No World of Their Own (10 page)

The talk strayed for an hour, wandering over stars and planets. Brannoch exerted himself to charm, and thought he was succeeding.

“I've got to go,” said Langley at last. “My nursemaids must be getting fretful.”

“As you say. Come in again any time.” Brannoch saw him to the door. “Oh, by the way. There'll be a present for you when you get back. I think you'll like it.”

“Huh?” Langley stared at him.

“Not a bribe. No obligation. If you don't keep it, I won't be offended. But it occurred to me that all the people trying to use you as a tool never stopped to think that you are a man.” Brannoch clapped his shoulder. “So long. Good luck.”

When he was gone, the Thorian whirled back toward his listeners. There was a flame in him. “Did you get it?” he snapped. “Did you catch any thoughts?”

“No,” said the voice. “We could not read his mind at all.”

“What?”

“It was gibberish. There was nothing recognizable. Now we must depend on your scheme.”

Brannoch slumped into a chair. Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had a slow accumulation of mutations altered the human brain that much? He didn't know. The Thrymans had never told anyone how their telepathy worked.

But—well, Langley was still a man. There was still a chance. A
very good chance, if I know men.
Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to ease the tautness within himself.

IX

The police escort dogged him all the way back. And there would be others in the throngs on the bridgeways, hidden behind the blurring rain which runneled off the transparent coverings. No more peace, no more privacy … unless he gave in, told what he really thought.

He'd have to, or before long his mind would be wrenched open and its knowledge pried out. So far, reflected Langley, he'd done a good job of dissimulation, of acting baffled. It wasn't too hard. He came from another civilization, and his nuances of tone and gesture and voice could not be interpreted by the most skilled psychologist today. Also, he'd always been a good poker player.

But who? Chanthavar, Brannoch, Valti? Didn't Saris have any rights in the matter? They could all have been lying to him; there might not be a word of truth in any of their arguments. Maybe no one should have the new power, maybe it was best to burn Saris to ash with an energy beam and forget him. But how could even that be done?

Langley shook his head. He had to decide, and fast. If he read a few of those oddly difficult books, learned something—just a little, just enough for a guess as to who could most be trusted. Or maybe he should cut cards. It wouldn't be any more senseless than the blind blundering fate which seemed to rule human destiny.

No … he had to live with himself, all the rest of his days.

He came out on the flange of the palace tower which held his apartment. The hall bore him to the shaft, and he sped upward toward his own level. Four guards, unhuman-looking in the stiff black fabric of combat armor, followed; but at least they'd stay outside his door.

Langley stopped to let it scan him. “Open, sesame,” he said in a tired voice, and walked through. It closed behind him.

Then, for a little while, there was an explosion in his head, and he stood in a stinging darkness.

It lifted. He swayed on his feet, not moving, feeling the tears that ran down his face. “Peggy,” he whispered.

She came toward him with the same long-legged, awkward grace he remembered. The plain white dress was belted to a slender waist, and ruddy hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were big and green, there was gentleness on the wide mouth, her nose was tilted and there was a dusting of freckles across its bridge. When she was close, she stopped and bent the knee to him. He saw how the light slid over her burnished hair.

He reached out as if to touch her, but his hand wouldn't go all the way. Suddenly his teeth were clapping in his jaws, and there was a chill in his flesh. Blindly, he turned from her.

He beat his fists against the wall, hardly touching it, letting the forces that shuddered within him expend themselves in controlling muscles that wanted to batter down a world. It seemed like forever before he could face her again. She was still waiting.

“You're not Peggy,” he said through his tears. “It isn't you.”

She did not understand the English, but must have caught his meaning. The voice was low, as hers had been, but not quite the same. “Sir, I am called Marin. I was sent as a gift by the Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”

At least,
thought Langley,
that son of a bitch had enough brains to give her another name.

His heart, racing in its cage of ribs, began skipping beats, and he snapped after air. Slowly, he fumbled over to the service robot. “Give me a sedative,” he said. “I want to remain conscious but calm.” The voice was strange in his ears.

When he had gulped the liquid down, he felt a darkness rising. His hands tingled as warmth returned. The heart slowed, the lungs expanded, the sweating skin shivered and eased. There was a balance within him, as if his grief had aged many years.

He studied the girl, and she gave him a timid smile. No—not Peggy. The face and figure, yes, but no American woman had ever smiled in just that way—that particular curve of lips. She was a little taller, he saw, and did not walk like one born free. And the voice—

“Where did you come from?” he asked, vaguely amazed at the levelness in his tone. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I am a Class Eight slave, sir,” she answered, meekly but with no self-consciousness about it. “We are bred for intelligent, pleasant companionship. My age is twenty, and I am a virgin. The Lord Brannoch purchased me a few days ago, had surgical alterations and psychological conditioning performed, and sent me here as a gift to you. I am yours to command, sir.”

“Anything goes, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” There was a small flicker of fear in her eyes. Stories about perverted and sadistic owners must have run through the breeding and training centers. But he liked the game way she faced up to him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I'm not going to do anything at all. You're to go back to the Lord Brannoch and tell him that he's a ring-tailed bastard who's just wrecked any chance he ever had of getting my cooperation. You may quote me on that.”

She flushed, and her eyes filmed with tears. At least she had pride—well, of course Brannoch would have known Langley wasn't interested in a spiritless doll. It must have been an effort to control her reply: “Then you don't want me, sir?”

“Only to deliver that message. Get out.”

She bowed and turned to go. Langley leaned against the wall, his fists knotted together.
O. Peggy, Peggy, my darling!

“Just a minute!” It was as if someone else had spoken. She stopped.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell me … what'll happen to you now?”

“I don't know, sir. The Lord Brannoch may punish—” She shook her head with a queer, stubborn honesty that did not fit a slave. But Peggy had been that way too. “No, sir. He will realize I am not to blame. He may keep me for a while, or sell me to someone else. I don't know.”

Langley felt a thickness in his throat. Fat Minister Yulien, panting by this girl who looked like Peggy!

“No.” He smiled; it hurt his mouth. “I'm sorry. You … startled me. Don't go away. Sit down.”

He found a chair for himself, and she curled slim legs beneath her to sit at his feet. He touched her head with great gentleness. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Lord Brannoch said you were a spaceman from very long ago who got lost and—I look like your wife, now. I suppose he used pictures to make the copy. He said he thought you'd like to have someone who looked like her.”

“And what else? What were you supposed to do? Talk me into helping him? He wants my help in an important matter.”

“No, sir.” She met his eyes steadily. “I was only to obey your wishes. It—” A tiny frown creased her brow, so much like Peggy's that Langley felt his heart crack within him. “It may be he was relying on your gratitude.”

“Fat chancel” Langley tried to think. It wasn't like Brannoch, who must be a cynical realist, to assume that this would make the spaceman come slobbering to him. Or was it? Some traits of human nature had changed with the change in all society. Maybe a present-day Earthman would react like that.

“Do you expect me to feel obligated to him?” he asked slowly.

“No, sir. Why should you? I'm not a very expensive gift.”

Langley wished for his old pipe. He'd have to have some tobacco cut for it special one of these days, he thought vaguely; nobody smoked pipes anymore. He stroked her bronze hair with a hand which the drug had again made steady.

“Tell me something about yourself, Marin,” he said. “What sort of life did you lead?”

She described it, competently, without resentment but not without humor. The center didn't meet any of Langley's preconceived notions. Far from being a place of lust, it sounded like a rather easy-going convent. There had been woods and fields to stroll in between the walls; there had been an excellent education; there had been no attempt—except for conditioning to acceptance of being property—to prevent each personality from growing its own way. But of course, those girls were meant for high-class concubines, something more than just a body.

With the detachment lent him by the sedative, Langley perceived that Marin could be very useful to him. He asked her a few questions about history and current events, and she gave him intelligent answers. Maybe her knowledge could help him decide what to do.

“Marin,” he asked dreamily, “have you ever ridden a horse?”

“No, sir. I can pilot a car or flyer, but I was never on an animal. It would be fun to try.” She smiled, completely at ease now.

“Look,” he said, “drop that superior pronoun and stop calling me ‘sir.' My name's Edward—plain Ed.”

“Yes, sir—Edwy.” She frowned with a child-like seriousness. “I'll try to remember. Excuse me if I forget. And in public, it would be better to stay by the usual rules.”

“Okay. Now—” Langley couldn't face the clear eyes. He stared out at the rain instead. “Would you like to be free?”

“Sir?”

“Ed, dammit! I suppose I can manumit you. Wouldn't you like to be a free agent?”

“It's … very kind of you,” she replied slowly. “But—”

“Well?”

“But what could I do? I'd have to go to low-level, become a commoner's wife or a servant or a prostitute. There isn't any other choice.”

“Nice system. Up here, you're at least protected and among your intellectual equals. Okay, it was just a thought. Consider yourself part of the furniture.”

She chuckled. “You're … nice,” she said. “I was very lucky.”

“Like hell you were. Look, I'm going to keep you around because I haven't the heart to turn you out. But there may well be danger. I'm right in the middle of an interstellar poker game and—I'll try to get you out from under if things go sour, but I may not be able to. Tell me honestly, can you face the prospect of getting killed or—or anything?”

“Yes, Edwy. I've been trained into the habit of physical courage.”

“I wish you wouldn't talk that way,” he said gloomily. “But I suppose you can't help it. People may still be the same underneath, but they think different on top. Well—”

“What is your danger, Edwy? Can I help?” She laid a hand on his knee. It was a slim hand but with strong blunt fingers like—“I want to, I really do.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “I'm not going to tell you more than I must, because if people realize you know anything you'll become a poker chip too.” He had to use the English phrase. Only chess had survived of the games he knew, but she got the idea. “And don't try to deduce things, either. I tell you, it's dangerous.”

There was no calculation in the way she got up and leaned over him and brushed his cheek with one hand. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “It must be dreadful for you.”

“I'll survive. Let's continue the roundup. I mean you well, but right now I'm under a sedative. It was a shock seeing you, and it's going to go on being a shock for a while. Keep in the background, Marin; duck for cover if I start throwing things. Don't try to be sympathetic. Just let me alone. Savvy?”

She nodded mutely.

In spite of the drug, his voice roughened. There was still a knife in him. “You can sleep in that room there. I like you, but I don't want your pink body. Not—not the way things are.”

“All right,” she said quietly. “I understand. If you change your mind, I'll understand that too.” After a moment: “You could have my appearance altered again, you know.”

He didn't reply, but' sat wondering. It was the logical answer.… No. He would always remember. He didn't believe in hiding from a fact.

Alone in his room, Langley donned pajamas, crawled into bed. Closing his eyes, he tried to call up the image of Peggy. She was gone, she had died so long ago that the very blood of her was thinned through the entire race. Quite possibly everyone he had met, Chanthavar and Brannoch and Valti and Marin and Yulien and the faceless commoners huddled on low-level, stemmed from one unforgotten night with her. It was a strange thought. He wondered if she had married again; he hoped so, hoped that it had been a good man and that her life had been happy, but it wasn't likely. She had been the sort who only gave herself once.

He tried to see her before him, but it was hard to get a clear vision. Marin overlay it, they were like two pictures one on the other and not quite in line, the edges blurred. Peggy's smile had never been just like what he saw now … or had it?

It might have been hours later when he heard the explosion.