Collected Short Fiction, page 462
Nearly an hour passed. Finally, Westly grew impatient. He thought of waking the reptiles up and rejected that idea. Instead, he decided to take a little stroll—prudently arming himself with one of the discarded swords.
Cautiously he walked through a fern-thick glade heavy with moisture. The forest was totally silent. It was as if this entire world lay down to sleep at mid day.
A hundred yards deeper into the forest he came upon an interesting sight—10 of the lizard-men, sprawled in a haphazard group like Stollseq’s men. And, like Stollseq’s men, they were thoroughly asleep.
A grim idea formed in Westly’s mind. Slowly, with great care, he tightened his grip on his borrowed weapon and swung it aloft.
He brought the gleaming blade swishing down on the exposed throat of one of the sleeping reptiles. The machete parted the scaly throat with ease; the reptile quivered once and was still. That was one lizard, thought Westly, that would live to take no more midday sleeps.
Quickly, with cold-blooded efficiency, he proceeded through the group, hacking with sharp two-handed blows. Nine alien corpses lay in the forest.
He approached the tenth sleeper, the lone survivor, and taking care that the reptile had no way of reaching a weapon, nudged the creature with the toe of his foot. The reptile stirred uneasily, rolled over, refused to awaken. Westly kicked it.
This time it awoke—slowly, with little comprehension of anything around it.
Westly said, “get up and come with me.”
The alien’s eyes flashed as it took in the sight of its nine dead comrades. Without replying it lashed out with its fearsome tail. But Westly was prepared.
He sidestepped the killing blow neatly and struck a heavy one of his own with the flat of his sword against the reptilian skull. The alien staggered.
“The next swing takes your head off,” Westly said. “Come with me and watch what you do with your tail.”
“Who . . . what are you?” the thoroughly frightened reptile asked. “What sort of demon is awake during the midday sleep?”
“I’m a recruiting officer for Decalon Stollseq. He needs a man to fill out his complement—and you’re elected. Come along.”
He led the reptile back through the thick glade to where Stollseq and his men lay, still asleep. He nudged Stollseq heavily with his shoe.
The reptile leader was awake instantly and grasping for his sword. Westly leaped back hastily and said, “Not so fast, Stollseq!”
“Why do you disturb me?”
Westly gestured to his captive. “I bring you the tenth member of your squadron. Since I’m not good enough to make the grade myself, I went out and found you your man.”
Stollseq glanced at the other. “Who are you, and where are you from?”
“Kulnok, of Decalon Thorswid’s squadron.”
“And where is Decalon Thorswid?” Stollseq demanded.
“Dead, with all his men but this,” Westly said. “I encountered them over yonder hill.” Westly held his breath. Here was where he might have miscalculated. Perhaps the dead decalon was an ally of Stollseq’s; perhaps Stollseq would kill Westly to prevent the same thing from happening to his group as had happened to Thorswid’s.
But there was unconcealed admiration in Stollseq’s eyes. “You have done well, pink one.” He turned to the captive. “Will you enter our group, and serve me loyalty?”
“I will,” Kulnok swore.
IT WAS THE first step upward, Westly thought, as they continued to the forest. He had begun to demonstrate his usefulness to Stollseq and the reptiles treated him with new respect.
From their conversation Westly learned a little about the world he was in. The reptiles were dominant—there seemed to be no mammalian life whatsoever. They were chiefly warriors, divided into independent groups of 10 ranging through the woods doing battle.
There was no government, or organized society. It was a purely cold-blooded civilization. Westly did not relish spending the rest of his life here. This was a world for someone like Murdoch, he thought—a ruthless, conscienceless man who could claw his way to the top and enjoy the process. Westly had not enjoyed killing nine sleepers but it had been necessary. Murdoch would have gloried in it.
But Murdoch was back in 1979, probably consoling Westly’s weeping ex-fiance at this very moment. And Westly was—where?
At nightfall he found out one thing: he hadn’t gone in the direction the Holstein equations foretold. That was when the three moons rose in the sky.
They were small moons and seemed not too distant. One was smooth-faced and bright; the other two were smaller, pitted and ragged, and had a retrograde motion. Startled, Westly watched them spiralling across the black curtain of the sky.
There were constellations, too. None that he had ever seen before. The universe had a different shape.
A sudden wild thought grew in him. Earth did not have three moons. Tt never had three moons nor was it ever likely to have three moons. He was, then, not on Earth—past, present, or future.
Suppose, he thought excitedly, the time-space distorter had thrust him not longitudinally but laterally. Sidewise. Into another continuum, another fourspace, another and parallel universe. It was far-fetched but in view of the evidence, conceivable.
And that meant there was a way back.
Equations showed conclusively that the time-flow was irreversible; there was no way back from the future. But those equations did not necessarily hold in this situation. He had gotten here.
Why could he not return?
Suddenly, the Gateway to Elsewhere took on massive importance for him. He began asking questions.
“This Gateway you seek,” he said to Stollseq. “What is it?”
The reptile leader said, “It is a brightness that leads to other places. It exists to the north, at the peak of a mighty mountain. Those who control it control the world.”
“How?”
“They enter its field—and it takes them anywhere by power of thought. No walls are closed to them, no ocean too wide.”
Westly’s pulse pounded. “This Gateway, then—it offers unlimited power to those who hold it. How can you hope to defeat them?”
The reptile gave his version of a smile. “Those who now hold sway grow fat and lazy. I think we can overthrow them. I know it, pink one!”
NIGHTFALL but no darkness.
The cold light of three moons lit the forest—and one other light.
It glimmered brightly ahead, a gleaming pyre deep in the forest, shining high on a bare purple crest of a swelling mountain.
“There it is,” Stollseq breathed. “The Gateway!”
The 10 reptiles gathered in a tense little group in the forest, Westly with them. In urgent whispers Stollseq sketched out his strategy.
“We advance from 10 different points; each man cuts down the man in his way. We converge on the Gateway. The pink one, then, draws near and catches the attention of the guardians of the Gateway. While they pursue him we strike—and the Gateway is ours!”
Stollseq dispersed his men in all directions. “You come with me,” he said to Westly.
Together, they plunged into the forest.
It was a hard trek up the side of the mountain. Westly’s laboratory-softened muscles complained but he forced himself to keep pace with the tireless reptile leader. Halfway up, in a copse of thick-boled red trees, they came across the first of the enemy scouts.
He was standing against a tree. Stollseq saw him first and nudged Westly. “There,” he said.
Westly squinted into the dim darkness. “I don’t see anything,” he said.
But Stollseq had already gone into action.
The reptile plunged forward, sword flashing, and brought the startled enemy to immediate attention. Stollseq aimed a vicious blow at the side of the other’s throat. It was parried. Swords rang in the forest.
Westly edged back, out of sight. Weaponless, he would stand little chance if Stollseq fell.
Stollseq had little thought of falling, though. The burly reptile hewed his way forward, putting on a dazzling display of swordsmanship. Finally lie thrust his blade deep into the other’s throat. Fluid bubbled forth.
“Come on,” Stollseq grunted. “Let’s get moving.”
They reached the peak of the mountain about 15 minutes later. Westly glanced ahead curiously. It had been a bold stroke of luck that had brought him this far; it would take even more luck to get him back to his own world again. But he knew his driving hatred of John Murdoch would carry him a long way.
The Gateway flickered and flared. The night was quiet. Stollseq said, “There are three guardians of the Gateway itself. We’ve disposed of all the others. If the guardians ever get into the Gateway we’re all dead men—but if you can distract them long enough for us to get into position everything will be fine.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Without fear he stepped out of the forest and strode toward the Gateway.
Three of the reptilian creatures squatted before the mouth of the cave from whence came the light. In the eerie glow of the Gateway their swords shone brilliantly.
“Greetings, Guardians!”
They stared at him. “What are you, pink one?”
“I come from afar—from a world called Earth. I bring a gift for you—a gift of infinite value, of power greater than your Gateway!”
It was sheer bluff, all the way. He fumbled in his breast pocket and was relieved to find his cigarette lighter still there. Drawing it out he cupped it in his hands, pressed down the top, and let the little flame flicker for a moment before extinguishing it.
“Magic!” breathed one of the reptiles.
“Sorcery,” said Westly. “I bring this gift for you. Which of you three is worthy of it?”
“I!” the three said at once.
“You all speak,” said Westly. “Which outdoes the rest in valor?”
“I,” yelled a broad-snouted one. “I’ll take that fire-maker away from you, pink one!” He rose from his squatting position and came charging out of the cave mouth toward Westly.
The Earthman sidestepped nimbly—and saw that the other two Guardians were not to be outdone. They, too, were coming forth in quest of the magic fire-maker.
He glanced quickly in both directions. It was working; he was drawing the reptiles away from the cavemouth. If only Stollseq and his men would attack in time!
Suddenly shouts filled the air. Swords waved. Westly tossed his cigarette lighter high overhead and as the three confused Guardians charged for it, Stollseq’s squadron swept down over them. Swords rang; cries of pain and anger could be heard.
But Westly did not stay to see the outcome of the battle. He dashed inside the cave.
The Gateway flared brilliantly before him. It was but an unbearably bright hole in space, a fault in the time-space matrix perhaps. He stood hesitantly before it, peering at its radiance.
Suddenly he heard a shout behind him.
“Ho, pink one! Would you use the Gateway yourself, and steal what we have won?”
It was Stollseq.
There was no choice now. Westly glanced at the advancing reptile, then leaped forward.
He felt the warm radiance lick about him, without causing pain. At the last moment he thought, Earth. 1979. He visualized his laboratory . . .
“WESTLY! YOU’RE BACK!”
The gasp escaped Murdoch almost involuntarily. Westly experienced one blinding moment of disorientation and then saw he had indeed crossed the dimensional gulf. He had returned from nowhere to the lab.
And it seemed as if no time at all had elapsed. The wall clock showed 10:30; it had been past 10 when he entered the lab and encountered Murdoch. The two universes evidently had different time-rates.
“Yes. I’m back,” Westly said. He crossed the lab in a few quick bounds and, before Murdoch could get out the gun, he had knocked the lean man sprawling.
“I’ll take the gun,” Westly said.
He did.
Murdoch smiled evenly. “What’s the meaning of this sudden attack, Lee? Why’d you jump on me?”
“Don’t try to brazen out of it!”
“Out of what? I was standing here minding my own business. You don’t have any proof of what happened, do you? It’s just your word against mine!”
Startled, Westly realized that was so. No one would believe his wild story. Arid the forged records would show that Murdoch was on duty tonight and Westly an interloper.
“All right,” Westly said. “You’ve got me there. But I can still take it out on you in other ways!” He advanced on Murdoch, fists clenched. This was going to be fun.
But Murdoch suddenly charged around him and made a wild dash past—
Right into a glowing oval of light.
There was a scream and that was all. Westly watched as the Gateway, which had been open, faded.
His scientist’s mind realized what had happened: the Gateway required balancing. Once it was opened it would not close again until an equivalent mass had travelled back through it. Murdoch’s blind dash had taken him back through the Gateway. Now it was closed.
Westly smiled. Stollseq would be surprised to see the “pink one” return—but the reptile leader would probably make sure the pink one played no more treacherous games. Probably Stollseq would not be able to distinguish Murdoch from Westly.
Poor Murdoch, Westly thought.
He realized he was dead tired, hungry, and had a two-day beard. His once-neat lab outfit hung in tatters. Wearily he picked up the lab phone and dialed Katherine’s number. He had quite a story to tell her.
THE END
Spacerogue
The proteus could change its shape to anything at all—and Herndon discovered it made a perfect red herring!
CHAPTER I
THEY WERE selling a proteus in the public auctionplace at Borlaam, when the stranger wandered by. The stranger’s name was Barr Herndon, and he was a tall man, with a proud, lonely face. It was not the face he had been born with, though his own had been equally proud, equally lonely.
He shouldered his way through the crowd. It was a warm and muggy day and a number of idling passersby had stopped to watch the auction. The auctioneer was an Agozlid, squat and bullvoiced, and he held the squirming proteus at arm’s length, squeezing it to make it perform.
“Observe, ladies and gentlemen—observe the shapes, the multitude of strange and exciting forms!”
The proteus now had the shape of an eight-limbed star, blue-green at its core, fiery-red in each limb. Under the auctioneer’s merciless prodding it began to change, slowly, as its molecules lost their hold on one another and sought a new conformation.
A snake, a tree, a hooded deathworm—
The Agozlid grinned triumphantly at the crowd, baring fifty inch-long yellow teeth. “What am I bid?” he demanded in the guttural Borlaamese language. “Who wants this creature from another sun’s world?”
“Five stellors,” said a bright-painted Borlaamese noblewoman down front.
“Five stellors! Ridiculous, milady. Who’ll begin with fifty? A hundred?”
Barr Herndon squinted for a better view. He had seen proteus lifeforms before, and knew something of them. They were strange, tormented creatures, living in agony from the moment they left their native world. Their flesh flowed endlessly from shape to shape, and each change was like the wrenching-apart of limbs by the rack.
“Fifty stellors,” chuckled a member of the court of Seigneur Krellig, absolute ruler of the vast world of Borlaam. “Fifty for the proteus.”
“Who’ll say seventy-five?” pleaded the Agozlid. “I brought this being here at the cost of three lives, slaves worth more than a hundred between them. Will you make me take a loss? Surely five thousand stellors—”
“Seventy-five,” said a voice.
“Eighty,” came an immediate response.
“One hundred,” said the noblewoman in the front row.
The Agozlid’s toothy face became mellow as the bidding rose spontaneously. From his vantage-point in the last row, Barr Herndon watched.
The proteus wriggled, attempted to escape, altered itself wildly and pathetically. Herndon’s lips compressed tightly. He knew something himself of what suffering meant.
“Two hundred,” he said.
“A new voice!” crowed the auctioneer. “A voice from the back row! Five hundred, did you say?”
“Two hundred,” Herndon repeated coldly.
“Two-fifty,” said a nearby noble promptly.
“And twenty-five more,” a hitherto-silent circus proprietor said.
Herndon scowled. Now that he had entered into the situation, he was—as always—fully committed to it. He would not let the others get the proteus.
“Four hundred,” he said.
For an instant there was silence in the auction-ring, silence enough for the mocking cry of a low-swooping seabird to be clearly audible. Then a quiet voice from the front said, “Four-fifty.”
“Five hundred,” Herndon said.
“Five-fifty.”
Herndon did not immediately reply, and the Agozlid auctioneer craned his stubby neck, looking around for the next bidder. “I’ve heard five-fifty,” he said crooningly. “That’s good, but not good enough.”
“Six hundred,” Herndon said.
“Six-twenty-five.”
Herndon fought down a savage impulse to draw his needier and gun down his bidding opponent. Instead he tightened his jaws and said, “Six-fifty.”
The proteus squirmed and became a pain-smitten pseudo-cat on the auction stand. The crowd giggled in delight.
“Six-seventy-five,” came the voice.
IT HAD become a two-man contest now, with the others merely hanging on for the sport of it, waiting to see which man would weaken first. Herndon eyed his opponent: it was the courtier, a swarthy red-bearded man with blazing eyes and a double row of jewels round his doublet.
He looked immeasurably wealthy. There was no hope of outbidding him.
“Seven hundred stellors,” Herndon said. He glanced around hurriedly, found a small boy standing nearby, and bent to whisper to him.
“Seven-twenty-five,” said the noble.
