Demon princes 01 05 the.., p.17
Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 17
She nodded somberly. “I know.” She looked at the prone form of Hildemar Dasce. “You’ve tied him up,” she said in a voice of troubled wonder.
“That’s the least of his worries.”
She looked at him wanly Gersen found himself unable to fathom her thoughts. “You’re—you’re not his friend?”
Gersen felt an entirely new type of sickness. “No. I’m not his friend. Of course not. Did he say so?”
“He said … he said.” She turned to stare in perplexity at Dasce.
“Don’t believe anything he told you.” He looked into her face, wondering as to the extent of her confusion and shock “Are you all right?”
She refused to meet his eyes Gersen said gently, “I’m taking you back to Avente. You’re safe now.” She nodded stonily. If she would only evince some emotion. Relief—tears—even reproaches.
Gersen sighed, turned away. The problem still remained how to convey all of them to the platform. He dared leave neither Pallas nor Rampold alone with Dasce, he had enjoyed domination over them both too long.
Gersen replaced the vitrine globe over Dasce’s head and dragged him through the tunnel, out upon the plain, where the two within could not see him.
Jets roaring at full power, the overloaded platform lurched sluggishly around the plateau, blowing up a fan of dust which settled with startling rapidity in the thin atmosphere. Ahead stood the spaceship, minute against the sweep of the vast horizon Gersen landed close beside the entrance port. Hand weapon within easy reach, he climbed the accommodation ladder. Inside, Attel Malagate had watched his approach, had seen the cargo Malagate could not know what Dasce had told Gersen. He must be taut with indecision Dasce, who would recognize the ship, must suspect but could not be sure that Malagate was aboard.
The airlock thudded shut, the pumps throbbed, the inner door swung open Gersen stepped forward Kelle, Detteras, Warweave sat at various quarters of the room. They looked at him without friendliness. No one made a move.
Gersen unfastened the head globe “I’m back.”
“So we see,” said Detteras.
“I’ve been successful,” said Gersen “I’ve got a captive with me, Hildemar Dasce. A word of warning to you. This man is a brutal murderer. He is desperate. I intend to hold him under rigid conditions I ask that none of you interfere or have anything to do with this man. The other two persons are a man Dasce has kept penned in a cage for seventeen years, and a young woman whom Dasce recently kidnapped and whose mind may have suffered in consequence. She shall use my cabin I shall keep Dasce in the cargo hold. The other man, Robin Rampold, will no doubt be happy for the use of a settee.”
“This voyage becomes stranger by the hour,” said Warweave.
Detteras rose impatiently to his feet “Why do you bring this man Dasce aboard? I’m surprised you haven’t killed him.”
“Consider me squeamish, if you like.”
Detteras gave a bark of sour laughter “Let us proceed, we are anxious to get this trip over as fast as possible.”
Gersen sent Rampold into the ship with Pallis Atwrode, then slid the platform under the winch, lifted the platform with Dasce aboard into the cargo hold, where he removed Dasce’s head globe Dasce glared at him wordlessly.
“You may see someone aboard you recognize,” said Gersen “He doesn’t want his identity made known to his two colleagues, as it would interfere with his plans. You will be wise to keep a still tongue in your head.”
Dasce said nothing. Gersen secured him with exceeding care. At the center of a long cable he made a loop which he knotted and clamped tightly around Dasce’s neck I he ends of the cable he made fast at opposite sides of the hold, stretching the cable taut Dasce was now constricted in the middle of the hold, the cable extending past him to right and left, the ends ten feet out of his reach to either side. Even with hands free Dasce could not work himself loose Gersen now cut the tapes binding Dasce’s arms and legs Dasce instantly struck out Gersen dodged aside, clubbed Dasce with the butt of his weapon Dasce reeled over senseless Gersen slipped off Dasce’s airsuit, searched the pockets of the white pantaloons, found nothing. He made a final check of the bonds, then returned to the main saloon, bolting the hatch behind him.
Rampold had divested himself of his airsuit and sat quietly in a corner. Detteras and Kelle had done the same for Pallis Atwrode, and had helped her into spare clothing. She sat now to the side of the cabin drinking coffee, her face wan and pinched, her eyes dark and musing. Kelle cast a glance of disapprobation toward Gersen “This is Miss Atwrode—the receptionist at the department. What in the name of heaven is your connection with her?”
“The answer is perfectly simple,” said Gersen. “I met her the first day I visited the university, and asked her out for the evening. For reasons of sheer spite or malice, or so I suppose, Hildemar Dasce struck me down and kidnapped her. I felt it was my duty to rescue her, and I’ve done so.”
Kelle smiled thinly. “I suppose we can’t fault you for this.”
Warweave spoke in the driest of voices—”Presumably we will now make for our original destination.”
“That is certainly my intention.”
“I suggest then that we proceed.”
“Yes,” grumbled Detteras. “The sooner we put a term to this fantastic voyage the better.”
The dark star and its feeble red companion became one with space. In the hold Hildemar Dasce, recovering consciousness, swore in a low vile mutter, testing his bonds with insensate ferocity. He tore and twisted at the clamps till the skin peeled from his fingers, he plucked at the metal strands in the cable till his fingernails broke. Then he tried a new procedure. Thrusting against the floor, lunging from side to side, he tried to pull the cable loose from where it was fastened at the walls: first to the right, then to the left. He succeeded only in bruising his neck. Assured that he was in fact helpless, though hands and feet were free, he relaxed, panting. His mind seethed with emotion. How had Gersen located the dark star? No one alive knew the location but himself. And Malagate. Dasce reviewed the occasions on which he had circumvented, cheated, or failed Malagate, and wondered if one of these occasions might not have come home to roost.
In the saloon, Gersen sat brooding on a settee. The three men from the university—one of whom was not a man—stood together far forward. There was Kelle: suave, fastidious, compact in physique, Warweave: isomorphic, saturnine; Detteras: large-bodied, restless, moody. Gersen eyed his suspect, probing his every act, word, and gesture for corroboration, for some sign to provide the absolute assurance he needed. Pallis Atwrode sat quietly nearby, lost in reverie. From time to time her face twitched, her fingers clenched into her palms. There would be no qualms about the killing of Hildemar Dasce. Robin Rampold stood listlessly at the microfilm library, looking at the index, stroking his long bony chin.
He turned, glanced toward Gersen, sidled across the room wolfishly. In a voice so polite as to seem servile he asked, “He—is he alive?”
“For the moment.”
Rampold hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it again. Finally he asked diffidently, “What do you plan for him?”
“I don’t know,” said Gersen. “I want to make use of him.”
Rampold became very earnest. He spoke in a low voice, as if afraid that the other occupants of the saloon would hear. “Why not put him into my charge? Then you would be relieved of the effort of guarding and tending him.”
“No,” said Gersen, “I think not.”
Ramrod’s face became even more haggard and desperate. “But—I must.”
“You must?”
Rampold nodded. “You cannot understand. For seventeen years he has been—” He could not find words. Finally he said, “He has been the center of my existence. He has been like a personal god. He has provided food and drink and pain. Once he brought me a kitten—a beautiful black kitten. He watched as I touched it, smiling as if benign. This time I thwarted him. I killed the little creature, at once. Because I knew his plan. He wanted to wait until I came to love it, then he would kill it—torture it where I could watch ... Of course he made me pay.”
Gersen drew a deep breath. “He has too much power over you. I can’t trust you with him.”
Tears began to form in Rampold’s eyes. He spoke in a series of disjointed sentences. “It is strange. I feel grief now. What I feel for him I cannot put into words. It goes to an extreme and beyond and becomes almost tenderness. Substances can be so sweet that they taste bitter, so sour that they taste salt ... Yes, I would care for him with great pains. I would devote the rest of my life to him.” He held out his hands “Give him to me I have nothing, or I would repay you.”
Gersen could only shake his head. “We will talk of this later.”
Rampold nodded heavily, returned across the room. Gersen looked forward to where Detteras, Kelle and Warweave continued a desultory conversation. Apparently they were agreed, tacitly or otherwise, on a policy of disinterest toward the new passengers. Gersen smiled grimly. He who was Malagate would not care to confront Hildemar Dasce. Dasce’s temperament was not a subtle one; he was as likely as not to blurt out some damaging disclosure. Malagate would certainly try for a few quiet words of warning and reassurance, or conceivably an opportunity to murder Dasce discreetly.
The situation was unstable; sooner or later it was bound to collapse into more truthful relationships. Gersen toyed with the idea of precipitating the climax, perhaps by bringing Dasce into the saloon or taking Kelle, Detteras and Warweave into the cargo hold .... He decided to bide his time. He still carried his weapons; the three from the university, apparently assured of his good intentions, had not required that he restore them to the locker. Amazing, thought Gersen: even now Malagate could have no cause to suspect that Gersen stalked him. He would be less wary than he might be, and, using the pretext of curiosity, might well seek to look in on Dasce.
Vigilance, thought Gersen. It occurred to him that Robin Rampold would be a useful ally in this situation. No matter what distortions and sublimations seventeen years had produced, he would be no less alert than Gersen himself in any matter relating to Hildemar Dasce.
Gersen rose to his feet and went aft, through the engine room, into the cargo hold. Dasce, making no pretense of stoic resignation, glared at him. Gersen noted Dasce’s bleeding fingers and, putting his projac on a shelf to void the possibility of Dasce’s wresting it away from him, stepped close to check Dasce’s bonds. Dasce kicked savagely. Gersen hacked him behind the ear with the side of his hand, and Dasce fell back. Gersen assured himself as to the clamps which constricted the cable around Dasce’s neck, then moved back, out of his reach.
“It seems,” said Gersen, “that troubles are catching up with you.”
Dasce spat at him. Gersen jumped back. “You’re in a poor case for such offensiveness.”
“Pah! What more can you do to me? Do you think I fear death? I live only out of hate.”
“Rampold has asked that I give you into his care.”
Dasce sneered. “He fears me until he reeks and crawls. He is soft as honey—It was no longer gratifying to hurt him.”
“I wonder how long it will take to make the same sort of man out of you.”
Dasce spat once more. Then he said, “Tell me how you found my star.”
“I had information.”
“From whom?”
“What difference does it make?” said Gersen. He thought to insert an idea into Dasce’s mind. “You’ll never have the opportunity of paying him off.”
Dasce pulled back his mouth in a hideous grin. “Who is aboard this ship?”
Gersen made no reply. Standing back in the shadows, he watched Dasce. He must suspect, to the point of certainty, that Malagate was aboard. Dasce could be no less uncertain than Malagate himself.
Gersen framed and discarded a half-dozen questions calculated to trick Malagate’s name from Dasce. The best were either too clumsy or too subtle; the worst would apprise Dasce that Gersen wanted information, and so put him on his guard,.
Dasce tried to wheedle. “Come! As you say, I am helpless, at your mercy. I am interested in learning who betrayed me.”
“Who do you think it might be?”
Dasce grinned ingenuously. “I have a number of enemies. For instance, the Sarkoy. Was it he?”
“The Sarkoy is dead.”
“Dead!”
“He helped you kidnap the young woman. I poisoned him.”
“Pah,” spat Dasce. “Women are everywhere. Why become excited? Release me. I have wealth and I will pay you half if you tell me who betrayed me.”
“It was not Suthiro the Sarkoy.”
“Tristano? Surely not Tristano. How could he know?”
“When I met Tristano he had little to say.”
“Who then?”
Gersen said. “Very well, I’ll tell you; why not? One of the administrators at the Sea Province University gave me the information.”
Dasce rubbed his hand over his mouth, looked sidewise at Gersen in suspicion and doubt. “Why should he do so?” he muttered. “I can’t understand any of this.”
Gersen had hoped to surprise an exclamation from Dasce. He asked, “Do you know to whom I refer?”
But Dasce only looked at him blankly. Gersen picked up his projac, left the hold.
Returning to the saloon, he found conditions as before. He signaled Robin Rampold back into the engine room. “You asked that Dasce might be put into your charge.”
Rampold eyed him in tremulous excitement. “Yes!”
“I cannot do this—but I need your help in guarding him.”
“Of course!”
“Dasce is tricky. You must never enter the cargo hold.”
Rampold winced in disappointment.
“Equally important, you must not allow anyone else near the cargo hold. These men are Dasce’s enemies. They might kill him.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Rampold. “Dasce must not die!”
Gersen had a new thought. Malagate had ordained the death of Pallis Atwrode for fear that unwittingly she might reveal his identity. In her present state she posed no threat; nevertheless, she might recover. Malagate might well wish to destroy her, if he could do so without risk. Gersen said, “Also, you must try to guard Pallis Atwrode, and make sure that no one disturbs her.”
Rampold was less interested. “I will do what you ask.”
11
From “The Avatar’s Apprentice,” in Scroll from the Ninth Dimension:
Intelligence? asked Marmaduke at one of the permitted intervals, as he attended the EMINENCE upon the Parapet. What is intelligence?
Why, responded the EMINENCE, it is no more than a human occupation; an activity which men put their brains to, as a frog kicks his legs to swim; it is a standard which men in their egotism use to measure other and perhaps nobler races, who are thereby dumfounded.
Do you mean, REVEREND GRAY, that no living creature other than man can share the quality of intelligence?
But ha! And why should I not ask, what is LIFE, what is LIVING, but a disease of the primordial slime, a purulence in the original candid mud, which culminates through cycles and degrees, by distillations and sediments, in the human manifestation?
But, REVEREND, it is known that other worlds demonstrate this fact of LIFE. I allude to the jewels of Olam, as well as the folk of the Chthonian Bog.
Witling, how have you glanced off the exact stroke of the ESSENCE.
REVEREND, I crave your indulgence.
The way along the Parapet is not to the forward-footed.
REVEREND CRAY, I pray that my direction be denned.
Eight tones of the gong have sounded. Be content for the nonce, and fetch the morning wine.
The filament from Lugo Teehalt’s monitor fed impulses into the computer, which digested the information, combined it with the equations describing the ship’s previous position, and dispatched instructions to the autopilot which swerved the ship off and away, on a course roughly parallel to the line between Alphanor and Smade’s Planet. Time passed. Life within the ship fell into a routine Gersen, assisted by Robin Rampold, guarded the cargo hold, though Gersen forbade Rampold entry into the hold itself. For the first few days Hildemar Dasce evinced a brassy jocularity, alternating with earnest threats of vengeance at the hands of an agent he refused to identify.
“Ask Rampold what he thinks,” said Dasce, leering from his bright blue lidless eyes “Do you want this happening to you?”
“No,” said Gersen “I don’t think it’s going to happen.” Occasionally Dasce demanded that Gersen answer his questions “Where are you taking me?” he would ask. “Back to Alphanor?”
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“You’ll see.”
“Answer me, or by”—here Dasce swore obscene oaths—”I’ll do you worse than you’ve ever imagined.”
“It’s a chance we have to take,” said Gersen “We?” asked Dasce softly. “Who is ‘we’?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Why doesn’t he come in here? Tell him I want to talk to him.”
“Any time he wants he can come in.”
At which Dasce fell silent. Goad, prod, pry as he might, Gersen never could induce Dasce to utter a name. Nor did any of the three from the university show interest in Dasce. As for Pallis Atwrode, her detachment at first was profound. For hours she sat, looking out at the passing stars. She ate, slowly, hesitantly, without hunger, she slept for hours on end, curled into as tight a ball as possible. Then gradually she returned to the present, and at times became something like the carefree Pallis Atwrode of old.
The overcrowded confines of the ship made it impossible for Gersen to talk to her in private, which, in his estimation, was as well. The situation, with Dasce in the hold and Attel Malagate in the forward cabin, was already strained to an almost unbearable degree of tautness. More time passed. The ship traversed new regions, and regions after regions where no man had passed but one Lugo Teehalt. To all sides hung stars by the thousand, by the million streaming, swarming, flowing, glaring, glittering, shirting silently one across the other, and the other across another still—worlds of infinite variety, populated by who knows whom, each drawing the eye, fixing the imagination, evoking wonder, each world an urge, a temptation, a mystery, each a promise of unseen sights, unknown knowledge, unsensed beauty.
