The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (79 page)

"Hiram!" Henry exclaimed in horror.

"It's quite all right," said the U.N. man.
"We
have
been jabbering. And now, Mr. Taine?"

"I'm backed into a corner," Taine told him,
"and I need some help. I've sold these fellows on the idea of paint, but I
don't know a thing about it—the principle back of it or how it's made or what
goes into it or-"

"But, Mr. Taine, if you're selling them the paint, what
difference does it make—"

"I'm not selling them the paint," yelled Taine.
"Can't you understand that? They don't want the paint. They want the
idea
of paint, the principle of paint. It's something that they never thought of
and they're interested. I offered them the paint idea for the idea of their
saddles and I've almost got it—"

"Saddles? You mean those things over there, hanging in
the air?"

"That is right. Beasly, would you ask one of our
friends to demonstrate a saddle?"

"You bet I will," said Beasly.

"What," demanded Henry, "has Beasly got to do
with this?"

"Beasly is an interpreter. I guess you'd call him a
telepath. You remember how he always claimed he could talk with Towser?"

"Beasly was always claiming things."

"But this time he was right. He tells Chuck, that
funny-looking monster, what I want to say and Chuck tells these aliens. And
these aliens tell Chuck and Chuck Beasly and Beasly tells me."

"Ridiculous!" snorted Henry. "Beasly hasn't
got the sense to be . . . what did you say he was?"

"A telepath," said Taine.

One of the aliens had gotten up and climbed into a saddle.
He rode it forth and back. Then he swung out of it and sat down again.

"Remarkable," said the U.N. man. "Some sort
of antigravity unit, with complete control. We could make use of that,
indeed."

He scraped his hand across his chin.

"And you're going to exchange the idea of paint for the
idea of that saddle?"

"That's exactly it," said Taine, "but I need
some help. I need a chemist or a paint manufacturer or someone to explain how
paint is made. And I need some professor or other who'll understand what
they're talking about when they tell me the idea of the saddle."

"I see," said Lancaster. "Yes, indeed, you
have a problem. Mr. Taine, you seem to me a man of some discernment—"

"Oh, he's all of that," interrupted Henry.
"Hiram's quite astute."

"So I suppose you'll understand," said the U.N.
man, "that this whole procedure is quite irregular—"

"But it's not," exploded Taine. "That's the
way they operate. They open up a planet and then they exchange ideas. They've
been doing that with other planets for a long, long time. And ideas are all
they want, just the new ideas, because that is the way to keep on building a
technology and culture. And they have a lot of ideas, sir, that the human race
can use."

"That is just the point," said Lancaster.
"This is perhaps the most important thing that has ever happened to us
humans. In just a short year's time we can obtain data and ideas that will put
us ahead— theoretically, at least—by a thousand years. And in a thing that is
so important, we should have experts on the job—"

"But," protested Henry, "you can't find a man
who'll do a better dickering job than Hiram. When you dicker with him your back
teeth aren't safe. Why don't you leave him be? Hell do a job for you. You can
get your experts and your planning groups together and let Hiram front for you.
These folks have accepted him and have proved they'll do business with him and
what more do you want? All he needs is a little help."

Beasly came over and faced the U.N. man.

"I won't work with no one else," he said. "If
you kick Hiram out of here, then I go along with him. Hiram's the only person
who ever treated me like a human—"

"There, you see!" Henry said, triumphantly.

"Now, wait a second, Beasly," said the U.N. man.
"We could make it worth your while. I should imagine that an interpreter
in a situation such as this could command a handsome salary."

"Money don't mean a thing to me," said Beasly.
"It won't buy me friends. People still will laugh at me."

"He means it, mister," Henry warned. "There
isn't anyone who can be as stubborn as Beasly. I know; he used to work for
us."

The U.N. man looked flabbergasted and not a little
desperate.

"It will take you quite some time," Henry pointed
out, "to find another telepath—leastwise one who can talk to these people
here."

The U.N. man looked as if he were strangling. "I
doubt," he said, "there's another one on Earth."

"Well, all right," said Beasly, brutally,
"let's make up our minds. I ain't standing here all day."

"All right!" cried the U.N. man. "You two go
ahead. Please, will you go ahead? This is a chance we can't let slip through
our fingers. Is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, there is," said Taine. "There'll be the
boys from Washington and bigwigs from other countries. Just keep them off my
back."

"I'll explain most carefully to everyone. There'll be
no interference."

"And I need that chemist and someone who'll know about
the saddles. And I need them quick. I can stall these boys a little longer, but
not for too much longer."

"Anyone you need," said the U.N. man. "Anyone
at all. I'll have them here in hours. And in a day or two there'll be a pool of
experts waiting for whenever you may need them—on a moment's notice."

"Sir," said Henry, unctuously, "that's most
co-operative. Both Hiram and I appreciate it greatly. And now, since this is
settled, I understand that there are reporters waiting. They'll be interested
in your statement."

The U.N. man, it seemed, didn't have it in him to protest.
He and Henry went tramping up the stairs.

Taine turned around and looked out across the desert.

"It's a big front yard," he said.

The houseboat had been built to the most exacting standards
of Sirenese craftsmanship, which is to say, as close to the absolute as human
eye could detect. The planking of waxy dark wood showed no joints, the
fastenings were platinum rivets countersunk and polished flat. In style, the
boat was massive, broad-beamed, steady as the shore itself, without ponderosity
or slackness of line. The bow bulged like a swan's breast, the stem rising
high, then crooking forward to support an iron lantern. The doors were carved
from slabs of a mottled black green wood; the windows were many-sectioned,
paned with squares of mica, stained rose, blue, pale green and violet. The bow
was given to service facilities and quarters for the slaves; amidships were a
pair of sleeping cabins, a dining saloon and a parlor saloon, opening upon an
observation deck at the stern.

Such was Edwer Thissell's houseboat, but ownership brought
him neither pleasure nor pride. The houseboat had become shabby. The carpeting
had lost its pile; the carved screens were chipped; the iron lantern at the bow
sagged with rust. Seventy years ago the first owner, on accepting the boat, had
honored the builder and had been likewise honored; the transaction (for the
process represented a great deal more than simple giving and taking) had
augmented the prestige of both. That time was far gone; the houseboat now
commanded no prestige whatever. Edwer Thissell, resident on Sirene only three
months, recognized the lack but could do nothing about it: this particular
houseboat was the best he could get. He sat on the rear deck practising the
ganga,
a zither-like instrument not much larger than his hand. A hundred yards
inshore, surf defined a strip of white beach; beyond rose jungle, with the
silhouette of craggy black hills against the sky. Mireille shone hazy and white
overhead, as if through a tangle of spider-web; the face of the ocean pooled
and puddled with mother-of-pearl luster. The scene had become as familiar,
though not as boring, as the
ganga,
at which he had worked two hours,
twanging out the Sirenese scales, forming chords, traversing simple
progressions. Now he put down the
ganga
for the
zachinko,
this a
small sound-box studded with keys, played with the right hand. Pressure on the
keys forced air through reeds in the keys themselves, producing a concertina-like
tone. Thissell ran off a dozen quick scales, making very few mistakes. Of the
six instruments he had set himself to learn, the
zachinko
had proved the
least refractory (with the exception, of course, of the
hymerkin,
that
clacking, slapping, clattering device of wood and stone used exclusively with
the slaves).

Thissell practised another ten minutes, then put aside the
zachinko.
He flexed his arms, wrung his aching fingers. Every waking moment since his
arrival had been given to the instruments: the
hymerkin,
the
ganga,
the
zachinko,
the
kiv,
the
strapan,
the
gomapard.
He
had practised scales in nineteen keys and four modes, chords without number,
intervals never imagined on the Home Planets. Trills, arpeggios, slurs;
click-stops and nasalization; damping and augmentation of overtones; vibratos
and wolf-tones; concavities and convexities. He practised with a dogged, deadly
diligence, in which his original concept of music as a source of pleasure had
long become lost. Looking over the instruments Thissell resisted an urge to
fling all six into the Titanic.

He rose to his feet, went forward through the parlor saloon,
the dining-saloon, along a corridor past the galley and came out on the
fore-deck. He bent over the rail, peered down into the underwater pens where
Toby and Rex, the slaves, were harnessing the dray-fish for the weekly trip to
Fan, eight miles north. The youngest fish, either playful or captious, ducked
and plunged. Its streaming black muzzle broke water, and Thissell, looking into
its face felt a peculiar qualm: the fish wore no mask!

Thissell laughed uneasily, fingering his own mask, the Moon
Moth. No question about it, he was becoming acclimated to Sirene! A significant
stage had been reached when the naked face of a fish caused him shock!

The fish were finally harnessed; Toby and Rex climbed
aboard, red bodies glistening, black cloth masks clinging to their faces.
Ignoring Thissell they stowed the pen, hoisted anchor. The dray-fish strained,
the harness tautened, the houseboat moved north.

Returning to the after-deck, Thissell took up the
strapan—
this
a circular sound-box eight inches in diameter. Forty-six wires radiated from a
central hub to the circumference where they connected to either a bell or a
tinkle-bar. When plucked, the bells rang, the bars chimed; when strummed, the
instrument gave off a twanging, jingling sound. When played with competence,
the pleasantly acid dissonances produced an expressive effect; in an unskilled
hand, the results were less felicitous, and might even approach random noise.
The
strapan
was Thissell's weakest instrument and he practised with
concentration during the entire trip north.

In due course the houseboat approached the floating city.
The dray-fish were curbed, the houseboat warped to a mooring. Along the dock a
line of idlers weighed and gauged every aspect of the houseboat, the slaves and
Thissell himself, according to Sirenese habit. Thissell, not yet accustomed to
such penetrating inspection, found the scrutiny unsettling, all the more so for
the immobility of the masks. Self-consciously adjusting his own Moon Moth, he
climbed the ladder to the dock.

A slave rose from where he had been squatting, touched
knuckles to the black cloth at his forehead, and sang on a three-tone phrase of
interrogation: "The Moon Moth before me possibly expresses the identity of
Ser Edwer Thissell?"

Thissell tapped the
hymerkin
which hung at his belt
and sang: "I am Ser Thissell."

"I have been honored by a trust," sang the slave.
"Three days from dawn to dusk I have waited on the dock; three nights from
dusk to dawn I have crouched on a raft below this same dock listening to the
feet of the Night-men. At last I behold the mask of Ser Thissell."

Thissell evoked an impatient clatter from the
hymerkin.
"What
is the nature of this trust?"

"I carry a message, Ser Thissell. It is intended for
you."

Thissell held out his left hand, playing the
hymerkin
with
his right. "Give me the message."

"Instantly, Ser Thissell."

The message bore a heavy superscription:

EMERGENCY COMMUNICATION! RUSH!

Thissell ripped open the envelope. The message was signed by
Castel Cromartin, Chief Executive of the Interworld Policies Board, and after
the formal salutation read:

ABSOLUTELY URGENT the following orders be executed! Aboard
Carina
Cruzeiro,
destination Fan, date of arrival January 10 U.T., is notorious
assassin, Haxo Angmark. Meet landing with adequate authority, effect detention
and incarceration of this man. These instructions must be successfully
implemented. Failure is unacceptable.

ATTENTION! Haxo Angmark is superlatively dangerous. Kill him
without hesitation at any show of resistance.

Thissell considered the message with dismay. In coming to
Fan as Consular Representative he had expected nothing like this; he felt
neither inclination nor competence in the matter of dealing with dangerous
assassins. Thoughtfully he rubbed the fuzzy gray cheek of his mask. The
situation was not completely dark; Esteban Rolver, Director of the Space-Port,
would doubtless cooperate, and perhaps furnish a platoon of slaves.

More hopefully, Thissell reread the message. January 10,
Universal Time. He consulted a conversion calendar. Today, 40th in the Season
of Bitter Nectar—Thissell ran his finger down the column, stopped. January 10.
Today.