Viscous Circle

  Then they fell to with the concubines, who were so obliging there was no challenge. Ronald was not accustomed to public sexual display, but Chief Speed was doing it with abandon and conviction and considerable expertise, to the polite applause of the watching girls, and Ronald had to follow his host's lead. The mead helped him get into the spirit of the thing; there was probably an aphrodisiac in it. He was able in due course to acquit himself creditably with Purrfurr, unless the maidenly applause was purely polite. This was thanks in large part to Purrfurr's willing expertise and his own slowness in culmination, which permitted a longer and more varied display than would normally have been possible. The mead, again: not only did it reduce inhibitions, it dulled the edge of sexual response. Had he imbibed much more of it, he would have been able to put on the planet's most marvelous display, without climax.

  When at last all human imperatives of hunger, sex, notoriety, competition, and expression had been sated, though not the need for recuperation, they proceeded to the business meeting. Ronald fought to keep his eyes open and his mouth closed, and to look properly attentive though his skull seemed out of phase with his brain by half a head and parts of his gut seemed to have been pumped dry. What an orgy it had been!

  "...the monster," Speed was expounding.

  Monster! Again the Bands identified with this strange memory. Was he going to challenge a Monster?

  Was he? Ronald was having trouble remembering, as it were, ahead. He also wondered why this particular episode of his past, by no means his proudest, was here unveiling itself. Now the Bands, too, had assimilated his uncivilized indulgence in the grossest fashion.

  "...sends fear and nightmares among our people," Speed was saying. Nightmares—a connection was beginning to show! "Sours wives' milk, makes brats bawl. Annoying."

  Ronald nodded wisely, preventing himself from pitching forward into the dirt. The remaining leaves had been taken up when the meal finished; too useful to be wasted, they would be used to wipe knives clean and to serve as toilet tissue. "Annoying," he agreed.

  "...destroy Cerberus... where you come in."

  "Of course," Ronald agreed equably. Now at last he was getting a handle on his mission, the sample task he was to perform to benefit these primitive people. "Let me draw a suitable laser rifle from Supply—"

  Speed smiled, enjoying a private humor. "No laser, Imp."

  Ronald wrestled groggily with this. "Imp?"

  "That is you. Polite address for an Imperial Sol Representative."

  Polite? Ronald doubted it. But at the moment he lacked the mental acuity to debate the issue. "No laser?"

  "There are very few operative modern weapons here in the hinterworlds."

  Oh. Of course. It required technology to maintain lasers, which needed to be periodically recharged. "A solid-projectile handgun, then. With a carton of bullets, and a selection of exploding shells. Clumsy but adequate."

  "All the bullets were used up a century ago."

  "But new supplies can be shipped by sublight freighter. There should be a continuous stream of such supplies." His head was clearing slightly. The sensation was not pleasant.

  "Next ship to arrive in six Sol-years. Been on the way for two hundred years. Due care will be exercised, but bullets are precious. Supplies will vanish within weeks."

  "But it's not supposed to be that way! Ammunition should be issued to imperial troops only—"

  Idly, Speed fished in the coals of the dying fire with a stick, watching the wood char. "Mister Ronald—Imp—sir, how long would you retain your bullets if Purrfurr wanted them?" And the sensual woman reappeared, twining her luscious body against Ronald's. So lithe and full and cuddlesome was she that he started to suffer arousal again despite the thorough depletion of his resources. "She will give you anything you desire, anything at all—in exchange for a bullet. How long will you tell her no?"

  With difficulty Ronald refrained from responding to the woman's expert allure. He doubted he would have been able to hold firm had he been fresh and sober. A bullet? He would have given his soul for further pleasure with this creature! "Point made. No bullets," he said, his head clearing somewhat as Purrfurr pouted prettily and withdrew. He wished he had had a bullet to give her. "But that puts us back to the—the crossbow." He was a little weak on his knowledge of ancient weapons, but thought that was about right.

  "Even that technology is beyond us," Speed said with a certain satisfaction. "We are simply not that far advanced. We can forge flat steel—when luck provides the proper alloys in our crudely refined iron—and make good swords, spears, and primitive armor. But this exhausts our limited resources. The crossbow requires gearing to crank up the tension, and gears are devious things."

  "Yet it would be easy for Sol to send a factory ship, set it in orbit beyond the reach of native women, and produce and maintain the most modern weapons."

  "For centuries?" the chief inquired rhetorically. "That orbiting ship would regress farther than the planet! But even at the outset, whether a ship in orbit would be truly out of reach is moot. Spacemen are notorious for rampages on leave; they are seldom satisfied with shipboard fare of whatever nature. I think one would soon encounter Purrfurr or her like, and the rest would follow. Girls always filter into military posts." Speed shrugged. "But there is another aspect. Generally, offensive and defensive weapons parallel each other, armor defending against spear and arrow, the bazooka defending against the tank, the laser against the ballistic missile, the matter disruptor against the stellar dreadnought. To place advanced offensive weapons in the hands of iron-age primitives who lack the resources or philosophy to mitigate their impact—this would lead to internecine warfare, perhaps wiping out whole colonies. It is better to let the weapons match the culture. No mustard gas without gas masks."

  "You are amazingly conversant, for a primitive," Ronald observed. Or was the intoxication of the mead just making it seem that way?

  "I'm practical, not ignorant. You would be wise to be the same. Spherical Regression is a force that dominates every culture of the Galaxy. Of all known species, only the Ancients were free of it, which is perhaps the most tantalizing thing about them. The farther from the center of civilization a given planet is, the further regressed it is. This serves as a natural limit to the size of empires; the fringe of one culture cannot preempt the center of an alien one, because the aliens will at that position be more technologically advanced than the first culture. Oh, I know massive matter transmission is possible—but that is so hideously expensive that any species who tried to build and maintain an inter-Sphere empire using that would soon bankrupt itself and collapse. I for one am satisfied to have it that way. We face no threat of alien invasion here; the closest alien Sphere, Antares, is also at fringe level in this region of space. We trade peacefully with the few Jellyfish we encounter; anything else is pointless."

  So Antarians, who were sapient and technological aliens, were called Jellyfish here, just as CenterSphere agents were Imps. Good-natured contempt for outsiders. "But I assumed you intended to—that you needed a civilized man to handle civilized weapons that you primitives do not understand."

  Speed choked on a mouthful of mead. "Oh, that's rich!" he gasped. "Civilized weapons!"

  "What, then, do you need me for?" Ronald inquired, nettled. "I'm certainly not going after your monster with a hammered iron handsword!"

  "That's the best we have to offer," Speed said, sobering. "Much superior to a gun without bullets. I think it will do the job."

  "But any of you can do that! I'm not trained to use such a weapon. I would be worse than nothing."

  "Not so, Imp. Only you or your ilk can accomplish this mission. That is why we petitioned for a genuine civilized CenterSphere Transferee. Your host can handle the sword; he is well versed therein."

  That much was true, Ronald remembered. The Transferee assumed the capabilities of the host, if the host was cooperative. This one would certainly cooperate to save his body from the ravages of a beast-thing, n
ot to mention ensuring for himself lagniappe like the goodwill of Purrfurr. Yet it was not enough. "Somewhere, O primitive Chief, you have lost me. My host body may be competent with the weapon, but still this draws nothing from my civilized training. I also happen to be ignorant of the terrain, the nature of the monster—"

  "Cerberus sends fear and nightmares—"

  "Souring the milk," Ronald agreed. "That isn't much to go on."

  "We primitives are affected by superstition and magic," Speed said earnestly. "It's part of our culture, deeply rooted. You, as a truly civilized man, have no concern about such nonsense. You know magic is merely the ignorant explanation for illusion and natural phenomena, exaggerated for the credulous by medicine men and other charlatans. You do not let such concepts deceive you for an instant."

  "Naturally not." Evidently the chief delighted in calling himself primitive the way some complex people liked to call themselves simple. He was nobody's fool, and Ronald distrusted whatever this was leading to. "But that doesn't help in a sword-versus-monster situation."

  "Ah but it does, Imp! Because you will not be afraid. Supernaturally inspired terror will not stay your hand. The deceits of magic will not affect you."

  Ronald squinted at the Chief, uncertain whether he was being openly mocked. This man obviously had no special respect for representatives of the civilized Sphere; why was he being so effusive about their objectivity? Was this the result of some tribal political schism, which forced the Chief to call in help that he believed was not needed? "You are afraid to tackle this monster? Magic will stop you?"

  "Not exactly. But fear prevents me from dispatching Cerberus myself."

  "Isn't that the same thing? You implied it uses magic to make credulous people afraid. You yourself are not credulous."

  "Not at all. I said the monster projects fear."

  "That's nonsense! Fear can't be projected. There has to be something for a person to be afraid of, whether real or imaginary."

  "Exactly what I hoped you would say. You are truly civilized. You will not be vulnerable."

  "I think the mead has inhibited my comprehension. Why should I not be vulnerable to something you are vulnerable to?"

  "You are civilized," Speed repeated patiently. "I am primitive. I'm hopelessly caught up in superstition."

  "The very fact that you can talk as rationally as you have been doing gives the lie to that. You have been circling me intellectually like the tortoise round the hare. What are you up to, Speed?"

  "The tortoise round the hare," the Chief repeated, smiling. "I do like that, Imp. I suspect you have more wit about you than I had credited. As I recall, there is a point to that particular legend."

  "You know what I mean! The hare round the—" Ronald paused. The tortoise had won that race. Yet the analogy seemed inverted. The mead was still irrationalizing his thought processes. The hare should represent the civilized person, which meant—

  "I can discourse rationally, by your definition," Speed said seriously, "because I am familiar with the litany of civilization. I know how you advanced people think. But it is not the way I think. I am a creature of my culture, and I could not throw that off if I wanted to."

  Ronald mulled that over carefully, driving back the mead-fog to the far recesses of his worn brain. "You really do believe in magic?"

  "Indubitably."

  "But you know it's nothing! Magic doesn't exist!"

  "You know that. I know otherwise. I have been touched by the power of magic."

  "But you have done such a good job of being rational. You know science works. How can you speak so sensibly, and not believe?"

  "I believe in science because I have seen it work. I also believe in magic because I have seen it work. You assume the two are mutually exclusive. They are not. They are in fact merely different names for the same thing, as is shown in the Tarot pack of concepts. What we primitives call magic, you civilized people call science."

  "But—"

  "How can you perform public fornication with a girl you never saw before today, whom you know to be the wife of your host, in the presence of that man, when your entire culture has contrary values?"

  Ronald was taken aback. Concubine—wife. Much the same thing. He was guilty as charged. "Well, when in Rome—"

  "Were I in CenterSphere Sol, in the ambience of that culture I might afford the luxury of dispensing with the beliefs and prejudices of my cultural background. But I am not."

  Ronald was not sure it was a fair parallel, but was not inclined to argue the case. The forces of cultural conformance were strong. "Very well. Magic affects only those who believe in it, for whatever reason. I don't believe in it, so the monster cannot cast a fear-spell on me. But still, if the creature is horrendous, like a griffin or a dragon, I could be afraid, and for quite adequate cause. I make no claim to being a courageous man. How do I know I can beat this thing with a mere sword?"

  "You exaggerate the case. Cerberus is neither griffin nor dragon. He is merely canine. He will hiss and snap, but any man could cut him in pieces without difficulty."

  "Any man who isn't afraid."

  "You've got it, Imp."

  He had got it. But Ronald hardly believed it. It simply could not be that simple! There had to be something he had not been told.

  The Bands considered, too. Some of the nether narrative began to leak through. Ronald squelched that, like a qualm, but in the process lost a little of his human narrative. He picked it up a few hours later, in its terms, passing over what he presumed in retrospect was a comfortable sleep in the arms of the pneumatic Purrfurr.

  Chapter 13

  Cerberus

  The next day, after Ronald had made some progress at shaking off a primitive hangover, he set out to slay the magic monster. He carried a great, heavy sword that his own body could hardly have managed. Fortunately his host body was a muscular brute whose reflexes were attuned to this weapon. He could handle it for a short time—and that, Speed had assured him, was all that would be necessary. Three good strikes would finish the monster.

  The march commenced with primitive pomp. The Humans did not employ animals for transportation, so they went afoot. It was no far distance, Speed assured him—a quarter day's trek. Plenty of time to do the deed and return by nightfall for another feast and some attention to the other loaned concubine, Wagtail, whose posterior was out of joint from last night's neglect.

  A great drum sounded a cadence that forced every foot to land in time with every other. Several natives played crude twisted-tube horns to help the march along. Cloth and wicker banners flew at the tips of elevated pikes. It was quite impressive, in its primitive fashion.

  Ronald, like the other warriors, wore armor lovingly fashioned to the contours of his body. Metal greaves attached to his legs and arms, and a doublet of overlapping metal plates covered his body. He wore surprisingly well articulated gauntlets and armored boots, and a helmet straight out of Earth's history. It was a good thing his host-body was husky; the weight of all this metal was substantial.

  They marched across a plain, carefully following set channels so as not to tread down the cereal grain growing there. Ronald noted in passing that this region was, after all, irrigated. This society had not regressed beyond the neolithic level; the crops were important for survival. Perhaps the society of the historical Humans was the objective, not the present state; in a century or so this world might look much more like the historical model.

  At the edge of the plain, rolling hills commenced, with flowering weeds and occasional trees. At this point a third of the escort party halted. "First line of fear," Speed explained. "The monster knows we are coming, and sends forth his hostile magic with his baying."

  "I hear no baying," Ronald said.

  "Ah, but they do!" Speed gestured to the retreating people. "The magic touches them insidiously, and the ears of fear are sharp indeed."

  Oh. As with the ancient Earth voodoo and other religious oddities, belief compelled the fact. Some among R
onald's escort were more sensitive than others—and would have reacted at this checkpoint even if no monster existed. It was really geography-magic, limiting them to certain regions. Taboo. The chief did not even try to fight it.

  Maybe the monster didn't exist. If no one except the chief had the courage to approach it, that lent power to the office. An excellent way to keep the peons in line.

  "Cerberus exists," Speed reassured him. "I have seen him. And we all have suffered the depredations of the fear he sends. At night, especially, he reaches farther, all the way into our village, tainting our sleep, making the babies wake and cry."

  "From the sour milk," Ronald agreed again, wryly. Probably the nursing mothers heard a howl in the forest, and became tense, and the babes at their breasts reacted. "Proof enough. You saw the monster—but could not slay it yourself?" Ronald could see why the chief would want to affirm the existence of the monster no one else could see, and keep it alive to cow the tribespeople—but why would he bring in an outsider to eliminate this source of his benefit?

  "Cerberus cannot be slain from bow range or spear range. His heads must be cut off."

  "His heads? How many does he have?"

  "Three, of course."

  "Of course," Ronald agreed, suffering a foolish siege of uncertainty. Cerberus, he now remembered, was the three-headed dog who guarded the gates to Hell. Naturally the local monster had been appropriately named. Earth's ancient mythology was common to all Solarian colonies. He did not relish the notion of trying to cut off three heads with one sword. What would the other two heads be doing while he chopped at the first?