I dawdled around, made some notes on what I was supposed to get going. Then I went back in to see how the language lessons were progressing.
What? They were no longer at the table! I stepped further inside and there they were in the middle of a big training platform.
She was teaching him unarmed combat? My orders were that no espionage tactics . . . Then I checked myself. They weren’t doing unarmed combat. Heller was showing her the latest dance routines! The “Shatter” had been popular in the last few months. The male lunges out and the female flips away; the female lunges and the male rolls away: back and forth, somewhat athletic but kind of monotonous. They had a timing ticker, used to coordinate acrobats, and it was going to a dance beat. Heller was showing her the foot positions and the arm reaches.
She had killed a guard just reaching toward her. And here it was happening. In sort of like the frozen state where you watch an inevitable accident about to occur, I stood there and watched this. Sooner or later he was going to touch her on a reach. . . .
He did! I expected sudden death.
“Oh,” she said, “I have been here so long I am all out of date. Let’s see: when you lunge, I am supposed to roll, not just stand there like a ninny and get hit!”
He lunged again and once more she didn’t roll and his hand touched her shoulder. The Countess Krak being clumsy? Hard to teach? Never!
And he finished the lunge by taking her in his arms and holding her close to him. And they just stood there.
And then he kissed her!
I expected fireworks. But the only fireworks was a sort of invisible glow that I could practically feel clear over where I was. She dropped her head back and looked up at him. “Oh, Jet,” she whispered.
I came out of my daze. This would never, never do. I clapped my hands together three times sharply. I had to do it again, louder, before they took any notice of me.
They finally walked over, holding hands, looking at each other like a couple of kids sharing some secret.
“We’re due,” I said severely, “for our appointment with Dr. Crobe. Come along right now, Heller!”
PART FOUR
Chapter 3
The biological section occupied a complex series of old stone vaults and rooms about a hundred feet below ground level. Unlike the rest of the fortress and despite the black stone, the place was glaringly lit. I never have been all the way through that section: it is too repulsive; but it consists of libraries, operating rooms, freeze banks and vast compartments of vials, vials, vials and tanks, tanks, tanks. If Spiteos smells bad, it is nothing compared to the biological section: they have a habit of spilling cultures which putrefy and leaving around discarded flesh and body parts that rot. It is about as sanitary as a sewer.
In the first library an old crone was pottering about, shifting files and noisily snuffling back the snot which trickled onto her upper lip. I waved one hand at an upper shelf, the other at Heller and yelled at her, “Blito-P3.” She is quite deaf, being over a century-and-a-half old, but she heard me. She moved to get a rickety ladder and so I left Heller standing there while I went off to find the chief cellologist.
Dr. Crobe was in a rear operating room. The moment I entered he held up a filthy hand not to be disturbed. I had to stop and watch.
He had a poor wretch strapped down on an operating table and was finishing up some work. The man, who had probably been a perfectly normal person a few weeks ago, was getting the last touches needed to make a circus freak.
By means of reorganizing and grafting cells, Crobe had replaced the poor (bleepard’s) arms and legs with big tentacles from some sea creature. Bone had been grafted above the eyes to make a protrusion over each one. Crobe was checking the growth and rooting of a “tongue” taken from some insect-eating animal, a tongue that could be flicked out half a yard, as though the new monstrosity lived on flying bugs.
Crobe’s twist was making freaks but he never realized, I am sure, that with his overlong arms and legs and beaked nose he himself was a freak. As he worked he had an eerie, ecstatic look on his face: a real, dedicated scientist! He would give anyone the creeps. Crobe really believed in what he was doing!
I caught a glimpse of the new freak’s own eyes. From their expression it was obvious that the poor (bleeper) had gone insane. Oh, well, Crobe’s freaks didn’t live too long: when the old ones died, the circuses just bought new ones. The public got tired of them anyway: good for business all around.
“There,” said Crobe, standing up and getting the crick out of his back. “The one and only specimen of life from the unconquered Planet of Matacherferstoltzian!”
I knew my astrography. “There is no such planet,” I said.
“Well, maybe not,” said Crobe. “But here’s a specimen of life from it anyway!”
“Come on out,” I said. “I have a special agent for you to fix up.”
Instantly, a pain hit me in the stomach! I looked around. Maybe it was the smell that was making me feel sick. Very peculiar. I’ve been on many planets and eaten lots of strange food; I had been in the Apparatus for years with all that entailed. And I had never before had a pain in the stomach!
Crobe’s assistants took over and I got the old loony out of there.
In the library, Heller had found a stool. He was looking through some books the old crone had gotten him. He nodded briefly when I introduced Crobe.
“I never got down on the planet’s surface,” said Heller. “All this is very interesting. It’s a beautiful planet, you know.” He had found some pictures of Earth people and was suddenly very thoughtful, looking up and then back at the pictures.
A couple of Crobe’s assistants had followed us in. One was carrying a portable table, the other had a tray of things.
Crobe sat down, “What planet you going to?”
“Blito-P3. Earth,” I said.
“Ah,” said Crobe, and one of the assistants started opening some file drawers and piling things on his desk. Crobe looked at one of the references. “Blito-P3. Humanoid. Gravity . . . er . . . hmm . . . atmosphere . . . Styp, hand me that table of bone densities.” And the assistant did. “Ah,” said Crobe.
“The agent,” I said, “must be undetectable by Blito-P3 planetary standards.”
“Yes, yes,” said Crobe, brushing me aside. “Styp, no scales.” And Styp rushed out and returned rolling a dolly loaded with equipment.
“Strip,” said Crobe, gesturing at Heller. For some reason, I felt a twinge of nausea and pain. What was wrong with me?
Heller, his attention more on the bookshelves than on Crobe, stripped. He seemed to be looking for some title up there. But he stepped on the scales and, although a bit distractedly, did what he was told. The assistants punched and measured and recorded away with occasional grunts from Crobe.
Styp had forgotten to bring in a bone densimeter so he went out to get one. Crobe didn’t run a very organized show. Shortly after Styp’s return with the bone densimeter I heard some little mutters and commotions at the door.
There were about five staff females standing there, peering in, whispering to one another. I do not know what they were saying but their eyes were getting sort of round and they were excited and stirred up.
I looked back and saw they had their attention on Heller. An assistant was making him bend and flex so as to measure potential foot-pounds of muscle power. Yes, he was quite a figure. He looked like some big woods God with a lot of little dirt Devils capering around. He was as out of place here as a temple sculpture in a cesspool. Come to think of it, he resembled that statue in the Voltar Gallery, the famous one done by Dawvaug called The God of Dawn. Hey! I thought, what the Devils is the matter with me, I’m no man-lover: and when Crobe gets through with him . . . I was instantly sick at the pit of my stomach. I had to sit down quickly on a stool to keep from doubling over.
They had finally finished. Crobe had a thick sheaf of notes. “You,” said Crobe to Heller, like it was an indictment, “are from the Planet Manco. W
eight, height, densities . . . yes, Manco.”
Well, Hells, anybody would know Heller was from Manco just glancing at him. It’s not that Voltarians from Manco are so different: any one of its five races has a special look; but that’s also true of any planet’s population. Then I had a sudden realization. The Countess Krak was from Manco! They were of the same race exactly!
Crobe was rattling through his reference books on Blito-P3. He hummed and hawed and scrubbed his jaw. Then he said, “The weight difference between Manco and Blito-P3 is not that extreme: Blito-P3 is about one-sixth less gravity. That means you’ll have to practice walking and running before you go out in public.
“Hmmm. Oh, yes. Atmosphere. The atmosphere is less dense and so you will have to remember to aerate yourself regularly—about once a day. Just breathe more heavily. And oxygenate yourself well before any strenuous exercise. Otherwise you will feel tired after a while.
“What’s the local name of this planet? Earth? Oh, yes. Well, your bone density is greater than theirs, due to the gravity difference.
“Now as to nutrition, you’ll have no real trouble. Their water and food is digestible by you. Hmm. But there is something here on nutrition you must pay attention to. For some reason, their food doesn’t meet normal nutrition standards and especially not for you. Now, what I would advise is that you eat more often and don’t let yourself go hungry. Hmm.
“Yes. They have a food called ‘hamburgers.’ You can eat most anything you please but hamburgers provide a balanced ration for you.
“Drinks. Hm. Water, all right. Ah, yes, alcohol. They heavily imbibe alcohol. Don’t touch any drinks called ‘strong spirits.’ They disorganize the cerebral orientation. Hmm. Beer. They have something called ‘beer.’ You can drink that without trouble but not ‘strong liquors,’ whatever they are.”
Crobe pulled his notes together and I was feeling better. “So,” he said, “you be sure to exercise every day. Otherwise, in that low gravity, your muscles and tendons will get flabby. And oxygenate yourself. And eat hamburgers and drink beer and you’ll be fine.”
I felt a surge of relief for some reason.
Then suddenly Crobe’s voice was very sharp. “Are you listening to me?”
Heller was still abstracted, glancing now and then at the shelves. But why should he listen? Crobe, whether he knew it or not, was talking to a spacer who had to do all these things anyway—except the hamburger and beer.
“I go to all this work,” snapped Crobe, “and you don’t even listen!”
“Oh, I heard you,” said Heller. “Learn to walk, oxygen, exercise, water, nutrition, hamburger and beer. I appreciate it.” He bent over and picked up a book that had big colorplates, pictures of people, the races of Earth. He tapped them with the back of his hand. “I was just struck by the appearances of these races on Earth. You wouldn’t happen to have here the book In the Mists of Time, would you?”
That really annoyed Crobe. “No, of course not! This is the anthropology library!” I got sick at my stomach again.
The old crone held up her hand in a gesture to wait and snuffled off. She came back carrying a scuffed-up volume about two feet thick. “It was in the history library,” she said with a toothless smile at Heller.
He put it down on the table. Crobe was gathering up his papers with some hostility.
The volume cover tabs said:
Abridged Edition
In the Mists of Time
Legends of the Original Planets
of the Voltarian Confederacy
Compiled by the Lore Section, Interior Division
I wondered what the unabridged editions must be if the abridged was this huge tome.
“Fables,” Crobe was muttering to himself.
Heller had found what he wanted. He had turned to the Manco Section. His finger was poised at Folk Legend 894M.
“Got it,” he said. “Haven’t seen it since nursery school.” He read:
Folk Legend 894: It is said that some thousands of years ago, during the Great Rebellion on Manco, that Prince Caucalsia, finding his cause irretrievably lost, did flee Manco with the remnants of his fleet, taking with him numerous followers and their families and did depart the Manco System. And it is further related, nine years having passed by, that two transports did return to Manco, landing at the Fortress City of Dar. They were treacherously betrayed, it is said, by a woman named Nepogat and apprehended in the night. The crews were interrogated by the Apparatus and it was later claimed that they revealed a landing by Prince Caucalsia upon the Planet Blito-P3 after his escape from Manco. And it is further said that the prince had founded a colony named Atalanta with all his numerous followers and they did prosper there. But failing all but little fuel and lacking some supplies, two freighters had been sent in hope of peaceful return and even engagement in trade. But it was decreed that mercy be given not. Blito-P3 colonization was deemed illegal at that time and in violation of the Holy Invasion Timetables of Voltar. At the insistence of the woman Nepogat the freighter crews were put to death. The turmoil of the times foreswore any further campaign to punish Prince Caucalsia, the Fortress City of Dar was burned in the Great Overthrow of the succeeding year and all records that could substantiate the legend have vanished from view. This folk legend forms the background of the child fairy tale: Nepogat the Damnable and is found in the Manco child’s song “Bold Prince Caucalsia.”
“Rubbish!” said Crobe. “I will have you know, whatever your name is, that the moment fable enters the world of solid science, we are lost!”
Crobe was almost frothing. “You are overlooking one important fact!” he told Heller. “Humanoid forms are the commonest sentient forms in the universe! They comprise 93.7 percent of all populations discovered to date. The humanoid form is inevitable from the basic survival demands of any reasonable carbon-oxygen planet: if sentient life is to appear and succeed, the adeptness of hands, the articulation of feet, the symmetrical right-left body construction and flexible skin are needed.”
Why, you old fraud! I thought. You know all that and yet you make freaks and pretend they are other populations!
“The facts are built into the structure of cells!” harangued Crobe. “But every sentient population of a planet evolved there. And that’s the scientific fact. Forget your religions and fables! Oh, of course,” he said, modifying his view, “the blood cells are different, humanoid race to humanoid race, and these are the one channel by which you can identify cross-breeding between planets.”
Heller said mildly, “I was just interested in the similarity between the facial bone structures of the races on Earth, some of them, and the races on Manco.”
“I’ll show you!” snapped Crobe as though Heller had been arguing with him. The cellologist rushed out. I had an idea where he was going: the deep-freeze body vats. And sure enough I shortly heard from there the chunk of an axe.
Crobe rushed back in. He was carrying a frozen human hand chopped off at the wrist. He dug into the dirty litter on a cart and came up with an instant-thawer and in a moment the severed hand started to bleed. Leave it to Crobe to hack off a hand when all he wanted was a little blood. I began to feel ill, very ill. “Earthman!” said Crobe, dripping some blood into a culture.
Heller looked a bit startled. “Soltan, do you kidnap Earth people?”
Yes, indeed, Royal officer Heller. “No,” I said. “We picked up some bodies years ago from vehicle accidents and they’re here in deep freeze for study.”
Crobe shot me an odd glance, as well he might. He threw the hand on the floor where it landed with a plop and gave his attention to lining up the culture vial in a microscope.
Then the doctor took a filthy, sharp probe and, before I could stop him, seized Heller’s hand and punctured his thumb. I almost threw up. I couldn’t account for my reaction.
But Crobe didn’t do any more to Heller. He took the blood sample and put it in another vial and set it up in a second microscope. “Now take a look at that!” he challenged
Heller. “And once and for all you see there is no cross-breeding between Manco and Blito-P3! Anything human on Earth generated on Earth. That’s scientific fact!”
Heller looked at both. “They’re similar,” he said.
“Ha!” said Crobe. “Unqualified observer!” He gave Heller a shove off to one side and looked himself. He straightened up. “Officer Gris, was that one of your Earth agents? Go in that vault and look. No.” He changed his mind and picked up the hand and threw it into a bone densimeter. “Well, it was an Earthman.”
Crobe gathered up his notes and bawled at an assistant to collect up the dolly and table. He pointed to a stool and said to Heller, “Go ahead and sit there and dream up your fables.” And Heller smiled faintly and picked up the book of colorplates again.