The Fugitive Worlds (34 page)

"That would only be the start of the killing," Toller said, longing for the reassurance of his sword. He had judged the

Dussarrans to be lacking in physical courage, but to his
growing unease the alien confronting him was proving to be
unexpectedly stubborn. In appearance he was not dis
tinguished from his fellows—the multiplex costume of pendant dark-hued scraps seemed to be universal among the
aliens—but this individual conveyed the impression of being
much more resolute than Divivvidiv.

Perhaps
...
An incredible idea began to flicker far back
in Toller's consciousness.
Can it be that fortune has delivered
into my hands the best hostage of all? Could this unremarkable
and unprepossessing figure be the King of all the Dussarrans?
What was the title Divivvidiv had accorded him? Director!
And what name? Zunnunun!

"Tell me, scarecrow," he said in a gentle voice, "what is
your name?"

My name is of no relevance,
the alien replied.
I shall make one last appeal to your powers of reason. Your plan—if such
an insane vision can be dignified with that word
—
is to force us to send you back whence you came by way of an instantaneous
relocation unit. You and your followers would then return to
one of your home planets, either by balloon or parachute. Is
that a fair summation of your ambitions?

"I congratulate you, corpse-face!" The alien's refusal to
divulge his name was a fresh inspiration and encouragement
for Toller.

The plan can never succeed! The more rational members of
your group have severe doubts about attempting it, and in that
respect they display considerable wisdom.

Toller's eyes were again drawn to Vantara, but she lowered
her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

I
am not at liberty to go into details at this time, Toller
Maraquine,
the alien went on,
but the fact is that all of you
are very fortunate to be here on Dussarra. You must believe
what I.
. . .

"I believe that you are the King of all the Dussarrans,"
Toller shouted, giving way to a rage which was fuelled by
subtle new fears. "This thing is going on far too long! Tell me your name right now, or—and I swear by my honor— I will crush these three until the blood spurts from their eyes!"

The alien figure brought a hand up to its concave chest.
My name is Zunnunun.

"I thought so!" Toller glanced triumphantly at Vantara, Steenameert and the others. "I will now give. . . ."

You will do precisely nothing,
Zunnunun cut in, silencing Toller with a curious ease.
I had planned to study the psychological relationship between you and your chosen female, but I have come to realize that in an unmodified state you will either kill yourself or continue to cause more trouble than you are worth. Accordingly, I have made the decision to bring your existence to an end.

Toller shook his head and his voice was no longer human. "It would take more than you and the likes of you to kill me.

Oh, I have no intention of killing you.
The Dussarran's psychic tone was now light, amused and confident.
Your body will remain in perfect health—and will be useful to me
in breeding experiments
—
but it will be inhabited by a different
and more docile personality.

"You cannot do that!"

But I can! In fact, the process has already begun
—
as you will realize if you try to move.
Zunnunun's mouth flowed into a ghastly parody of a smile.
You were right when you began to suspect that our confrontation was going on too long. I was then assembling sufficient of my people to form a telepathic lens. That lens is now focused on your brain, and in a few seconds you will cease to exist.

Goodbye, Toller Maraquine!

Toller tried to hurl himself at the alien, but—as had been predicted—he found himself unable to move. And something was happening within his mind. There was an invasion, a loosening, a shameful but joyous sense of yield
ing, an acceptance of the fact that life as Toller Maraquine
II had always been wearisome, and the time had come when
he could—gladly—lay that burden down. . . .

"Twelve ships! Is that all?" Daseene gave Cassyll Maraquine
a reproving stare. "I was sure we could have done much
better than that."

"I am sorry, Majesty, but the factory is hard-pressed
even to prepare that number," Cassyll said, concealing his
impatience over being required to repeat the same statements
for the third time in an hour. "One of the major problems is the lack of reliable engines and parts."

"But I have seen hundreds of engines stacked in the old parade ground at Kandell. With my own eyes I have seen
them.
Stacked!"

"Yes, but they are the old-style brakka wood units, and
they have been replaced by steel engines."

"Well, unreplace them in that case!" Daseene snapped,
adjusting her coif of pearls.

"They won't fit into the new mountings." A veteran of
many similar interviews with the Queen, Cassyll spoke in
tones which were the embodiment of cool reasonableness.
"It would take an excessive time to adapt one to the other,
and many auxiliary components of the old engines are miss
ing."

Daseene narrowed her eyes and leaned forward in her
high-backed chair. "Sometimes, my dear Maraquine, you
remind me of your father."

Cassyll smiled in spite of the oppressive heat in the audi
ence room. "I appreciate the compliment, Majesty."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment, and well you know it,"
Daseene said. "Your father performed some small service for my husband during the Migration, and—"

"If I may jog your Majesty's memory to just the slightest

extent," Cassyll put in drily, "he saved the lives of your entire family."

"I'm not sure if it was as dramatic as all that—but, no
matter ... He made himself useful on
one
occasion, and
then proceeded to spend the rest of his life reminding my husband of the incident and demanding royal favors."

"I am honored to serve your Majesty at all times," Cassyll
said, easily negotiating familiar territory, "and would never
dream of asking for indulgence in return."

"No, you have no need—you simply go ahead and arrange
everything to suit yourself—and that is precisely my point!
Your father had a way of pretending to do what the King
wanted and all the time he was doing what
he
wanted. You
have exactly the same way with you, Cassyll Maraquine.
Sometimes I suspect that it is you, and not I, who rules
this
     
"

Daseene leaned forward again, her rheumy eyes intent.
"You do not look at all well, my dear fellow. Your face is
quite crimson and your brow glistens with sweat. Are you
suffering from an ague?"

"No, Majesty."

"Well,
something
ails you. You do not look well. It is my opinion that you should consult your physician."

"I shall do so without delay," Cassyll said. He was yearning
for the moment he could escape the intolerable heat of the
room, but he had not yet achieved the purpose of his visit. Contrary to what Daseene had just said, he was not the
complete master of his own affairs. He gazed into her fragile
face, wondering if she was playing games with him. Perhaps
she knew perfectly well that he was being tortured by the
excessive warmth, and was waiting for him either to faint or
give in and plead for respite.

"Why are you occupying so much of my time anyway?"
she said. "You must want something."

"As it so happens, Majesty, there is one—"

"Hah!"

"It is quite a routine matter . . . well within my normal areas of jurisdiction . . . but I thought, more or less in passing, that I should mention it to your Majesty . . . not that there is any. . . ."

"Out with it, Maraquine!" Daseene glanced at the ceiling
in exasperation. "What are you up to?"

Cassyll swallowed, trying to relieve the dryness in his
throat. "The barrier which has appeared between Land and Overland is a matter of great scientific interest. I and Bartan
Drumme have the privilege of serving as your Majesty's principal scientific advisers, and—after sober consideration of all the facts—we feel that we should accompany the fleet
which is to—"

"Never!" Suddenly Daseene's face was an alabaster mask
upon which a skilled artist had painted a likeness of the woman who used to be. "You will stay where I need you,
Maraquine—right here on the ground! The same goes for your bosom friend, the eternal stripling, Bartan Drumme.
Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear, Majesty."

"I am well aware that you are concerned for your son—
just as I fear for the safety of my granddaughter—but there are times when one must turn a deaf ear to all appeals from
the heart," Daseene said in a voice which surprised Cassyll
with its vigor.

"I understand, Majesty." Cassyll bowed, and was turning
to leave when Daseene halted him by raising one hand.

"And before you depart," she said, "let me remind you of what I said earlier—be sure to see a doctor."

The startled cry from Steenameert reached Toller across
dark distances of the soul, shadowy distances, where unseen
worlds prowled their orbital paths. Each world was the
embodiment of a new personality, one of which was destined
to be his, and he had little concern for the trivialities of his
old existence. Aloof and vaguely irritated, he asked himself
why the young man was calling his name. What in all the
black reaches of the cosmos could be important enough to
justify distracting him at a time like this, just when momen
tous decisions were being made about his destiny?

But something else was happening! A battle was beginning
in the stygian landscapes which surrounded him. Powerful
external forces were being brought to bear on the psychic lens
whose curvatures governed every aspect of his future. . . .