Planet of Adventure Omnibus (36 page)

“Lord Cizante
was perhaps shocked by your news,” suggested Helsse. “As for Dordolio’s charge,
it is obviously inaccurate and need no longer be considered.”

Reith
grinned. “Dordolio has known me a month; can you dispute him on the basis of
such short acquaintance?”

If he had
hoped to discomfit Helsse, he was unsuccessful. Helsse’s smile was bland. “I am
usually correct in my appraisals.”

“Suppose that
I were to make a set of apparently wild assertions: that Tschai was flat, that
the tenets of the ‘cult’ were correct, that men could live underwater-what
would become of your opinion?”

Helsse
considered soberly. “Each case is different. If you told me Tschai was flat, I
would certainly revise my judgment. If you argued the creed of the ‘cult,’ I
would suspend a decision and listen to your remarks, for here is a matter of
opinion and no evidence exists, at least to my knowledge. If you insisted that
men could live underwater I might be inclined to accept the statement as a
working premise. After all, the Pnume submerge, as do the Wankh; why not men,
perhaps with special equipment?”

“Tschai is
not flat,” said Reith. “Men are able to live underwater for short periods using
artificial gills. I know nothing of the ‘cult’ or its doctrines.”

Helsse sipped
from his goblet of essence. The singer had departed; a dance troupe now came
forth: men in black leggings and sleeves, nude from upper thigh to rib cage.
Reith stared in fascination for a moment or two, then looked away.

“Traditional
dances,” explained Helsse, “relating to Pathetic Communion. This is ‘Precursory
Movement of the Ministrants toward the Expiator.”‘

“The ‘ministrants’
are torturers?”

“They are
those who provide latitude for absolute expiation. Many become popular heroes
because of their passionate techniques.” Helsse rose to his feet. “Come. You
have implied at least a mild interest in the ‘cult.’ As it happens, I know the
location of their meeting place, which is not far from here. If you are
interested, I will take you there.”

“If the visit
is not contrary to the laws of Cath.”

“No fear of
that. Cath has no laws, only customs, which seems to suit the Yao well enough.”

“Peculiar,”
said Reith. “Killing is not proscribed?”

“It offends
custom, at least under certain circumstances. However, the professional
assassins of the Guild and the Service Company work without public reproach. In
general the folk of Cath do what they see fit and suffer more or less
opprobrium. So you may visit the ‘cult’ and incur, at the worse, invective.”

Reith rose to
his feet. “Very well; lead the way.”

They walked
across the Oval, through a winding alley into a dim avenue. The eccentric
silhouettes of the houses opposite leaned across the sky, where Az and Braz
both ranged. Helsse rapped at a door displaying a pale blue phosphor. The two
men waited in silence. The door opened a crack; a long-nosed face peered forth.

“Visitors,”
said Helsse. “May we come in?”

“You are
associates? I must inform you that here is the district center for the Society
of Yearning Refluxives.”

“We are not
associates. This gentleman is an outlander who wishes to learn something of the
‘cult.”‘

“He is
welcome and yourself as well, since you seem to have no concern for ‘place.’ “

“None
whatever.”

“Which marks
you either the highest of the high or the lowest of the low. Enter then. We
have little entertainment to offer-convictions, a few theories, fewer facts.”
The Refluxive swept aside a curtain. “Enter.”

Helsse and
Reith stepped into a large low room. To one side, forlorn in so much vacant
space, two men and two women sat drinking tea from iron pots.

The Refluxive
made a half-obsequious, half-sardonic gesture. “Here we are; stare yourself
full at the dreadful ‘cult.’ Have you ever seen anything less obstreperous?”

“The ‘cult,”‘
said Helsse, somewhat sententiously, “is despised not for the look of its
meeting halls, but for its provocative assumptions.”

“‘Assumptions’
bah!” declared the Refluxive in a voice of peevish complaint. “The others
persecute us but we are the chosen in knowledge.”

Reith asked: “What,
precisely, do you know?”

“We know that
men are strangers to Tschai.”

“How can you know
this?” demanded Helsse. “Human history fades into murk.”

“It is an
intuitive Truth. We are equally certain that someday the Human Magi will call
their seed back Home! And then what joy! Home is a world of bounty, with air
that rejoices in the lungs, like the sweetest Iphthal wine! On Home are golden
mountains crowned with opals and forests of dreams! Death is a strange
accident, not a fate; all men wander with joy and peace for company, with
delicious viands everywhere for the eating!”

“A delightful
vision,” said Helsse, “but do you not consider it somewhat conjectural? Or more
properly, institutional dogma?”

“Possibly so,”
declared the stubborn Refluxive. “Still, dogma is not necessarily falsehood.
These are revealed truths, and behold: the revealed image of Home!” He pointed
to a world globe three feet in diameter hanging at eye-level.

Reith went to
inspect the globe, tilting his head this way and that, trying to identify
outline of sea and shore, finding here a haunting familiarity, there utter
disparity. Helsse came to stand beside him. “What does it look like to you?”
His voice was light and careless.

“Nothing in
particular.”

Helsse gave a
soft grunt of mingled relief and perhaps disappointment, or so it seemed to
Reith.

One of the
women lifted her obese body from the bench and came forward. “Why not join the
Society?” she wheedled. “We need new faces, new blood, to augment the vast new
tide. Won’t you help us make contact with Home?”

Reith
laughed. “Is there a practical method?”

“To be sure!
Telepathy! Indeed, we have no other recourse.”

“Why not a
spaceship?”

The woman
seemed bewildered, and looked sharply to see if Reith was serious. “Where could
we lay our hands on a spaceship?”

“They are
nowhere to be bought? Even a small one?”

“I have never
heard of such a case.”

“Nor I,” was
Helsse’s dry comment.

“Where would
we fare?” demanded the woman, half truculently. “Home is situated in the
constellation Clari, but space is vast; we would drift forever.”

“The problems
are large,” Reith agreed. “Still, assuming that your premise is correct-”

“ ‘Assume’? ‘Premise’?”
demanded the fat woman in a shocked voice. ‘Revelation,’ rather.”

“Possibly so.
But mysticism is not a practical approach to space travel. Let us suppose that
by one means or another, you find yourself in command of a spaceship, then you
might very easily verify the basis of your belief. Simply fly into the
constellation Clari, halting at appropriate intervals to monitor the area for
radio signals. Sooner or later, if the world Home exists, a suitable instrument
will detect the signals.”

“Interesting,”
said Helsse. “You assume that such a world, if it exists, is sufficiently
advanced to propagate these signals?”

Reith
shrugged. “Since we’re assuming the world, why not assume the signals?”

Helsse had
nothing to say. The Refluxive declared, “Ingenious but superficial! How, for
instance, would we obtain a spaceship?”

“With
sufficient funds and technical competence you could build a small vessel.”

“To begin
with,” said the Refluxive, “we have no such funds.”

“The least of
the difficulties, or so I would think,” murmured Helsse.

“The second
possibility is to buy a small boat from one of the spacefaring peoples: the
Dirdir, the Wankh, or perhaps even the Blue Chasch.”

“Again a
question of sequins,” said the Refluxive. “How much would a spaceboat cost?”

Reith looked
at Helsse, who pursed his lips. “Half a million sequins, should anyone be
willing to sell, which I doubt.”

“The third
possibility is the most direct,” said Reith. “Confiscation, pure and simple.”

“Confiscation?
From whom? Though members of the ‘cult’ we are not yet lunatics.”

The fat woman
gave a sniff of disapproval. “The man is a wild romantic.”

The Refluxive
said gently, “We would gladly accept you as an associate, but you must discover
orthodox methodology. Classes in thought control and projective telepathy are
offered twice a week, on Ilsday and Azday. If you care to attend-”

“I’m afraid
that this is impossible,” said Reith. “But your program is interesting and I
hope it brings fruitful returns.”

Helsse made a
courteous sign; the two departed.

They walked
along the quiet avenue in silence. Then Helsse inquired: “What is your opinion
now?”

“The
situation speaks for itself,” said Reith.

“You are
convinced then that their doctrine is implausible?”

“I would not
go quite so far. Scientists have undoubtedly found biological links between
Pnume, Phung, night-hounds, and other indigenous creatures. Blue Chasch, Green
Chasch, and Old Chasch are similarly related, as are all the races of man. But
Pnume, Wankh, Chasch, Dirdir, and Man are biologically distinct. What does this
suggest to you?”

“I agree that
the circumstances are puzzling. Have you any explanation?”

“I feel that
more facts are needed. Perhaps the Refluxives will become adept telepathists,
and surprise us all.”

Helsse walked
along in silence. They turned a corner. Reith pulled Helsse to a halt. “Quiet!”
He waited.

The shuffle
of footsteps sounded; a dark shape rounded the corner. Reith seized the figure,
spun it around, applied an arm and neck lock. Helsse made one or two tentative
motions; Reith, trusting no one, kept him in his field of vision. “Make a
light,” said Reith. “Let’s see whom we have. Or what.”

Helsse
brought forth a glow-bulb, held it up. The captive squirmed, kicked, lurched;
Reith tightened his grip and felt the snap of a bone, but the figure, sagging,
toppled Reith off balance. From the unseen face came a hiss of triumph; it
snatched itself free. Then, to a flicker of metal, it gave a gasp of pain.

Helsse held
up his glow-bulb, disengaged his dagger from the back of the twitching shape,
while Reith stood by, mouth twisted in disapproval. “You are quick with your
blade.”

Helsse
shrugged. “His kind carry stings.” He turned the body over with his foot; a
small tinkle sounded as a glass sliver fell against the stone.

The two
peered curiously into the white face, half-shrouded under the brim of an
extravagantly wide black hat.

“He hats
himself like a Pnumekin,” said Helsse, “and he is pale as a ghost.”

“Or a
Wankhman,” said Reith.

“But I think
he is something different from either; what, I could not say. Perhaps a hybrid,
a mingling, which, so it is said, makes the best personnel for spy work.”

Reith
dislodged the hat, to reveal a stark bald pate. The face was fine-boned,
somewhat loosely-muscled; the nose was thin and limber and terminated in a
lump. The eyes, half-open, seemed to be black. Bending close, Reith thought
that the scalp had been shaven.

Helsse looked
uneasily up and down the street. “Come, we must hurry away, before the patrol
finds us and issues an information.”

“Not so fast,”
said Reith. “No one is near. Hold the light; stand yonder, where you can see
along the street.” Helsse reluctantly obeyed and Reith was able to watch him
sidelong as he searched the corpse. The garments had a queer musky odor; Reith’s
stomach jerked as he felt here and there. From an inner pocket of the cloak he
took a clip of paper. At the belt hung a soft leather pouch, which he detached.

“Come!”
hissed Helsse. “We must not be discovered, we would lose all ‘place.”‘

They
proceeded back to the Oval and across to the Travelers’ Inn. In the arcade
before the entrance they paused. “The evening was interesting,” said Reith. “I
learned a great deal.”

“I wish I
could say the same,” said Helsse. “What did you take from the dead man?”

Reith
displayed the pouch, which contained a handful of sequins. He brought forth the
clip of paper, and the two examined it in the light streaming out of the inn,
to find rows of a peculiar writing: a series of rectangles, variously shaded
and marked.

Helsse looked
at Reith. “Do you recognize this script?”

“No.”

Helsse gave a
short sharp bark of laughter. “It is Wankh.”

“Hm. What
would be the significance of this?”

“Simply more
mystery. Settra is a hive of intrigue. Spies are everywhere.”

“And spy
devices? Microphones? Eye-cells?”