Myshtigo’s question indicated that he did not know how far mine went, and I had heard that some professional Veggy psyche-stirrers could even elbow their way into the unconscious. So I decided to bluff.

  “I gather that you are not writing a simple travel book,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  “Unfortunately, I am not the only one who is aware of this,” I continued, “which places you in a bit of danger.”

  “Why?” he asked suddenly.

  “Perhaps they misunderstand,” I ventured.

  He shook his head.

  “Who are they?”

  “Sorry.”

  “But I need to know.”

  “Sorry again. If you want out, I can get you back to the Port today.”

  “No, I can’t do
that. I must go on. What am I to do?”

  “Tell me a little more about it, and I’ll make suggestions.”

  “No, you know too much already. . . .

  “Then that must be the real reason Donald Dos Santos is here,” he said quickly. “He is a moderate. The activist wing of the Radpol must have learned something of this and, as you say—misunderstood. He must know of the danger. Perhaps I should go to him . . .”

  “No,” I said quickly, “I don’t think you should. It really wouldn’t change anything. What would you tell him, anyhow?”

  A pause. Then, “I see what you mean,” he said. “The thought has also occurred to me that he might not be as moderate as I have believed. . . . If that is the case, then—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Want to go back?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Okay then, blue boy, you’re going to have to trust me. You can start by telling me more about this survey—”

  “No! I do not know how much you know and how much you do not know. It is obvious that you are trying to elicit more information, so I do not think you know very much. What I am doing is still confidential.”

  “I am trying to protect you,” I said, “therefore I want as much information as I can get.”

  “Then protect my body and let me worry about my motives and my thoughts. My mind will be closed to you in the future, so you needn’t waste your time trying to probe it.”

  I handed him an automatic.

  “I suggest you carry a weapon for the duration of the tour—to protect your motives.”

  “Very well.”

  It vanished beneath his fluttering shirt.

  Puff-puff-puff, went the Vegan.

  Damn-damn-damn, went my thoughtstrings.

  “Go get ready,” I said. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

  As I walked back toward the camp, via another route, I analyzed my own motives. A book, alone, could not make or break the Earth, the Radpol, Returnism. Even Phil’s Call of Earth had not done that, not really. But this thing of Myshtigo’s was to be more than just a book. A survey? —What could it be? A push in what direction? I did not know and I had to know. For Myshtigo could not be permitted to live if it would destroy us—and yet, I could not permit his destruction if the thing might be of any help at all. And it might.