The Warlock Wandering (24 page)

186 Christopher Stasheff

"Right." The innkeeper nodded. "Each generation has to kill its own vampire. You don't stop planting crops just because there's a drought."

"Right," the farmer agreed, "and you don't..." Out of the comer of his eye. Rod saw the arm whirl, saw the pitchfork fly. "Down!" he bellowed, and leaped into a dive at Chomoi. His shoulder slammed into her as she howled in anger. She chopped at him as he tried to untangle himself enough to stand up, then managed to get a one-handed choke hold—and froze, staring at the pitchfork sticking in the ground, its handle still vibrating. Rod knocked her hand loose, bawling, "Stop him!" He leaped to his feet, whirling toward the mob of extras, just in time to see the ersatz peasant disappear into the crowd. Rod bellowed and leaped after him.

The crowd parted, giving him plenty of room.

It made a nice lane—just in time. At its far end. Rod saw the "peasant" disappearing into an alley. Gwen caught a broomstick out of the hands of a stunned extra, leaped on it, and shot off after the "peasant." Hilda stared after her, then gave her head a quick shake and scowled down at her console. "Now, how the hell did 1 do that?"

Rod sped down the lane and into the alley. He was just in time to see the "peasant" disappearing around a comer. Rod kicked into overdrive and pelted after him.

The "peasant" dashed back out. Rod stared, then launched himself into a flying tackle. But the "peasant" saw him coming and jumped forward, and Rod smashed into the pavement with a howl of rage. He landed judo-fashion, but pain seared his side.

"Down!" Gwen cried.

Rod did a good imitation of a pancake, just in time for Gwen to flash by directly above him on the broomstick. He rolled to his feet, shaking his head, and hobbled after her with a limping run.

A block later, he saw Gwen coming toward him, carrying

her broomstick. "What's the matter?" he called. "Isn't this backwards? I thought it was supposed to be carrying you."

"I had no wish to scandalize those who live here," she explained.

"Honey, this is the one planet in the whole Terran Sphere where they wouldn't think much of it. They might ask you how you did the effect, though. I take it our man got away?" Gwen nodded. 'There is a town square. From it doth open many streets."

"Here, let me see." Rod limped on past her. The street curved and ended in a plaza, where five narrow, crooked streets fanned out amid tottering houses. The lanes twisted away out of sight.

Rod stood in the center, looking about him and shaking his head. "Right, lady. He could have gone down any one of them."

"Aye," Gwen agreed. "We have lost him." Rod glowered from one street to another, remembering the pitchfork sticking in the ground. "The bastard almost got Chomoi. Didn't take them long to find us, did it?"

"Peace, husband." Gwen laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"The man himself is of no consequence. E'en an thou wert to slay him, a dozen more like to him would spring up."

"Like dragon's teeth," Rod agreed. "The one we need to get is the one who's sending them out. But we don't even know what outfit he works for!"

"Is he not of our old enemies from tomorrow?"

"SPITE or VETO? I'd thought so, but that ersatz extra was after Chomoi, not us."

"Gwen's eyes widened. "Her erstwhile employers?"

"The PEST secret police." Rod nodded. "Probably. I was right when I said we'd be a marked crew if we took her along."

Gwen's hand tightened on his arm. "We ^cannot desert her."

"No," Rod agreed, "we can't. Besides, we still need a native of this era to guide us. Okay, so we could probably 788 Christopher Stasheff

find one who isn't as big a potential liability as Chomoi, but we'd still have GRIPE and/or VETO after us."

"Thou dost but seek to discover reasons," Gwen accused.

"When all's said and done, thou'It not abandon a companion."

"Probably," Rod admitted. "Sometimes I wish I had as high an opinion of me as you do."

Gwen smiled, and slipped her arm through his. "That is my province, my lord. Thou mayest entrust it to me."

"Then I will." Rod smiled down at her. "And try to perform the same function for you."

"Not too well," she murmured, as his face came closer.

'"Tis drafty, placed up so high."

"Oh, come down off your pedestal for a moment!" Rod muttered. Then his lips brushed, touched, and claimed hers. A minute or two later, she murmured, "We must preserve those poor folk from Yorick."

"Yeah," Rod sighed, clasping her hand around his arm as he turned back. "We must save those poor, innocent city folks from our Stone Age country slicker."

As they came back to the shooting site, they heard a voice protesting, "But we weren't really planning it that way...."

"Dam straight you weren't." Whitey's voice was grim.

"In fact, this whole elaborate explanation has the definite ring of an ad-lib. Now, what say we try it again—with the truth?"

"If you say so," Yorick sighed, "but you're not going to believe this."

"So what else is new?"

"We are ... or at least, two of my friends are. They were bom about five hundred years from now. And there's an interstellar organization out to get them. It kidnapped them and dumped them back here."

Whitey just stared at him for a moment, then said, "You're right. I don't believe you."

"Then try this," Chomoi snapped. "I used to be a spy

for the LORDS. That's right, I'm one of the ones who got us all into this mess! But after the coup, I realized what an amoral, calloused cadre they were, and tried to quit, so they sent me to Wolmar. Gwen Gallowglass and her husband got me out of there, and I'm trying to guide them to Terra." Whitey stared at her while the slight remaining amount of color drained out of his albino face. Then he said, "That, I believe." He turned to Stroganoff. "Take over, Dave. I suddenly got hit with a yen for a stroll."

"Sounds good to me, too." Stroganoff was pale as a skid row bum with an air conditioned bar available. He turned to Mirane. "Tell 'em to go home."

"Home?" Mirane yelped. "Are you crazy? They each have to be paid for the full day; it's in their contracts!"

"Do it," Whitey said grimly. "It's cheaper than a coffin." Mirane stared at him for a moment, then threw her computer-pad up in despair. She turned to the cast and crew, stretching out a hand to catch the pad. "Okay, that's it for the day! Strike the setup and go home!"

One or two of the extras cheered, but the principal actors and the technicians stared at her, then scowled and started packing up.

Mirane watched them for a moment, then turned to Whitey. "You run a good company. This is the first time I've ever seen a crew who'd rather finish the shoot than have the day off."

"They're good kids," Whitey agreed, "but I'd rather be shooting with them tomorrow, than having them come to my funeral." He turned to Rod, Gwen, Yorick, Chornoi, and Brother Joey. "I think you'd better come with me."

"I'm not sure whether it's safer with us, or away from us," Stroganoff explained to Mirane.

"Neither am I, but I don't feel safe alone.",, Dave nodded. "Let's go, then."

They hurried to catch up with the cortege.

As they came up, Rod was saying, "Why a casino?"

"Safest place," Whitey explained, "except for a dream790

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house. I mean, you're out there in public, where plenty of people are watching you, and the management doesn't want any unpleasant scenes for the patrons."

"I like the dreamhouse idea better." Chomoi had a happy, faraway look.

"So do I," Whitey grunted. "Whether it's a PEST agent who's after you or not, he's on a free planet now, and he has to adhere to local laws. And the dreamhouses are very good at keeping unwanted clients out." He turned to Rod.

"Stroganoff and I aren't exactly popular with PEST, either." Dave nodded. "They know about our epics. And they know that education is the dictator's enemy."

"And the easiest way to stop your epics is to stop you?"

"Like a dropped watch." Whitey nodded. "If there's an agent after your friend Chomoi, he might decide to bump us off, too."

Chomoi screeched to a halt. "Bye-bye." She turned away.

"Come back here." Yorick put out a hand to catch her, then snatched it back as she whirled, chopping out. "See?

I knew I could stop you."

"There's not much point in going off by yourself, Miz," Whitey said. "If there's an assassin on the planet, we're in danger. The only difference in having you with us is that we have some idea of where the bastard is." Chomoi hesitated.

Stroganoff nodded. "It's easier to duck when you know where the knives are coming from."

"There speaks a true organization man," Yorick muttered.

"But a dreamhouse is out." Whitey started walking again.

"There's the little matter of cash; I don't have enough of it."

Stroganoff nodded. "Every penny's tied up in this epic."

"We're a little short ourselves," Rod said.

"When PEST took over Terra," Whitey went on, "they also took over my royalties. Oh, not that they've attached my earnings, or anything, but they're censoring the mail, and they won't let my agent send me a check. So the royalties are there, piling up nicely in a trust fund on Terra, and no doubt they'll do my heirs all kinds of good, five hundred years from now—but that doesn't help much, at the moment."

Rod had a faraway look in his eyes. "You say we're going to a casino?"

"Take your choice." Whitey turned to him with a dry smile. "The planet's lousy with 'em. Every pleasure-planet is." But he frowned at the look in Rod's eye, then suddenly grinned and slapped his thigh. "Of course! If your ecclesiastical friend can fix a static generator, he can gimmick a roulette wheel as easy as pi!"

Brother Joey went pale. "Rig a roulette wheel? My heavens, that would be stealing!"

"So what do you think the house is doing?" Whitey demanded. "Come on. Brother, all we're asking is that you make the machines shave a few percentage points in our favor."

"No." Brother Joey's jaw finned. "I couldn't possibly do anything so immoral."

"That's right, preserve your integrity," Whitey sighed,

"and more power to you. Brother, for sticking to your principles. But that still leaves us without admission to a dreamhouse."

"Oh, not necessarily." Rod was gazing at his wife. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, anyway." Gwen had gained an abstracted, dreamy, fascinated gaze.

" 'Twould be but a matter of having some whirling wheel come to stop where we wished it to, would it not? Or causing a pair of dice to fall as we chose?"

"That's right, nothing heavy-duty. Think you can handle it, dear?"

"I will be delighted to essay it," Gwen answered, with a smile that made Rod shiver. After all, he knew what she could do when she put her mind to it.

Whitey frowned. "What is she—a telekinetic?"

"Among other things," Yorick muttered. 192

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"Well, well!" Whitey offered Gwen his arm. "Allow me to escort you, Ms. Gallowglass!"

"Lady," she corrected.

"Would I be seen with anything else? Where a reporter can see me, anyway. Shall we go?"

They sauntered off toward the nearest casino, with Rod, Chomoi, Yorick and Brother Joey in tow. Dave and Mirane exchanged glances and followed.

"Lesjeux sont fails," the croupier pronounced. He wore a satin dressing gown, muttonchop whiskers, and a stuffed raven on his shoulder. At least. Rod thought it was stuffed, but it kept turning its head to regard him with a beady ruby eye. A robot, no doubt, but was its eye really a lens for a surveillance camera?

"Les jeux sontfaits," the croupier said again, "the bets are made."

"The die is cast?" Rod suggested.

'Won, monsieur," the croupier said primly. "We play roulette at this table, not hazard."

"Oh! My apologies." Rod bit his lip in consternation; the last thing he wanted was to stand out enough for the croupier to recognize him.

The wheel spun, and Rod gazed at it, fascinated. He had lost most of the 10-therm stake Yorick had given him, before he had begun to get the knack of just how hard to think at the hopping ball. But he'd picked it up, bit by bit, and was now winning seven games out of thirteen. That was enough; he'd made back his stake, and his profits were rising slowly but steadily. On the other hand, he wasn't winning so flagrantly as to attract notice. Since this was his turn to lose, he glanced around the room, seeking out his companions. They were easy to find in the midst of all these mock werewolves, vampires, ancestral ghosts, and decadent aristocrats. Especially the decadent aristocrats; they seemed to be in fashion this year. Rod couldn't decide whether it was the 'aristocrat' part, or the 'decadent,' that made those disguises so attractive to the tourists.

But Rod's people were dressed in ordinary coveralls or, in Gwen's case, in Renaissance peasant garb. They were definitely conspicuous—and that worried Rod, but there was nothing he could do about it.

They seemed to be doing a good job of keeping a low profile in other ways, though. Whitey had given them a brief lecture on how to win and get away with it. "Lose a lot. But make the odd win bigger than all the little losses, so that you make an overall profit. Don't make any fortunes, though, just a dozen therms or so. When we pool our winnings, we'll have enough to buy safe hiding." They'd paid attention, and seemed to be doing well. Gwen was just one of many at the craps table; and, if her pile of chips was growing steadily larger than those of the other players, nobody seemed to be taking any particular notice of it. Yorick was building up large stacks of chips at the poker table; Whitey was busy demonstrating that he was a better whist player than the dealer. Stroganoff and Mirane were making a valiant try at contract bridge, but doing their part for the overall image of the group by losing—and Brother Joey was walking around in a daze.