This Fortress World (12 page)

She sat upon a low, green hillock, strumming upon her stringed instrument, singing. I knew she was singing because I could see her mouth open and shut and her white throat swelling, but there was no sound. I held the pebble, and inside me was a living flame, strong and irreverent. With a final flourish of her hand, she finished and tilted her head back and raised her arms, spreading them wide, opening to me. I took a step toward her, struggling, because something held me back.

Slowly, her yellow tunic began to peel away from her body like petals from the heart of a flower. She rose from the spreading petals, a thing of blinding beauty, white, slim, lovely, and infinitely desirable. I stumbled toward her on leaden feet, my hand stretched out to touch her. She leaned toward it…

The strings on her instrument broke. They curled around her waist like live things.…My hand was crushing a slender white flower, and below, coiled around the stem, was a nest of writhing snakes…

I woke with an overwhelming sense of shame and sin and bewilderment, wondering why I should dream these dreams, and yet caught up in them so strongly that it was hard to face reality again.

Beneath me was a hard, smooth surface. I was lying on my back, and I could feel it slick under my hand. I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through a narrow window upon a clean, dark-red, plastic floor. I sat up. It was only a small room. There was a table in it, two chairs, and, in an alcove, a small stove and a cooler.

Everything was old but spotlessly clean. I got slowly to my feet, remembering.…

The light from the street had reached into the alley with probing fingers. I was only a few steps from the fingers when I heard a door open behind me and the running of light feet.

"Wait!" a voice had whispered, drifting to me on the night wind. "Don't go out there! Wait!"

Helplessly I had waited. I waited until she reached me. I let her put one hand on my arm and turn me around to face her. Standing beside her for the first time, I realized how small she was. Her dark head did not reach much above my chest. She scolded me angrily.

"I told you to wait," she had said, scowling. "Men have no sense at all."

"They were after me," I had said. "You knew that. If you're with me when they catch me or if they find out that you have helped me, they'll kill you. That would be the kindest thing they'd do."

"Killing!" She had made a wry, disgusted face.

"Let me go," I had pleaded. "Things happen to people when I'm around them. Bad things. Don't get mixed up in it."

"But I am mixed up in it. Where are you going?"

I shrugged. If I had known of any place that would have satisfied her, I would have lied.

"Come with me, then. You can't sleep in the street."

She had turned and marched off. Helplessly, I followed her. She led me through narrow alleys and down dark streets, up unsuspected steps and through empty warehouses that rustled with secret scurryings. She was careful but not over-cautious. She knew where she was going and how to get there.

She spoke only once. "Why do they want you?"

"They want something they think I have."

"Do you have it?"

I couldn't lie. "Not on me. I know where it is."

"Who does it belong to? Them?"

"No."

"Who, then? You?"

"I don't know. Maybe to me. Maybe to no one. Maybe to anyone."

"But not to them."

"Never to them!"

She had nodded then, a white blur in the darkness. She had said nothing more until she led me up the narrow steps on the outside of the building, through the door, into this kitchen. She had pulled heavy curtains across the windows and turned on a small light. Only then did I notice that the instrument she had been carrying in her hand was smashed, the strings dangling loosely.

"It's broken," I had said stupidly.

She had smiled at it ruefully. "It can be mended. Quicker than some of the heads that were broken tonight."

"Because of me."

She had hesitated. "Because of you. I thought it was the right thing to do."

"You were wrong."

She had smiled at me. "It's too early to say. Are you hungry? I can fix something."

I shook my head.

"Then we should get some rest. You look exhausted."

I had realized then how very tired I was. I looked around the room.

She nodded at the door and looked at me curiously. "There's only the one bed—"

"I'll sleep here on the floor. I've slept worse places." I remembered the oversoftness of Siller's beds.

Her smile had been almost shy. "All right. Good night." She went to the outside door, pushed a bolt into place, turned, and walked quickly to the bedroom door.

As she hesitated there, I remembered something. "You don't even know my name."

She had turned. "That's right. I don't."

"It's William. William—"

"That's enough. Good night, William."

"Good night," I had said softly.

After the door closed behind her, it had been very quiet, I listened for a long time. But after she had closed the door, she had not touched it again. The door between us remained unlocked.

A blanket was on the floor. I must have tossed it off during the restless night. She had come out in the darkness to cover me. I pictured her, standing above me to lower the blanket gently over my body and silently returning to bed.

I gritted my teeth. I had let her help me. I had put her into danger as deadly as my own. But that wasn't enough. One thing the dream had told me I could understand. I must get away from here, now, before she woke.

Quickly, quietly, I walked to the outside door. Silently I snicked back the bolt, swung the door open.…

"Where are you going?" Laurie said reproachfully.

I turned, slowly. She was standing in the bedroom doorway, a white robe wrapped close around her throat, falling straight almost to the floor. With her sleep-filled eyes and her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, she looked like a little girl.

It was no easier to lie to her now than it had been last night. "I was going to leave before you woke up. That would have been rude. Safer but rude. Good-by, Laurie. I won't waste time trying to thank you for what you did for me. Words can't even suggest how much I owe you, how grateful I am."

"Don't be silly," she said, tossing her head back. "You can't leave now. They'll be watching for you."

"They'll always be watching for me," I said slowly. "So it doesn't matter when I leave. But every minute I'm here increases the danger to you."

She frowned. "Come back," she said imperiously. "Sit down!" She motioned to one of the straight wooden chairs.

Reluctantly, I came back. I sat down. She went into the alcove and opened the cooler door. She took out a ham and a handful of eggs and some cold, boiled potatoes. Over half the meat had been cut neatly away.

"Don't you think it's strange," she said, "that wherever you go, on any world, you'll find pigs and chickens and potatoes?"

She looked at me out of the corners of her eyes as she cut thin slices from the ham and dropped them into a skillet on the stove.

"I didn't know that," I said.

"It's true. There are other animals and vegetables that are native only to one or two planets, but pigs and chickens and potatoes are everywhere. And there are men everywhere. And men can intermarry with women from other worlds and have children, and the pigs and chickens and the others that are universal can mate, but none of the rest. Isn't that strange?"

"Yes," I said, wondering what she meant.

The ham sizzled and fried. Into another skillet she put butter, and cracked eggs into it. She diced the potatoes in with the ham. "How do you explain it?" she asked.

I frowned. "I guess there's only one explanation. Men must have come from one planet originally. They spread out to the other worlds from there, and they took the pigs and chickens and potatoes with them."

She turned, her face glowing. Perhaps it was from the heat of the stove. "You see that, then. It's clear, isn't it? And yet I can't find anyone, hardly, who will admit it. They'd rather distrust each other and let themselves hate aliens than admit that we all are related." She shook her head.

"Was that why you sang those songs?" I asked. "That's what they meant?"

She smiled. "You're the first man who ever accused me of being subtle." She turned back to the stove, humming, and then began to sing in her clear girl-voice.

'I knew a man on Arcadee.

I knew a few on Brancusee.

And Lord! they were all men to me

No matter what men say…'

"That's what Jude says in
The Book of the Prophet,"
I said, musing. "Not in the same words, but it's Church doctrine—"

"You're from the Church, then." She turned quickly. "I should have guessed. Had you taken orders?"

I shook my head.

She heaped up two plates and brought them to the table. "And you came out of the monastery into the world. It must have been a terrible shock."

My jaw tightened. I didn't say anything.

"All right," she said. "Let's eat."

Slowly I relaxed. I took a bite. The ham was delicious. It was hot and tender, and the eggs weren't cooked hard, just enough so that the white was firm. The potatoes were brown and crusty. I ate hungrily, looking across the table at Laurie, thinking how wonderful it would be to sit across from Laurie every morning, to eat the food she cooked, to listen to her effortless singing, to watch her expressive face.…

"You've been on other worlds?" I said quickly.

"A few."

"Are they as bad as Brancusi?"

"Bad?" She turned the word over in her mind, looking at it from all sides, weighing it. "If you mean hard, cruel, unjust—"

I nodded.

"Some of them are worse, and some of them are a little better, but not much."

"Why?" I asked. "What's the reason for all the evil in the galaxy? Is it God's will? Is it there to test people for a better world after death, to purify their souls by fire? Or is it because men are basically evil?"

Laurie shook her head. "I don't believe it."

"Which?"

"Either. If there is a God, he wouldn't be concerned with anything so petty as testing individual souls. He could do that without all this suffering. And people aren't bad. They're good. But they get all confused because they can't understand each other, because words can't express enough, and they can't trust even those closest to them."

"But if people aren't born evil, how do they get that way?"

"They're afraid of getting hurt, and they build up a wall around themselves for protection. They build themselves a fortress and sit inside it, sheltered and afraid. Afraid that someone will break in and find them there, see them as they really are, alone and helpless. For then they can be hurt, you see. When they are naked and defenseless. We're a whole galaxy of worlds, revolving endlessly, never touching, crouched within our fortresses, alone, always alone."

"If we could only tear the walls down, all at once, and everyone could see everyone else, a man like themselves, hoping for kindness and fearing a blow." It was a stunning vision, and I sat there entranced by it.

When I looked up, Laurie's eyes were filled with tears. "You're right," she whispered. "It would be wonderful."

We finished our breakfast in silence. Finally I shoved back my plate and got up. "The food was delicious, Laurie. It's been beautiful, knowing you. But I've got to leave. I've stayed too long already."

"I won't let you go until I know where you're going," she said firmly.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'll try to leave the city. Maybe I can hide away in some village."

She shook her head, frowning. "You couldn't leave the city without being caught. They found you last night, and they'll be watching for you. And even if you got outside, you couldn't hide. The serfs are wary of strangers. They'd turn you in."

"The city's big. I'll find a hiding place in it somewhere."

"You don't know it or the people. You don't know the way the city thinks. You'd have to trust someone, sometime. You'd be sure to trust the wrong person. And the nets are spread out. You'd fall into one of them."

"What can I do?" I asked helplessly.

"I can find you a safe place," Laurie said eagerly. "I can bring you food. You can't stay here. It's too public. But I could find a place you could hide until they got tired of looking. I have friends who would help me—"

It was infinitely tempting, but even as she described it I knew it was no good.

"No," I said with finality. "It's too dangerous. I won't let you risk anything more."

She sighed. "All right. There's only one chance for you. Leave Brancusi."

"Leave?" I repeated. "Leave Brancusi?"

She nodded. "They'll turn this planet inside out until they find you. I know the hunters. They can't go back to their masters without their prey. Failure is a death sentence. They'll search, then, until they find you or you are dead. Brancusi is small; the galaxy is wide."

"Leave Brancusi," I mused. "Take a ship to another world, out among the stars. Start all over again." The picture was fitting itself together in my mind. The pieces were falling into place, and all the pieces were beautiful. I would climb up into the air on a planet-spurning leg of flame, high, higher, until Brancusi was a ball behind me, a blue-green ball for a child to play with. I would leave my other life behind, with its sins and remorse. Out in the eternal night I would be washed clean. Out of the womb of space I would be born again upon a new and finer world, as innocent as a baby. "I'd like that," I said.

"Slowly," Laurie said. "It won't be simple. You can't just step aboard a ship and be whisked away. It's not easy to get passage."

"But how?" I said. "What can I do? Who—?"

She was scribbling on a piece of paper. She pushed it over to me. "Here. Find this man. He works for the Peddlers. You'll find him at the port. Show him this note, and he'll help you. It may be expensive, though. Do you have money?"