“Oh, that can be arranged,” I said cheerfully, “unless I get straight answers from you.”
He relaxed a touch. “I’ll try, Oscar.”
“More than try, please. You’re my last chance. Rufo, this must be private. Even from Star.”
“Under the Rose. My word on it.”
“With your fingers crossed, no doubt. But don’t risk it, I’m serious. And straight answers, I need them. I want advice about my marriage.”
He looked glum. “And I meant to go out today. Instead I worked. Oscar, I would rather criticize a woman’s firstborn, or even her taste in hats. Much safer to teach a shark to bite. What if I refuse?”
“Then I shave you!”
“You would, you heavy-handed headsman!” He frowned. “‘Straight answers—’ You don’t want them, you want a shoulder to cry on.”
“Maybe that, too. But I do want straight answers, not the lies you can tell in your sleep.”
“So I lose either way. Telling a man the truth about his marriage is suicide. I think I’ll sit tight and see if you have the heart to cut me down in cold blood.”
“Oh, Rufo, I’ll put my sword under your lock and key if you like. You know I would never draw against you.”
“I know no such thing,” he said querulously. “There’s always that first time. Scoundrels are predictable, but you’re a man of honor and that frightens me. Can’t we handle this over the see-speak?”
“Come off it, Rufo. I’ve nobody else to turn to. I want you to speak frankly. I know that a marriage counselor has to lay it on the line, pull no punches. For the sake of blood we’ve lost together I ask you to advise me. And frankly, of course!”
“‘Of course,’ is it? The last time I risked it you were for cutting the tongue out of me.” He looked at me moodily. “But I was ever a fool where friendship speaks. Hear, I’ll dicker ye a fair dicker. You talk, I’ll listen…and if it should come about that you’re taking so long that my tired old kidneys complain and I’m forced to leave your welcome company for a moment…why, then you’ll misunderstand and go away in a huff and we’ll say no more about it. Eh?”
“Okay.”
“The Chair recognizes you. Proceed.”
So I talked. I talked out my dilemma and frustration, sparing neither self nor Star (it was for her sake, too, and it wasn’t necessary to speak of our most private matters; those, at least, were dandy). But I told our quarrels and many matters best kept in the family, I had to.
Rufo listened. Presently he stood up and paced, looking troubled. Once he tut-tutted over the men Star had brought home. “She shouldn’t have called her maids in. But do forget it, lad. She never remembers that men are shy, whereas females merely have customs. Allow Her this.”
Later he said, “No need to be jealous of Jocko, son. He drives a tack with a sledgehammer.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“That’s what Menelaus said. But leave room for give and take. Every marriage needs it.”
Finally I ran down, having told him Star’s prediction that I would leave. “I’m not blaming her for anything and talking about it has straightened me out. I can sweat it out now, behave myself, and be a good husband. She does make terrible sacrifices to do her job—and the least I can do is make it easier. She’s so sweet and gentle and good.”
Rufo stopped, some distance away with his back to his desk. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
“She’s an old bag!”
I was out of my chair and at him at once. I didn’t draw. Didn’t think of it, wouldn’t have anyhow. I wanted to get my hands on him and punish him for talking that way about my beloved.
He bounced over the desk like a ball and by the time I covered the length of the room, Rufo was behind it, one hand in a drawer.
“Naughty, naughty,” he said. “Oscar, I don’t want to shave you.”
“Come out and fight like a man!”
“Never, old friend. One step closer and you’re dog meat. All your fine promises, your pleadings. ‘Pull no punches’ you said. ‘Lay it on the line’ you said. ‘Speak frankly’ you said. Sit down in that chair.”
“‘Speaking frankly’ doesn’t mean being insulting!”
“Who’s to judge? Can I submit my remains for approval before I make them? Don’t compound your broken promises with childish illogic. And would you force me to buy a new rug? I never keep one I’ve killed a friend on; the stains make me gloomy. Sit down in that chair.”
I sat down.
“Now,” said Rufo, staying where he was, “you will listen while I talk. Or perhaps you will get up and walk out. In which case I might be so pleased to see the last of your ugly face that that might be that. Or I might be so annoyed at being interrupted that you would drop dead in the doorway, for I’ve much pent up and ready to spill over. Suit yourself.
“I said,” he went on, “that my grandmother is an old bag. I said it brutally, to discharge your tension—and now you’re not likely to take too much offense at many offensive things I still must say. She’s old, you know that, though no doubt you find it easy to forget, mostly. I forget it myself, mostly, even though She was old when I was a babe making messes on the floor and crowing at the dear sight of Her. Bag, She is, and you know it. I could have said ‘experienced woman’ but I had to rap your teeth with it; you’ve been dodging it even while you’ve been telling me how well you know it—and how you don’t care. Granny is an old bag, we start from there.
“And why should She be anything else? Tell yourself the answer. You’re not a fool, you’re merely young. Ordinarily She has but two possible pleasures and the other She can’t indulge.”
“What’s the other one?”
“Handing down bad decisions through sadistic spite, that’s the one She dare not indulge. So let us be thankful that Her body has built into it this harmless safety valve, else we would all suffer grievously before somebody managed to kill Her. Lad, dear lad, can you dream how mortal tired She must be of most things? Your own zest soured in only months. Think what it must be to hear the same old weary mistakes year after year with nothing to hope for but a clever assassin. Then be thankful that She still pleasures in one innocent pleasure. So She’s an old bag and I mean no disrespect; I salute a beneficent balance between two things She must be to do her job.
“Nor did She stop being what She is by reciting a silly rhyme with you one bright day on a hilltop. You think She has taken a vacation from it since, sticking to you only. Possibly She has, if you have quoted Her exactly and I read the words rightly; She always tells the truth.
“But never all the truth—who can?—and She is the most skillful liar by telling the truth you’ll ever meet. I misdoubt your memory missed some innocent-sounding word that gave an escape yet saved your feelings.
“If so, why should She do more than save your feelings? She’s fond of you, that’s clear—but must She be fanatic about it? All Her training, Her special bent, is to avoid fanaticism always, find practical answers. Even though She may not have mixed up the shoes, as yet, if you stay on a week or a year or twenty and time comes when She wants to. She can find ways, not lie to you in words—and hurt Her conscience not at all because She hasn’t any. Just Wisdom, utterly pragmatic.”
Rufo cleared his throat. “Now refutation and counterpoint and contrariwise. I like my grandmother and love Her as much as my meager nature permits and respect Her right down to Her sneaky soul—and I’ll kill you or anyone who gets in Her way or causes Her unhappiness—and only part of this is that She has handed on to me a shadow of Her own self so that I understand Her. If She is spared assassins knife or blast or poison long enough, She’ll go down in history as ‘The Great.’ But you spoke of Her ‘terrible sacrifices.’ Ridiculous! She likes being ‘Her Wisdom,’ the Hub around which all worlds turn. Nor do I believe that She would give it up for you or fifty better. Again, She didn’t lie, as you’ve told it—She said ‘if’…knowing that much can happen in thirty years, or twenty-
five, among which is the near certainty that you wouldn’t stay that long. A swindle.
“But that’s the least of swindles She’s put over on you. She conned you from the moment you first saw Her and long before. She cheated both ways from the ace, forced you to pick the shell with the pea, sent you like any mark anxious for the best of it, cooled you off when you started to suspect, herded you back into line and to your planned fate—and made you like it. She’s never fussy about method and would con the Virgin Mary and make a pact with the Old One all in one breath, did it suit Her purpose. Oh, you got paid, yes, and good measure to boot; there’s nothing small about Her. But its time you knew you were conned. Mind you, I’m not criticizing Her, I’m applauding—and I helped…save for one queasy moment when I felt sorry for the victim. But you were so conned you wouldn’t listen, thank any saints who did. I lost my nerve for a bit, thinking that you were going to a sticky death with your innocent eyes wide. But She was smarter than I am. She always has been.
“Now! I like Her. I respect Her. I admire Her. I even love Her a bit. All of Her, not just Her pretty aspects but also all the impurities that make Her steel as hard as it must be. How about you, sir? What’s your feeling about Her now…knowing She conned you, knowing what She is?”
I was still sitting. My drink was by me, untouched all this long harangue.
I took it and stood up. “Here’s to the grandest old bag in twenty universes!”
Rufo bounced over the desk again, grabbed his glass. “Say that loud and often! And to Her, She’d love it! May She be blessed by God, Whoever He is, and kept safe. We’ll never see another like Her, mores the pity!—for we need them by the gross!”
We tossed it down and smashed our grasses. Rufo fetched fresh ones, poured, settled in his chair, and said, “Now for serious drinking. Did I ever tell you about the time my—”
“You did. Rufo, I want to know about this swindle.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I can see much of it. Take that first time we flew—”
He shuddered. “Lets not.”
“I never wondered then. But, since Star can do this, we could have skipped Igli, the Horned Ghosts, the marsh, the time wasted with Jocko—”
“Wasted?”
“For her purpose. And the rats and hogs and possibly the dragons. Flown directly from that first Gate to the second. Right?”
He shook his head. “Wrong.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Assuming that She could fly us that far, a question I hope never to settle, She could have flown us to the Gate She preferred. What would you have done then? If popped almost directly from Nice to Karth-Hokesh? Charged out and fought like a wolverine, as you did? Or said ‘Miss, you’ve made a mistake. Show me the exit from this Fun House—I’m not laughing.’”
“Well—I wouldn’t have bugged out”
“But would you have won? Would you have been at that keen edge of readiness it took?”
“I see. Those first rounds were live-ammo exercises in my training. Or was it live ammo? Was all that first part swindle? Maybe with hypnotism, to make it feel right? God knows she’s expert. No danger till we reached the Black Tower?”
He shuddered again. “No, no! Oscar, any of that could have killed us. I never fought harder in my life, nor was ever more frightened. None of it could be skipped. I don’t understand all Her reasons. I’m not Her Wisdom. But She would never risk Herself unless necessary. She would sacrifice ten million brave men, were it needed, as the cheaper price. She knows what She’s worth. But She fought beside us with all She has—you saw! Because it had to be.”
“I still don’t understand all of it.”
“Nor will you. Nor will I. She would have sent you in alone, had it been possible. And at that last supreme danger, that thing called ‘Eater of Souls’ because it had done just that to many braves before you…had you lost to it, She and I would have tried to fight our way out—I was ready, any moment; I couldn’t tell you—and if we had escaped—unlikely—She would have shed no tears for you. Or not many. Then worked another twenty or thirty or a hundred years to find and con and train anther champion—and fought just as hard by his side. She has courage, that cabbage. She knew how thin our chances were; you didn’t. Did She flinch?”
“No.”
“But you were the key, first to be found, then ground to fit. You yourself act, you’re never a puppet, or you could never have won. She was the only one who could nudge and wheedle such a man and place him where he would act; no lesser person than She could handle the scale of hero She needed. So She searched until She found him…and honed him fine. Tell me, why did you take up the sword? It’s not common in America.”
“What?” I had to think. Reading King Arthur and The Three Musketeers, and Burroughs’ wonderful Mars stories—but every kid does that. “When we moved to Florida, I was a Scout. The Scoutmaster was a Frenchman, taught high school. He started some of us kids. I liked it, it was something I did well. Then in college—”
“Ever wonder why that immigrant got that job in that town? And volunteered for Scout work? Or why your college had a fencing team when many don’t? No matter, if you had gone elsewhere, there would have been fencing in a YMCA or something. Didn’t you have more combat than most of your category?”
“Hell, yes!”
“Could have been killed anytime, too—and She would have turned to another candidate already being honed. Son, I don’t know how you were selected, nor now you were converted from a young punk into the hero you potentially were. Not my job. Mine was simpler—just more dangerous—your groom and your ‘eyes-behind.’ Look around. Fancy quarters for a servant, eh?”
“Well, yes. I had almost forgotten that you were supposed to be my groom.”
“‘Supposed,’ hell! I was. I went three times to Nevia as Her servant, training for it. Jocko doesn’t know to this day. If I went back, I would be welcome, I think. But only in the kitchen.”
“But why? That part seems silly.”
“Was it? When we snared you, your ego was in feeble shape, it had to be built up—and calling you ‘Boss’ and serving your meals while I stood and you sat, with Her, was part of it.” He gnawed a knuckle and looked annoyed. “I still think She witched your first two arrows. Someday I’d like a return match—with Her not around.”
“I may fool you. I’ve been practicing.”
“Well, forget it. We got the Egg, that’s the important thing. And here’s this bottle and that’s important, too.” He poured again. “Will that be all, ‘Boss’?”
“Damn you, Rufo! Yes, you sweet old scoundrel. You’ve straightened me out. Or conned me again, I don’t know which.”
“No con, Oscar, by the blood we’ve shed. I’ve told the truth as straight as I know it, though it hurt me. I didn’t want to, you’re my friend. Walking that rocky road with you I shall treasure all the days of my life.”
“Uh…yes. Me, too. All of it.”
“Then why are you frowning?”
“Rufo, I understand her now—as well as an ordinary person can—and respect her utterly…and love her more than ever. But I can’t be anybody’s fancy man. Not even hers.”
“I’m glad I didn’t have to say that. Yes. She’s right She’s always right, damn Her! You must leave. For both of you. Oh, She wouldn’t be hurt too much but staying would ruin you, in time. Destroy you, if you’re stubborn.”
“I had better get back—and toss my shoes.” I felt better, as if I had told the surgeon: Go ahead. Amputate.
“Don’t do that!”
“What?”
“Why should you? No need for anything final. If a marriage is to last a long time—and yours might, even a very long time—then holidays should be long, too. And off the leash, son, with no date to report back and no promises. She knows that knights errant spend their nights erring, She expects it. It has always been so, un droit de la vocation—and necessary. They just don’t mention it in kiddies’ stories where you
come from. So go see what’s stirring in your line of work elsewhere and don’t worry. Come back in four or forty years or something, you’ll be welcome. Heroes always sit at the first table, it’s their right. And they come and go as they please, and that’s their right, too. On a smaller scale, you’re something like Her.”
“High compliment!”
“On a ‘smaller scale,’ I said. Mmm, Oscar, part of your trouble is a need to go home. Your birthing land. To regain your perspective and find out who you are. All travelers feel this, I feel it myself from time to time. When the feeling comes, I pamper it.”
“I hadn’t realized I was homesick. Maybe I am.”
“Maybe She realized it. Maybe She nudged you. Myself, I make it a rule to give any wife of mine a vacation from me whenever her face looks too familiar—for mine must be even more so to her, looking as I do. Why not, lad? Going back to Earth isn’t the same as dying. I’m going there soon, that’s why I’m clearing up this paperwork. Happens we might be there the same time…and get together for a drink or ten and some laughs and stories. And pinch the waitress and see what she says. Why not?”
TWENTY-ONE
Okay, here I am.
I didn’t leave that week but soon. Star and I spent a tearful, glorious night before I left and she cried as she kissed me “Au ’voir” (not “Good-bye”). But I knew her tears would dry once I was out of sight; she knew that I knew and I knew she preferred it so, and so did I. Even though I cried, too.
Pan American isn’t as slick as the commercial Gates; I was bunged through in three fast changes and no hocus-pocus. A girl said, “Places, please”—then whambo!
I came out on Earth, dressed in a London suit, passport and papers in pocket, the Lady Vivamus in a kit that did not look like a sword case, and in other pockets drafts exchangeable for much gold, for I found that I didn’t mind accepting a hero’s fee. I arrived near Zurich, I don’t know the address; the Gate service sees to that. Instead, I had ways to send messages.
Shortly those drafts became numbered accounts in three Swiss banks, handled by a lawyer I had been told to see. I bought traveler’s checks several places and some I mailed ahead and some I carried, for I had no intention of paying Uncle Sugar 91 percent.