Certainly we’ll have to maintain this gestalt (useful word; I found it in Dugan’s mind when I entered) until after Dugan’s death. He’s peacefully dreaming now, dreaming of who knows what conquests and battles and expansions, and I don’t think he’ll come out of it. He may live on in his dream for years, and I’ll have to hold together and sustain the illusion until he dies. I hope we’re making him happy at last. He seems to have been a very unhappy man.
And just after I joined together, it occurred to me that we’d better stay this way indefinitely, just in case any more Dugans get thrown at us from the past. (Could it have been part of a Design? I wonder.) They must all have been like that back then. It’s a fine thing that bomb was dropped.
We’ll keep Dugan’s city, of course. He did make some positive contributions to us—me. His biggest contribution was me; I never would have formed otherwise. I would have been scattered—Kennon on his farm, Dandrin here, Corilann there. I would have maintained some sort of contact among us, the way I always did even before Dugan came, but nothing like this! Nothing at all.
There’s the question of what to do with Dugan’s child. Kennon, Corilann, and Jarinne are all raising him. We don’t need families now that we have me. I think we’ll let Dugan’s child in with us for a while; if he shows any signs of being like his father, we can always put him to sleep and let him share his father’s dream.
I wonder what Dugan is thinking of. Now all his projects will be carried out; his city will grow and cover the world; we will fight and kill and plunder, and he will be measurelessly happy—though all these things take place only within the boundaries of his fertile brain. We will never understand him. But I am happy that all these things will happen only within Dugan’s mind so long as I am together and can maintain the illusion for him.
Our next project is to reclaim Jubilain. I am sad that he cannot be with us yet, for how rare and beautiful I would be if I had a Singer in me! That would surely be the most wonderful of blendings. But that will come. Patiently I will unravel the strands of Jubilain’s tangled mind, patiently I will bring the Singer back to us.
For in a few months it will be summer again, and time for the Singing. It will be different this year, for we will have been together in me all winter, and so the Singing will not be as unusual an event as it has been, when we have come to each other covered with a winter’s strangeness. But this year I will be with us, and we will be I; and the songs of summer will be trebly beautiful in Dugan’s city, while Dugan sleeps through the night and the day, for day and night on night and day.
SPACEROGUE
Originally published in Infinity Science Fiction, November, 1958.
Chapter One
They were selling a proteus in the public auction place 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 bull-voiced, 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. 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 sea bird 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 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 one would weaken first. Herndon eyed his opponent: He was a courtier, a swarthy red-bearded man with blazing eyes and a double row of jewels around 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 called him over.
“Seven twenty-five,” said the noble.
Herndon, whispered, “You see that man down front—the one who just spoke? Run down there and tell him his lady has sent for him and wants him at once.”
He handed the boy a golden five-stellor piece. The boy stared at it popeyed a moment, grinned, and slid through the onlookers toward the front of the ring.
“Nine hundred,” Herndon said.
It was considerably more than a proteus might be expected to bring at auction and possibly more than even the wealthy noble cared to spend. But Herndon was aware there was no way out for the noble except retreat, and he was giving him that avenue.
“Nine hundred is bid,” the auctioneer said. “Lord Moaris, will you bid more?”
“I would,” Moaris grunted. “But I am summoned and must leave.” He looked blankly angry, but he did not quest
ion the boy’s message. Herndon noted that down for possible future use. It had been a lucky guess, but Lord Moaris of the Seigneur’s court came running when his lady bid him do so.
“Nine hundred is bid,” the auctioneer repeated. “Do I hear more? Nine hundred for this fine proteus—who’ll make it an even thousand?”
There was no one. Seconds ticked by, and no voice spoke. Herndon waited tensely at the edge of the crowd as the auctioneer chanted, “At nine hundred once, at nine hundred for two, at nine hundred ultimate—
“Yours for nine hundred, friend. Come forward with your cash. And I urge you all to return in ten minutes when we’ll be offering some wonderful pink-hued maidens from Villidon.” His hands described a feminine shape in the air with wonderfully obscene gusto.
Herndon came forward. The crowd had begun to dissipate, and the inner ring was deserted as he approached the auctioneer. The proteus had taken on a froglike shape and sat huddled in on itself like a statue of gelatin.
Herndon eyed the foul-smelling Agozlid and said, “I’m the one who bought the proteus. Who gets my money?”
“I do,” croaked the auctioneer. “Nine hundred stellors gold, plus thirty stellors fee, and the beast’s yours.”
Herndon touched the money plate at his belt, and a coil of hundred-stellor links came popping forth. He counted off nine of them, broke the link, and laid them on the desk before the Agozlid. Then he drew six five-stellor pieces from his pocket and casually dropped them on the desk.
“Let’s have your name for the registry,” said the auctioneer after counting out the money and testing it with a soliscope.
“Barr Herndon.”
“Home world?”
Herndon paused a moment. “Borlaam.”
The Agozlid looked up. “You don’t seem much like a Borlaamese to me. Pure-bred?”
“Does it matter to you? I am. I’m from the River Country of Zonnigog, and my money’s good.”
Painstakingly the Agozlid inscribed his name in the registry. Then he glanced up insolently and said, “Very well, Barr Herndon of Zonnigog. You now own a proteus. You’ll be pleased to know that it’s already indoctrinated and enslaved.”
“This pleases me very much,” said Herndon flatly.
The Agozlid handed Herndon a bright planchet of burnished copper with a nine-digit number inscribed on it. “This is the code key. In case you lose your slave, take this to Borlaam Central and they’ll trace it for you.” He took from his pocket a tiny projector and slid it across the desk. “And here’s your resonator. It’s tuned to a mesh network installed in the proteus on the submolecular level—it can’t change to affect it. You don’t like the way the beast behaves, just twitch the resonator. It’s essential for proper discipline of slaves.”
Herndon accepted the resonator. He said, “The proteus probably knows enough of pain without this instrument. But I’ll take it.”
The auctioneer seized the proteus and scooped it down from the auction stand, dropping it next to Herndon. “Here you are, friend. All yours now.”
The marketplace had cleared somewhat; a crowd had gathered at the opposite end where some sort of jewel auction was going on, but as Herndon looked around, he saw he had a clear path over the cobbled square to the quay beyond.
He walked a few steps away from the auctioneer’s booth. The auctioneer was getting ready for the next segment of his sale, and Herndon caught a glimpse of three frightened-looking naked Villidon girls behind the curtain being readied for display.
He stared seaward. Two hundred yards away was the quay, rimmed by the low sea wall, and beyond it was the bright green expanse of the Shining Ocean. For an instant his eyes roved beyond the ocean, to the far continent of Zonnigog where he had been born. Then he looked at the terrified little proteus, halfway through yet another change of shape.
Nine hundred and thirty-five stellors altogether for this proteus. Herndon scowled bitterly. It was a tremendous sum of money, far more than he could easily have afforded to throw away in one morning—particularly his first day back on Borlaam after his sojourn on the out-planets.
But there had been no help for it. He had allowed himself to be drawn into a situation, and he refused to back off halfway. Not anymore, he said to himself, thinking of the burned and gutted Zonnigog village plundered by the gay looters of Seigneur Krellig’s army.
“Walk toward the sea wall,” he ordered the proteus.
A half-formed mouth said blurredly, “M-master?”
“You understand me, don’t you? Then walk toward the sea wall. Keep going and don’t turn around.”
He waited. The proteus formed feet and moved off in an uncertain shuffle over the well-worn cobbles. Nine hundred thirty-five stellors, he thought bitterly.
He drew his needler.
The proteus continued walking through the marketplace and toward the sea. Someone yelled, “Hey, that thing’s going to fall in! We better stop it!”
“I own it,” Herndon called coolly. “Keep away from it if you value your own lives.”
He received several puzzled glances, but no one moved. The proteus had almost reached the edge of the sea wall now and paused indecisively. Not even the lowest of lifeforms will welcome its own self-destruction no matter what surcease from pain can be attained thereby.
“Mount the wall,” Herndon called to it.
Blindly, the proteus obeyed. Herndon’s finger caressed the firing knob of the needier. He watched the proteus atop the low wall staring down into the murky harbor water and counted to three.
On the third count he fired. The slim needle projectile sped brightly across the marketplace and buried itself in the back of the proteus’ body. Death must have been instantaneous; the needle contained a nerve poison that was effective on all known forms of life.
Caught midway between changes, the creature stood frozen on the wall an instant, then toppled forward into the water. Herndon nodded and holstered his weapon. He saw people’s heads nodding. He heard a murmured comment: “Just paid almost a thousand for it, and first thing he does is shoot it.”
It had been a costly morning. Herndon turned as if to walk on, but he found his way blocked by a small wrinkle-faced man who had come out of the jewelry-auction crowd across the way.
“My name is Bollar Benjin,” the little prune of a man said. His voice was a harsh croak. His body seemed withered and skimpy. He wore a tight gray tunic of shabby appearance. “I saw what you just did.”
“What of it? It’s not illegal to dispose of slaves in public,” Herndon said.
“Only a special kind of man would do it, though,” said Bollar Benjin. “A cruel man—or a foolhardy one. Which are you?”
“Both,” Herndon said. “And now if you’ll let me pass—”
“Just one moment.” The croaking voice suddenly acquired the snap of a whip. “Talk to me a moment. If you can spare a thousand stellors to buy a slave you kill the next moment, you can spare me a few words.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Your services,” Benjin said. “I can use a man like you. Are you free and unbonded?”
Herndon thought of the thousand stellors—almost half his wealth—that he had thrown away just now. He thought of the Seigneur Krellig, whom he hated and whom he had vowed so implacably to kill. And he thought of the wrinkled man before him.
“I am unbonded,” he said, “but my price is high. What do you want, and what can you offer?”
Benjin smiled obliquely and dipped into a hidden pocket of his tunic. When he drew forth his hand, it was bright with glittering jewels.
“I deal in these,” he said. “I can pay well.”
The jewels vanished into the pocket again. “If you’re interested,” Benjin said, “come with me.”
Herndon nodded. “I’m interested
.”
Chapter Two
Herndon had been gone from Borlaam for a year before this day. A year before—the seventeenth of the reign of the Seigneur Krellig—a band of looters had roared through his home village in Zonnigog, destroying and killing. It had been a high score for the Herndon family—his father and mother killed in the first sally, his young brother stolen as a slave, his sister raped and ultimately put to death.
The village had been burned. And only Barr Herndon had escaped, taking with him twenty thousand stellors of his family’s fortune and killing eight of the Seigneur’s best men before departing.
He had left the system, gone to the nineteen-world complex of Meld, and on Meld XVII he had bought himself a new face that did not bear the telltale features of the Zonnigog aristocracy. Gone were the sharp, almost razorlike cheekbones, the pale skin, the wide-set black eyes, the nose jutting from the forehead.
For eight thousand stellors the surgeons of Meld had taken these things away and given him a new face: broad where the other had been high, tan-skinned, narrow-eyed, with a majestic hook of a nose quite unlike any of Zonnigog. He had come back wearing the guise of a spacerogue, a freebooter, an unemployed mercenary willing to sign oil to the highest bidder.
The Meldian surgeons had changed his face, but they had not changed his heart. Herndon nurtured the desire for revenge against Krellig—Krellig the implacable, Krellig the invincible, who cowered behind the great stone walls of his fortress for fear of the people’s hatred.
Herndon could be patient. But he swore death to Krellig, someday and somehow.
He stood now in a narrow street in the Avenue of Bronze, high in the winding complex of streets that formed the Ancient Quarter of the City of Borlaam, capital of the world of the same name. He had crossed the city silently, not bothering to speak to his gnomelike companion Benjin, brooding only on his inner thoughts and hatred.