This Immortal (3 page)

Earthdirector Lorel Sands was smoking his pipe. ...

Now, the pipe is one of the more interesting facets of Lorel's personality. It's a real Meerschaum, and there aren't too many of them left in the world. As for the rest of him, his function is rather like that of an anticomputer: you feed him all kinds of carefully garnered facts, figures, and statistics and he translates them into garbage. Keen dark eyes, and a slow, rumbly way of speaking while he holds you with them; rarely given to gestures, but then very deliberate as he saws the air with a wide right hand or pokes imaginary ladies with his pipe; white at the temples and dark above; he is high of cheekbone, has a complexion that matches his tweeds (he assiduously avoids Dress Blacks), and he constantly strives to push his jaw an inch higher 20 ROGER ZELAZNY

and further forward than seems comfortable. He is a political appointee, by the Earthgov on Taler, and he takes his work quite seriously, even to the extent of demonstrating his dedication with periodic attacks of ulcers. He is not the most intelligent man on Earth. He is my boss. He is also one of the best friends I have.

Beside him sat Cort Myshtigo. I could almost feel Phil hating him-from the pale blue soles of his six-toed feet to the pink upper-caste dye of his temple-to-temple hairstrip. Not hating him so much because he was him, but hating him, I was sure, because he was the closest available relative-grandson-of Tatram Yshtigo, who forty years before had commenced to demonstrate that the greatest living writer in the English language was a Vegan.

The old gent is still at it, and I don't believe Phil has ever forgiven him.

Out of the comer of my eye (the blue one) I saw Ellen ascending the big, ornate stairway on the other side of the hall. Out of the other comer of my other eye I saw Lorel looking in my direction.

"I," said I, "have been spotted, and I must go now to pay my respects to the William Seabrook of Taler. Come along?"

"Well . . . Very well," said Phil; "suffering is good for the soul."

We moved on to the alcove and stood before the two chairs, between the music and the noise, there in the place of power. Lorel stood slowly and shook hands. Myshtigo stood more slowly, and did not shake hands; he stared, amber-eyed, his face expressionless as we were introduced. His loose-hanging orange shirt fluttered constantly as his cham-THIS IMMORTAL 21

;red lungs forced their perpetual exhalation out anterior nostrils at the base of his wide ribcage.

nodded briefly, repeated my name. Then he ned to Phil with something like a smile.

^^•^"Would you care to have me translate your

^jBiasque into English?" he asked, his voice sounding 4||&£ a dying-down tuning fork.

^ Phil turned on his heel and walked away.

^ Then I thought the Vegan was ill for a second,

'.ijSfttil I recollected that a Vegan's laugh sounds

-^wnething like a billy goat choking. I try to stay

^away from Vegans by avoiding the resorts.

"Sit down," said Lorel, looking uncomfortable behind his pipe.

I drew up a chair and set it across from them.

Wfcay."

"Cort is going to write a book," said Lorel.

"So you've said."

"About the Earth."

I nodded.

"He expressed a desire that you be his guide on A tour of certain of the Old Places. ..."

"I am honored," I said rather stiffly. "Also, I am curious what determined his selection of me as guide."

, "And even more curious as to what he may know about you, eh?" said the Vegan.

"Yes, I am," I agreed, "by a couple hundred percent."

"I asked a machine."

/, "Fine. Now I know."

I leaned back and finished my drink.

fr "I started by checking the Vite-Stats Register for Earth when I first conceived of this project-just for 22 ROGER ZELAZNY

general human data-then, after I'd turned up an interesting item, I tried the Earthoffice Personnel Banks-"

"Mm-hm/'Isaid.

*'-and I was more impressed by what they did not say of you than by what they said."

I shrugged.

"There are many gaps in your career. Even now, no one really knows what you do most of the time."

"-And by the way, when were you born?"

"I don't know. It was in a tiny Greek village and they were all out of calendars that year. Christmas Day, though, I'm told."

"According to your personnel record, you're seventy-seven years old. According to Vite-Stats, you're either a hundred eleven or a hundred thirty"

"I fibbed about my age to get the job. There was a Depression going on."

"-So I made up a Nomikos-profile, which is a kind of distinctive thing, and I set Vite-Stats to hunting down .001 physical analogues in all of its banks, including the closed ones."

"Some people collect old coins, other people build model rockets."

"I found that you could have been three or four or five other persons, all of them Greeks, and one of them truly amazing. But, of course, Konstantin Korones, one of the older ones, was born two hundred thirty-four years ago. On Christmas. Blue eye, brown eye. Game right leg. Same hairline, at age twenty-three. Same height, and same Bertillion scales."

"Same fingerprints? Same retinal patterns?"

"These were not included in many of the older THIS IMMORTAL 23

Egistry files. Maybe they were sloppier in those fcys? I don't know. More careless, perhaps, as to fho had access to public records. ..."

1^'You are aware that there are over four million sons on this planet right now. By searching back nigh the past three or four centuries I daresay i could find doubles, or even triples, for quite a of them. So what?"

'"It serves to make you somewhat intriguing,

, ttt's all, almost like a spirit of place-and you are a» curiously ruined as this place is. Doubtless I shall ttcver achieve your age, whatever it may be, and I Wil® curious as to the sort of sensibilities a human might cultivate, given so much time-especially in vfew of your position as a master of your world's hittory and art.

"So that is why I asked for your services," he concluded.

"Now that you've met me, ruined and all, can I go home?"

"Conrad!" The pipe attacked me.

"No, Mister Nomikos, there are practical considerations also. This is a tough world, and you have a high survival potential. I want you with me because I want to survive."

I shrugged again.

, "Well, that's settled. What now?"

He chuckled.

"I perceive that you dislike me."

"Whatever gave you that idea? Just because you insulted a friend of mine, asked me impertinent

-h questions, impressed me into your service on a f-whim-"

i

"-exploited your countrymen, turned your world into a brothel, and demonstrated the utter 24 ROGER ZELAZNY

provinciality of the human race, as compared to a galactic culture eons older. ..."

"I'm not talking your race-my race, I'm talking personal talk. And I repeat, you insulted my friend, asked me impertinent questions, impressed me into your service on a whim."

'' {Billy goat snuffle) I to all three! -It is an insult to the shades of Homer and Dante to have that man sing for the human race."

"At the moment he's the best we've got."

"In which case you should do without."

"That's no reason to treat him the way you did."

"I think it is, or I wouldn't have done it.-Second, I asked whatever questions I feel like asking, and it is your privilege to answer or not to answer as you see fit-just as you did.-Finally, nobody impressed you into anything. You are a civil servant.

You have been given an assignment. Argue with your Office, not me.

"And, as an afterthought, I doubt that you possess sufficient data to use the word 'whim' as freely as you do," he finished.

From his expression, it appear that Lord's ulcer was making silent commentary as I observed:

"Then call your rudeness plain dealing, if you will-or the product of another culture-and justify your influence with sophistries, and afterthink all you like-and by all means, deliver me all manner of spurious judgments, that I may judge you in return. You behave like a Royal Representative in a Crown Colony," I decided, pronouncing the capitals, "and I don't like it-I've read all your books.

I've also read your granddad's-like his Earth-whore's Lament-and you'll never be the man he is.

He has a thing called compassion. You don't. AnyTHIS IMMORTAL 25

ing you feel about old Phil goes double for you, in my book."

^ That part about grandpa must have touched on a yore spot, because he flinched when my blue gaze jglit him.

y, "So kiss my elbow," I said, or something like Jphat, in Vegan.

Me, Sands doesn't speak enough Veggy to have

"^caught it, but he made conciliatory noises im-

,' mediately, looking about the while to be sure we

. were not being overhead.

"Conrad, please find your professional attitude and put it back on.-Srin Shtgio, why don't we get on with the planning?"

Myshtigo smiled his bluegreen smile.

**And minimize our differences?" he asked. "All

. right."

"Then let's adjourn to the library-where it's quieter-and we can use the map-screen."

"Fine."

I felt a bit reinforced as we rose to go, because Don DOS Santos was up there and he hates Vegans, and wherever DOS Santos is, there is always Diane, Ac girl with the red wig, and she hates everybody; , and I knew George Emmet was upstairs, and Ellen, too-and George is a real cold fish around strangers (friends, too, for that matter); and perhaps Phil would wander in later and fire on Fort Sumter; and then there was Hasan-he doesn't say much, he . just sits there and smokes his weeds and looks

,' opaque-and if you stood too near him and took a

.; .couple deep breaths you wouldn't care what the iy. hell you said to Vegans, or people either.

.yr

|j^ I had hoped that Hasan's memory would be on 26 ROGER ZELAZNY

the rocks, or else up there somewhere among the clouds.

Hope died as we entered the library. He was sitting straight and sipping lemonade.

Eighty or ninety or more, looking about forty, he could still act thirty. The Sprung-Samser treatments had found highly responsive material. It's not often that way. Almost never, in fact. They put some people into accelerated anaphylactic shock for no apparent reason, and even an intracardial blast of adrenalin won't haul them back; others, most others, they freeze at five or six decades. But some rare ones actually grow younger when they take the series-about one in a hundred thousand.

It struck me as odd that in destiny's big shooting gallery this one should make it, in such a way.

It had been over fifty years since the Madagascar Affair, in which Hasan had been employed by the Radpol in their vendetta against the Talerites. He had been in the pay of (Rest in Peace) the big K. in Athens, who had sent him to polish off the Earthgov Realty Company. Hc*d done it, too. And well. With one tiny fission device. Pow. Instant urban renewal. Called Hasan the Assassin by the Few, he is the last mercenary on Earth.

Also, besides Phil (who had not always been the wielder of the bladeless sword without a hilt), Hasan was one of the Very Few who could remember old Karaghios.

So, chin up and fungus forward, I tried to cloud his mind with my first glance. Either there were ancient and mysterious powers afoot, which I doubted, or he was higher than I'd thought, which was possible, or he had forgotten my face-which could have been possible, though not real likely-or THIS IMMORTAL 27

he was exercising a professional ethic or a low animal cunning. (He possessed both of the latter, in varying degrees, but the accent was on the animal cunning.) He made no sign as we were introduced.

"My bodyguard, Hasan," said DOS Santos, flashing his magnesium-flare smile as I shook the hand that once had shaken the world, so to speak.

It was still a very strong hand.

"Conrad Nomikos," said Hasan, squinting as though he were reading it from off a scroll.

I knew everyone else in the room, so I hastened to the chair farthest from Hasan, and I kept my second drink in front of my face most of the time, just to be safe.

EHane of the Red Wig stood near. She spoke. She said, "Good morning, Mister Nomikos."

I nodded my drink.

"Good evening, Diane."

Tall, slim, wearing mostly white, she stood beside DOS Santos like a candle. I know it's a wig she wears, because I've seen it slip upwards on occasion, revealing part of an interesting and ugly scar which is usually hidden by the low hairline she keeps. I've often wondered about that scar, sometimes as I lay at anchor staring up at parts of constellations through clouds, or when I unearthed damaged statues. Purple lips-tattooed, I think-and I've never seen them smile; her jaw muscles are always raised cords because her teeth are always clenched; and there's a little upside-down "v" between her eyes, from all that frowning; and her chin is slight, held high-defiant? She barely moves her mouth when she speaks in that tight, choppy way of hers. I couldn't really guess at her age. Over thirty, that's all.

She and Don make an interesting pair. He is dark, loquacious, always smoking, unable to sit still for more than two minutes. She is taller by about Five inches, burns without flickering. I still don't know all of her story. I guess I never will.

She came over and stood beside my chair while Lorel was introducing Cort to DOS Santos.

"You," she said.

"Me," I said.

"-will conduct the tour."

"Everybody knows all about it but me," said I. "I don't suppose you could spare me a little of your knowledge on the matter?"

"No knowledge, no matter," said she.

"You sound like Phil," said I.

"Didn't mean to."

"You did, though. So why?"

"Why what?"

"Why you? Don? Here? Tonight?"

She touched her tongue to her upper lip, then pressed it hard, as though to squeeze out the grape-juice or keep in the words. Then she looked over at Don, but he was too far away to have heard, and he was looking in another direction anyhow. He was busy pouring Myshtigo a real Coke from the pitcher in the exec dip-tray. The Coke formula had been the archaeological find of the century, according to the Vegans. It was lost during the Three Days and recovered only a decade or so ago. There had been lots of simicokes around, but none of them have the same effect on Vegan metabolism as the real thing.