Stringer was tall and slender, even skinny; that may have been why he was
called Stringer to begin with. On the other hand, the name may have been no
more than a Bitter sound, signifying nothing, which we write as
Stringer.
It is not clear which is the case; it is also unclear
whether it makes any difference whatsoever. So it will be left at that.
Stringer had thin, jet-black hair, the kind that was impossible to keep out of his eyes and which made him look perpetually wet, as if he had just come in out of the rain. This time, however, he was wet—to the bone—and in the rain. It wasn’t a feeling he liked. This time, it was one of those nasty, windy nights—too cold for summer—that could convince Stringer his whole life was a feeling he didn’t like. The rain was not only cold but green, bright like Stringer’s eyes. Green rain, green snow—on the rare instances when it came—green eyes against gray-green skin. There must be copper in the water. Stringer used to wonder about things like that, but no longer; he thought it a waste of time.
Pausing for a moment, stooped over as usual, feet ankle-deep in water, Stringer turned up the corner of his battered cloak around his neck. He delved into his pocket and pulled out the imprinted card that kept track of his wages. The numbers glowed, the day’s balance displayed on a thin layer of liquid crystal. Not much, he thought, but enough to keep him alive. Working as a machinist down in the transport shops was hard only on his back. Perhaps he would stick at it another week before moving on to something else.
The heavy patter of rain continued, not interested in stopping. Stringer turned the corner on which he was standing and walked across the street to the rail stop. He jostled his way through the crowd closer to the platform for a better shot at the next one that came by. The rail arrived a few minutes later, already overfilled. It did not come close to stopping, but in the moment during which it slowed, Stringer sighted a strap left vacant by a disembarking passenger and jumped for it. He caught the strap and hung on, precariously tottering over the back trolley. Another potential passenger missed his strap and slipped off, perhaps to be crushed by the rattling train of wheels. For a brief instant, Stringer felt his body move reflexively to help the man, but he stifled the urge and instead laughed to himself, as he knew the other passengers were doing.
Ten minutes later or so, he released his strap and jumped off. There was no paved road here. He splashed along in the mud past shops that were pieced together with wood or metal or anything else that would hold them up. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the lights of the skyscrapers that dominated the distant skyline. A queer mixture, this town, Pass-Under Transhi.
The sign glowed Elswer’s,
clearly, even in the rain. Stringer
ducked into the half-open door, pulling it shut behind him. Elswer’s was
packed that night, probably because of the bad weather. Stringer shook
himself off on the entrance platform while looking for some familiar
faces. He saw too many of them. Every vagabond this side of the Transhi
mountains must be here. He walked slowly down the steps into the main hall,
almost expecting to trip over a body lying on the stairs.
Stringer, you rat!
Stringer lurched forward as
a sharp slap caught him on the back. Sit with
us.
It was Filldirt. (At least that is a literal—if not
appropriate—translation of his name.) The only thing Stringer knew about
Filldirt was that he existed. That was enough. So
what do you say, Stringer, old man? I haven’t seen you in quite a
while.
Old man.
Stringer nodded. Give me something to drink.
My pleasure. Give this man some kob!
Filldirt
bellowed to one of the attendants, and a round of drinks was brought
instantly.
Stringer sat down with his fingers curled around a warm cup. The room was
large, but with beams so low that you could break your skull on them if you
weren’t careful. It also smelled. It smelled of bodies, of warm kob, of
dirt, of all the things with which Stringer lived. The roof, made of tin,
was rotten and looked as if it would cave in momentarily, but it had always
looked that way for as long as Stringer knew of the place. And for as long
as he knew of the place he had never found out who Elswer was. The patrons,
never sure who was the real one, called all the attendants Elswer, and the
attendants, all responding to that name, of course, never let on,
either. Elswer’s. A rattletrap of a flophouse on a rattletrap of a
planet. (In fact, the name of this planet might be loosely rendered as
Two-Bit,
which adequately reflects the sentiment of the
inhabitants.)
If Filldirt had not called his attention to it, Stringer never would have noticed the conversation that was being held in shadow at the next table. Three men, partially hidden behind post and beam, were engaged in a discussion consisting as much of raised mugs, flailing arms, flashing grins, and twinkling eyes as of verbal exchange.
Well, my good man, I’ve had some preliminary tests run
on your sample, and my guess is that you have something. I may be willing
to back you if you can be sure of getting to your city.
Hendig says he shall get you there, and so I
shall.
The third man joined in. All Stringer could see of him was a giant beard
jutting out from behind a post, incredibly muscular arms occasionally
pounding on the table, and a large gray sack resting near his foot. ’Tseems to me to find that navigator will be more
than an unlikely trick, yuh?
Unfortunately true. Not a very poetical solution to
the problem, but it seems it will have to suffice. What do you say,
Valyavar?
Sometimes, to be sure, it is difficult to
distinguish between saints and maniacs. But if it is to be worth six or
seven years to you, I’m for it. We’ll get a lot of sleep at least.
Stringer could only catch bits and pieces of this conversation, which he found indecipherable and not of any great interest, so he stopped paying attention and went back to his kob.
So, Stringer,
Filldirt said, what do you think of this man Hendig’s story?
Stringer looked up at Filldirt uncomprehendingly. Filldirt was an idiot, and
Stringer had never liked him. Why they were sitting together he didn’t
know. Sorry.
He shook his head.
You haven’t heard about Hendig, then?
a woman
who was leaning on Filldirt’s shoulder piped up. She had a great deal of
cosmotron blue on her face. To Stringer it looked hideous. Hendig tells us that he found a new planet around some
star nearby. I keep forgetting its name.
Barythron,
interrupted one of the three men at the
next table who had stood up to order a drink. He paused and leaned over
Stringer’s table. It’s about as far as we’ve gotten
from here. About ten light-years. A rather interesting tale Hendig has told
me. He claims to have found a truly amazing city, complete with fabulous
treasures and mysterious forces. And he tops the whole story off by saying
the inhabitants don’t even know the city is there. Quite a tale, I’d say,
my young friend.
Stringer glanced up at the man. He was indeed several—though not many—years
older than himself, perhaps as tall, perhaps not, but certainly more
huskily built, and wore a beard trimmed to a point. The scar that ran from
the corner of his mouth to the corner of left eye indicated a vigorously
used life. But this scar and the fine lines that crisscrossed the forehead
could not disguise the bright enthusiasm for that life which the entire
face radiated. Stringer blew across the mouth of his mug and turned his
attention to the coarse grain of the wood in the table. He scratched at it
and a splinter came off in his forefinger. He pulled it out with his
teeth. You seem to believe him,
he said,
staring at the splinter of wood he had just extracted.
Ah yes, I do. There is some evidence that Hendig,
contrary to reputation, has not fabricated the entire tale. And I have not
told you all of it.
Hendig says the planet is one hundred times
the diameter of Two-Bit,
said the woman next to Filldirt, a sharp nod
stamping her confidence.
With no nights and days—
said a second
woman.
—and you can even stand up.
What do you say, Stringer?
Stringer took a gulp of kob, swallowing it slowly, thinking over the
taste. He inclined his head to one side. Do the
inhabitants have three heads and five arms?
Filldirt looked uneasy to Stringer, but as Filldirt always looked uneasy, Stringer paid no attention and went back to his kob, staring at the little bubbles rimming the mug.
But Hendig swears—
People also swear that Two-Bit is a fit place to
live. I never believed them, either.
The mug was cracked, Stringer
noticed, and bubbles tended to collect at the small fissure.
Be careful of what you say, Stringer.
Was that Filldirt again? As usual,
Stringer
heard himself say.
The second of the three men at the other table rose from behind the post
and strode over. Are you calling me a liar?
Stringer glanced upward and pushed a strand of black hair away from bright
green eyes. The man was very big, husky, cleanshaven, and craggy. He must
have stood two meters easily. Are you Hendig?
Yes, so Sarek has brought forth.
Then I suppose I am,
Stringer mused, calling you a liar.
Stringer’s forefinger traced
the mug’s rim in slow circles.
Watch it, Stringer,
Filldirt warned, moving
away from him. Life is cheap on Two-Bit.
Nothing new, Stringer thought. The only people who lived on Two-Bit were dumped there by birth or other accident and couldn’t get off.
Look,
Hendig said, spitting on the floor. Hendig has spent the last six years of his life getting
to and from that planet. Friends I left behind grew old without me. You,
look at you. This one was probably just learning how to stand on his own
two feet when I left here more than twenty years ago. And since you
couldn’t have known Hendig then, I would keep your mouth shut.
Stringer shrugged. I still don’t believe you.
Stringer!
Giving no warning, Hendig slammed Stringer on the shoulder and sent him straight into another table. As he struggled to his feet the table capsized, scattering wood and ceramic to the floor with a loud crash. Milky-white kob, steaming, found its way quickly into the cracks between battered planks underfoot. Already a large space had cleared, and the room fell quiet.
Stringer straightened, rubbing his elbow. Slowly he cleared his throat. Is that a challenge?
His skinny body looked
fairly dwarfed by Hendig’s bulk.
Hendig grinned in return. First I am going to cut
the hair off your head to within the width of an ant’s eyebrow. Then—
Spare the details.
Stringer drew his kalan, a
fighting knife almost a meter long, very slender, and razor-sharp on three
sides. He glanced about him. Not only Hendig but his two companions, the
first who had spoken about the planet, the second with the great beard, and
even Filldirt himself now faced him across the room, four kalans unsheathed
to one. Stringer was satisfied with the odds. After all, life was cheap on
Two-Bit, including his own.
Hendig was rushing him. He moved very fast for his size, Stringer saw, and
so kept out of the way on the first pass. Then he watched as Hendig’s body
and his own appeared, as if seen by an independent observer, to slip into
slow motion. Every nerve in his body was now consciously connected to his
brain. A millimeter twist of the forefinger, a half-centimeter shift of the
right leg; all registered. Hendig held the kalan high. Too high for his
size, thought Stringer in a fraction of a heartbeat. Hendig’s blade is in
line; he is pressing forward. Feel the pressure on
your blade,
Stringer’s wrist signaled. Hendig
is off balance,
the mind decided. This will be easy, just a drop to the
knee.
But no. From the periphery of his eye came the signal that Filldirt was lumbering in. A change of strategy is necessary. Head low. Stretch to the left; get your left leg out of the way. This should take care of them both.
Stringer felt his hair brush against the floor and his left knee press hard against the coarse wood. His knuckle relayed the message of slight resistance as he felt his blade penetrate Filldirt’s stomach. The sudden force on his outstretched right leg told him that Hendig had tripped over his foot.
Stringer spun around, catching Hendig on the flank with the tip of his kalan, and jumped up, only to find himself restrained by half a dozen arms and his hands locked in the grip of the giant with the great beard. Stringer glanced into that giant’s eyes, coal-black and burning. He flinched. Even after his body had been released and his hands freed, the eyes still held him pinioned, not from the slightest threat of danger or physical harm, but from a deep, almost mournful compassion, which Stringer could not fathom.
Finally Stringer forced himself to turn away. Hendig was sprawled on the floor, clasping his wounded flank and glaring up at him. Filldirt’s body lay in a growing pool of blood that would fill the cracks between the planks and become a nuisance to clean. Stringer looked at the silent crowd around him. He hoped they had enjoyed the brawl; it did have the unusual element of two opponents almost immediately skewered, one permanently. Stringer laughed to himself, ducked under a low beam, and left Elswer’s.
The rain hadn’t stopped, and it was still chilly. Stringer tucked his cloak around his neck and headed up the street. His quick walk turned into a trot as he ignored those he slammed into along the way. People were out even in the rain. Was there a place on Two-Bit where there weren’t people?
Stringer stopped abruptly when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned rapidly, half drawing his kalan.
Hold on, now! No harm meant.
It was one of those three men at Elswer’s, the one who had spoken of Hendig’s planet, the one who had faced him off with the others but refrained from entering the fight.
Cold night for a walk, wouldn’t you say?
Nothing better to do.
I noticed you make friends quickly.
Stringer jerked away.
Now, hold on, fellow; I’m not trying to get you
angry.
You’re talking about the rehearsal back there?
Stringer kept walking, his cloak dipping into the puddles with each stride.
Rehearsal?
Practice.
The other man smiled as he caught up with Stringer. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.…And you were willing
to take on four of us—
One or a hundred, what’s the difference?
Some men, in my estimation, would think
twice. Especially before tangling with Hendig and Filldirt. You only
touched Hendig’s kalan once—
—twice—
—before you had him. If Filldirt hadn’t rushed in, I
would now be sorely missing my invaluable colleague. And Filldirt; he was
good—
A tyro. He couldn’t handle a kalan to save his
life.
I would disagree.
He’s dead.
Nonetheless—
The evidence is in my favor.
Humph. As you wish.
They were slow and forceful. You win by speed and
agility.
Yes, so it would seem. Where did you learn to fight
like that?
Stringer pursed his lips. Everyone on Two-Bit
knows how to fight. Life’s cheap, remember?
Ah, yes, the planetary slogan. Well, don’t you feel
anything now that you’ve killed a man?
I’ve killed men before; no doubt I’ll do it
again—until someone kills me.
But you didn’t answer the question.
What do I feel? Rehearsed. It was a good
exercise.
The other turned away, and a light from a nearby window caught his half-pursed lips.
Stringer suddenly stopped his brisk walk for the second time. What do you want?
I want you to go to Hendig’s World, naturally.
You do?
He wasn’t lying.
So?
That entire
rehearsal,
as you call it, was a
waste of your talents. Hendig wasn’t lying, I’m telling you.
The reason I fought him had nothing to do with his
lying or not. He challenged me.
You provoked him.
I was being straightforward and honest, as I am
with everybody.
Everybody but yourself.
Stringer whirled around with a glare in his eye and a raised fist. Sarek, what do you want, a kalan in your gizzard? I’ll
be happy to supply—
Now, don’t go nonlinear on me.
Stringer lowered his fist. He had never heard the expression
nonlinear
before, but it made sense. He smiled Nonlinear.
Where did you get it?
Somewhere or other. I don’t know.
Well, what do you want, anyway?
I told you: I want you to go to Hendig’s World with
me.
The rain continued. A drop fell from Stringer’s hood to his cloak and he
wiped it off. You really believe him, don’t
you?
Look,
the other replied, putting his arm around
Stringer’s shoulder, I’ve got something he brought
back. I’m not sure what it is yet. We’re running tests. But it’s a metal,
so I’d guess, a ring at that, lighter than magnesium and incredibly
strong. A plasma torch won’t even touch it. It takes everything we’ve got
to blast through. I’ve never seen anything like it. And Hendig says there
is more of the stuff just lying about, as if it had been abandoned all of a
sudden. Much more, he tells me, as well as other treasures. It’s worth the
risk, I believe; don’t you?
That’s all?
Well, when the tests are finished, we can make a final
decision, but I will tell you frankly that my nose is more accurate than
any tests. Whatever that material is, it will be worth it.
Stringer ducked under a nearby awning to avoid the rain. I mean, that’s all you want?
It’s enough, isn’t it? It might also be of interest to
find out if the place is as big as Hendig said it was. Impossible, of
course.
Stringer shrugged. I wouldn’t know.
You’re a simply marvelous fellow, do you realize that?
Simply marvelous. Why don’t you come with me to my place? I’ve got
something to show you.
He pulled Stringer out onto the road again and
they began trotting briskly up the muddy street, past the ramshackle
dwellings that seemed not merely content to exist but to propagate
exponentially in such sections of town. When they reached the main road,
Stringer’s companion punched a call box for a private cab, the two climbed
in, and the stranger punched for a destination.
People who use taxis have little need for
Elswer’s.
One goes where business takes him, my young man.…Tell
me,
he continued as he undid his parka, what’s
your name, good fellow?
Stringer.
Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Friends call me Pike. Good
enough?
Okay.
Pike laughed.
What’s wrong?
Nothing at all, nothing at all.
The taxi stopped after about twenty minutes. With a flick of the wrist Pike popped his credit card into the tabulator, lifted on his hood again, and was once more out into the rain. Stringer followed in like manner and found himself standing next to the shadowy form of a tall building. He had seen it many times before. It was the headquarters of the Two-Bit Transportation Corporation.
Stringer shrugged and followed Pike into the elevator shaft. A door opened; it closed and opened again. The apartment that faced them was unlike any Stringer had ever recalled. The thick draperies that hung suspended from ceiling to floor were characteristic of the entire room. A fireplace occupied one corner of a sunken pit in the center. The blue and green couches blended into the carpet almost indistinguishably. The whole gave Stringer an indescribable sensation, one that combined the desire to sleep, to retch, and the strong feeling that he was in the wrong place.
This belongs to you?
Stringer, that’s very clever of you to guess,
indeed. Care for a drink?
Pike produced two mugs from an alabaster
cabinet and filled them, offering one to Stringer. Stringer shook his head
at the extended hand.
Do you own the whole corporation?
As much as any one person owns it. Why don’t you take
off your cloak? It’s dry in here, you know. You can even sit down if you
want.
I’ll sit down.
Stringer left his cloak. What did you want to show me?
Oh, yes, that. Come.
Pike crossed to the other
side of the room. The heavy curtains parted at the push of a button.
Stringer stood up, felt dizzy, and shook his head. Stand up, he told himself.
What’s wrong?
Nothing.
Then Stringer looked directly into
Pike’s eyes. Do you ever feel, at night, somebody
is trying to talk to you, pull you apart in all directions; some part of
your mind, way down, like a nightmare that is part of yourself?
Pike took a step backward. No, never. Some of us are
in control of our faculties.…Well, come and take a look.
Stringer walked over and peered out the window. It was a long way down. Although it was dark, strong lights cut through the night to illuminate a runway and some low-lying hangars off to one side. There were several ships on the field, needle-sharp noses and swept-back wings gleaming in the rain.
You see, those are just the shuttles. The big ships
are up there.
Pike lifted his eyes skyward. Interstellar travel will soon become big business, I
hope. It’s time for Two-Bit to start branching out. We’ve used up this
solar system and a few others. If you don’t believe me, I can take you for
a ride up.
Okay, now what do you want?
Stringer, for an obviously intelligent man, you are
not acting very brightly. I’ve told you several times already that I want
you to come with me to Hendig’s World.
What makes you think I’m so intelligent?
People who talk like you are either very stupid, with
nothing in their heads, or very intelligent and have something to hide. I
suspect you are in the latter category. Tell me, do you know how to
read?
Occasionally.
Occasionally?
I try to avoid it. Reading confuses, slows down
thinking.
Speed and deception, is that it?
Why do you care?
You don’t think you’d like a drink?
Pike held out
his hand again. Stringer shook his head a second time. I don’t want any uneducated bumpkins on this trip. If you
are intelligent, you can be trained to think, and if you are quick—as you
amply demonstrated—you can be even more useful. We may be going to a very
dangerous place. Clear enough? Besides, I think you’d get along well with
the rest of the crew I have chosen.
Who are they?
You’ve met them. Hendig, for one—
Stringer laughed and turned away. You’ve got to be
kidding.
—and Valyavar, for another.
Who?
The big man with the beard.
Stringer whirled around and stepped toward the door. I told you, I’m not going.
You’ve said nothing of the sort. Tell me, are you good
with machines?
If anything.
Electronics? Mechanics?
Odd jobs here and there. Mindless. I try to avoid
permanence.
Speed and deception again?
If you like.
Do you know how to write?
Stringer chuckled. My name, at least.
Pike smiled. You can’t be too sure these days. I don’t
know what’s happening to the world. People don’t read and write any
more.
Who needs to?
One always needs to. Well, shall we begin?
Stringer shook his head a final time. You are very
sure that I am going with you, aren’t you?
Pike laughed, almost guffawed. Then he looked Stringer straight in the
eye. Yes, I am quite sure.
Stringer put up his hood and walked to the elevator. Just as it opened for
him, he turned around, lowered his hood again, and gazed back at Pike. All right, I’ll go. But just remember one thing,
quite straight: I don’t like you much.
Pike grinned. My good fellow, that’s fine by me. I ask
you only to remember one thing in return.…
Then Pike’s grin turned into
a frown. It is not wise to argue with me.…Now, shall we
get to work?
This time Stringer nodded, and that was that.