Juanita Coulson - The Singing Stones

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2024-12-19 0 0 341KB 163 页 5.9玖币
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Chapter One
"Pleasure, Honored Visitor. How may we serve you?"
During his first few weeks on Deliyas, Geoff had occasionally
wandered through this vast market square on his way to the
Federation Complex merely on whim; but now he did so every
day with a sense of keeping his contempt fresh.
"Pleasure," the vendors appealed to him, "we will supply Joy
or Pain—you have but to speak!"
Deliyas was a planet boasting a peculiar blend of modernity
and medieval quaintness. Sophisticated transportation,
architecture and intersystem trade abounded here. But Deliyas
was equally versatile as a mart pandering to every sensuous
appetite, and this, its capital city, happily strutted the part of
entrepreneur to the idle rich of a dozen stellar systems.
Geoff avoided the clutching hands of a more persistent
merchant of degeneracy and somehow kept the loathing from
showing in his face. Despite his revulsion, he had to admit the
marketplace played its part well. It sprawled over several
hectares, a noisy feast of sight, sound and color, a mingling of
numerous species and costumes and mannerisms. Tourists
from nearly every civilization in this sector had come to sample
the wares of Deliyas.
And the Deliyan merchants did their best to satisfy them.
Geoff had seen uncountable instances of bartering and haggling
over every conceivable item. Neither merchant nor purchaser
went unsatisfied.
Tain, Honored Visitor? For a pittance you may grant or
receive excruciating agony…"
Deliyas' visitors sought to escape the ennui or the pressures
of their hundred thousand existences, and here it was willingly
accepted that one such escape was violence. Geoff eyed the pain
merchant with amused bitterness. The display of psychowhips
and hypnotorture devices cluttered the entrance of his "shop."
Painful pleasures, yes, but the pain and violence of artificiality.
Such experiences were vivid and indeed agonizing—and
completely temporary, totally imaginary. In every category
Deliyas proudly offered limitless, decadent satiation, but only
for the moment. The entire planet was a study in sham.
As he strolled along the plaza Geoff was constantly forced to
shake his head to inventive and bizarre pleas or propositions. A
corpulent merchant entreated him and thrust out handfuls of
immense black-velvet flowerets which trembled in the faint
breeze and gave off a seductive tinkling noise: the fabled bell
flowers of Deliyas.
Deliyas had not always been so degenerate. Survey's study
tapes had painted for him an earlier picture of this Level-5
world—cruel, but honest in its struggle toward the light of
higher civilization. The Terran Federation's arrival had
introduced Deliyas to a swifter path, had shown the planet a
way to convert its sensuous talents into interstellar profits,
rather than settle for mere intrasystem domination. The young
world had sold its honor for a mess of glittering pottage.
"A servant, Honored Visitor?"
Geoff paused for the first time since he had entered the
market and coldly regarded the swarthy hawker of flesh.
Indeed, Deliyas had most profitably learned the advantages to
be gained with alien gold. And of all the planet's pandering to
the baser desires of sentient beings, this was the one trade
which disgusted Geoff the most. If he could in some way help to
end this injustice, he would feel any pain and sacrifice well
spent.
"A servant to please you, Sir?" It was considered poor taste to
refer to such men as slave merchants, but Deliyan distinction
between indenture and slavery often seemed negligible. The
"servants" the trader offered varied from humanoid females
and youths to the grotesque and assorted species of a dozen
other planets. Among the humanoid selection he saw some
large-eyed, pale-haired Pa-Lünans. In his few short weeks on
Deliyas, Geoff had seen relatively few Pa-Lünans, those tiny,
fragile people from the "pro-tectorate" sister world of Deliyas.
Protectorate: which in this case meant Deliyas managed the
world, controlled it, and used it as a fief to milk dry, to use as a
slave farm if they so chose—and the Federation's hands were
tied. The little people standing in the slaver's stall blinked and
shielded their dark, lemur-like eyes against the sun, and their
nearly albino skins and slit nostrils set them distinctively apart
from the other humanoids in the group.
The slaver's voice rose as Geoff passed by, and at the same
time the sales pitch descended in taste through the myriad
possibilities inherent in full title to another being. Geoff was
about to turn and deliver a blistering opinion on the spiel when
he was stopped by the shock of something bumping into him
quite violently.
Two men were struggling furiously, oblivous to the crowds,
which were hastily moving back out of their way. A third man, a
Terran, muttered something sounding like, "He won't fall for it,
Jim," then disappeared into the surrounding throng.
The remaining two men continued to scuffle. One was
dressed in the blue and white tunic of Deliyan nobility, and the
other wore the gray semi-uniform affected by Terran merchants
on a hundred worlds.
Onlookers stared, and their faces were a study in shocked
reaction, for this violence was unmistakably real, not the
counterfeit so familiar to these soft seekers of divertissement
who made up the crowd. Geoff noted their expressions briefly
with bitter amusement; he himself was intimately acquainted
with violence, and seeing realism jarring the dissolute
sensualists gave him a moment of perverse enjoyment.
Then he began to edge away, for the fight threatened to
develop into far more than a pushing contest. Off to his left
someone had set up a shout for the local police, and he had no
desire to be drafted as a witness to this brawl.
But before he could escape, the Terran pulled free of his
attacker and caught Geoff's sleeve. "Please! Help me! This
madman…"
"Leech of the Mother Ocean!" the Deliyan shrieked, trying to
wrap his pale, immaculate hands about the other's throat. "You
swore you would sell—"
Then both of them were clumsily bumping each other and
Geoff as well. Try as he might he could not disengage himself,
especially from the Terran; the man still clung desperately to
Geoff's arm, despite the fact that it put him at a disadvantage in
dealing with his assailant.
"Sir, I can see you're with the Federation—Ethnic Protection
Division, is it?" the man babbled, making an effort to smite and
licking his Zips nervously. "You must help… let go of me, you
son of a filth-eater! You must help. I don't know what's
possessed this lunatic."
"The same which has possessed you! Deliver it now, and at
the price you swore!" The Deliyan beat upon his opponent's
back, and with a burst of panic-charged strength the
hard-pressed Terran flung his tormentor away from him.
Annoyed, anxious to be rid of both men, Geoff gave a
determined twist and wrenched away from the Terran, feeling
the fabric of his sleeve part. As he stumbled back the Terran
stared stupidly at the fragment of cloth in his hand, then
started toward Geoff. There was some anger but more fear in his
face.
Fear? Over a matter of price haggling? The entire situation
was so incongruous that Geoff was briefly beset with curiosity.
What could the Terran merchant offer that the Deliyan native
could not as easily purchase elsewhere in this interstellar
treasure house?
But he had no time to question either of them, for the
Deliyan, seeing his opponent about to elude him, suddenly
produced a dagger from a hidden pocket in his tunic. The
Terran took a precious second to once more grasp at Geoff and
plead for his assistance. "He's mad, I tell you…"
"Look out," Geoff warned, simultaneously trying to shove the
man out of harm's way and seeing the Deliyan lunging toward
them with dagger outthrust and eyes feral-bright.
The knife disappeared from Geoff's view behind the Ter-ran's
back and the eyes of the man facing him widened in pained
disbelief. A cry of incredulous protest assaulted Geoff's ears,
and then those clutching hands at last lost their grip as the
Terran collapsed at Geoff's feet.
Geoff had seen death and violence in quantities sufficient to
blunt his senses, but the crowd erupted with a cacophony of
horrified outcry as the Deliyan pawed through the clothing of
the wounded merchant. The little native muttered to himself,
seemingly deaf to the angry murmurs surrounding him and the
whoops of an approaching patrol vehicle.
The Deliyan flung aside the bloodied knife he had clumsily
grasped all during his search and held his discovery in both
hands. Eyes brightly feverish, he gazed in hypnotic rapture at a
small piece of opalescent stone. And with unbelievable rapidity
his mood shifted from the murderous rage of moments before
to a crooning pleasure as he stroked and fondled the rock.
"Sing! Sing, Eye of the Wind," the Deliyan invoked. "Sing
beauty to me. Sing!"
The rapture as rapidly dissolved from his manner and he
went rigid, regarding the milky stone with suspicion and
outrage. The crowd had been edging forward, but now it
stopped and once more retreated from this fresh evidence of
insanity. The little man dropped the bloodily-bought stone to
the paving blocks of the marketplace and it shattered as if it
were made of fragile crystal.
The now pitiful Deliyan launched himself toward the body of
his victim and shook the limp form. "Deceiver! Spawn of the
Cursed Sea! Where is it? Where is the Stone of Song?"
Boots clicked on the pavement and a three man patrol of the
local prince's militia surrounded the little man. As the
patrolmen bent over the Deliyan, dragging him away from his
prey, he began sobbing in the tones of one bereft of his dearest
possession. "Not the true music, not real! He lied. Do you
understand? He lied! It is not a Stone of Song."
"Yes, of course, Honored Lord. Will you favor us with your
name, please?" the ranking patrolman asked with excessive
politeness. Such deference implied this was more than an
ordinary member of the Deliyan nobility. Had Geoff seen that
face in newscasts of recent palace functions? It was impossible
to tell now, so distorted was it by rage and grief.
A slender bloody hand pointed toward the body, and the
Deliyan noble swung his wild gaze from one guard to another.
"He promised. He swore, understand me, that he would deliver
a true stone. And for a fair price, Sirs…"
"Yes, yes," the guards soothed.
"A fair price…" and the nobleman's eyes were suddenly filled
with tears. "Ah, what would be a fair price for a Stone of Song?
No price!"
"Honored Lord," one of the guards tried to interrupt. He had
been kneeling beside the body of the Terran, examining it at
some length, and Geoff knew the verdict before the man
announced it. "You have ended this man's existence."
"No price! Not even that!" The Deliyan noble pulled free of
the startled militiamen and dived toward the pavement, his
hands scraping over the surface toward the discarded knife.
And before the patrolmen could reach and restrain him, he
seized the weapon and plunged it into his own throat.
The shocked guards hesitated a stunned second before they
tried to raise up the wounded man, and in the crowd many
turned their faces away in horror, unable to look on this ghastly
final realism. A froth of blood stained the white and blue tunic
and spattered from his lips as the suicidal murderer tried to
speak. But the violence he had done himself had robbed him of
his voice, and he collapsed into the supporting, arms of the
patrolmen, spouting choking sounds and blood.
Geoff seized the opportunity of the resultant chaos to ease
out of sight into the milling crowd. He certainly had no
intention of being delayed further by a lengthy hearing at a local
militia headquarters. No blame would devolve on him at such a
hearing, but the time could not be spared. And there were
plenty of other spectators who would probably relish this
chance to be questioned about some real violence.
The very size of the throng made his progress difficult, but he
was careful not to attract attention to himself by any undue
speed. He looked for openings, ducked between stalls and down
alleyways, threading a maze through the many blocks of the
marketplace.
Geoff made no speed until he had put considerable distance
between himself and the site of that unhappy incident. Word
moved with him, and even more rapidly. Even as he reached a
distant area of the market the conversation was about nothing
but the events of the last few minutes behind him, and typically,
rumor had already blown the occurrence to a full-scale riot and
the dead to the dozens.
At last he reached the Great Staircase of the Avenue of the
Mother Ocean, the simplest route to the Federation Complex on
the cliffs above. Geoff paused before that seemingly endless
ascension carved into the living rock of the planet. There was a
slide stair, of course, and most Federation employees chose
that. But for now Geoff found himself sick of ease and decadence
and determined to do his own climbing.
After a moment's searching in his pocket he found the little
vial Medical Central had given him and shook out one of the
little gels. It dissolved on his tongue into a bittersweet,
somewhat gagging, liquid, and he began to feel the now familiar
numbness in his fingers, a sensation of his entire metabolism
chilling, nerve endings deadening.
Slowly, at first, he began to ascend the stairs. As the drug
took effect he kept pace with it, increasing his rate of climb until
an onlooker, he hoped, would think him perfectly normal and
healthy. It was a most effective medicine they'd prescribed.
They couldn't cure, but they could alleviate, he thought grimly,
trying to ignore the burning constriction that grew in his throat.
As he finally reached the top he sought a railing and perch
there, gazing out and enjoying the beautiful view of the In-das,
the Mother Ocean of Deliyan folklore.
He could not rest too long. Sorenson had a short temper, and
that business in the marketplace had already cut into the
appointment time. Geoff glanced at his chronometer, then
irritably shrugged away any urge to hurry. It was serving
Sorenson and Ethnic Protection Division that had cost him the
fiery agony he now suffered. Let them wait.
After long moments, when the pain had lulled to a dull
soreness, Geoff headed toward the arcaded terrace that was the
entrance to the Federation Complex. It was a magnificent and
impressive sub-city overlooking both the ocean and the heart of
Langaroa-City; but at the moment Geoff was too sour to feel any
Terran pride for this architectural accomplishment. The
contrast of brilliant sea, cloudless blue sky and dazzling stone
hurt his eyes, even though he understood it awed the native
population to obeisance.
But then, awing the native population was the whole point of
the Federation's existence, wasn't it, he wryly asked himself.
Geoff swallowed the ache at the back of his tongue and moved
under the shadow of the arcade leading to the administration
building, a towering, blinding white edifice with its own private
shuttle landing strip flanking the building.
He paused just inside the cool interior, involuntarily
remembering younger days when he'd rushed to each new
assignment with eagerness rather than the foot dragging
tiredness that racked him today. In his own way, and for his
own reasons, he was as jaded as the mindless tourists in that
marketplace.
Making his way to Sorenson's office, he halted there for a
second to regard the softly glowing panel embedded in the wall.
Viewed casually, it was merely a lighting device, but close
examination revealed a perfectly concealed door.
Sorenson didn't even look up as Geoff entered. The Director
was sprawled in a convertolounger, facing the room vid-unit. A
stream of drama-dancers tangled with all the colors the
medium could reproduce flowed across the panel screen
covering one wall.
Still feeling acid, Geoff seated himself at the refreshment bar.
There he inhaled deeply the gentian-amethyst mist produced by
the dispenser, and almost immediately a comforting euphoria
flowed to all parts of his tired body, interracting with the drugs
he'd taken earlier and blunting the pain in his throat.
Cheered, he gazed at Sorenson with less hostility and even
tried to take a polite interest in the vid. He leaned back and let
the moving wall assault his senses. After several immeasurable
minutes the drama ended with one final burst of eye-wrenching
color and sound that covered the range of human hearing.
The wall went dark and Sorenson swiveled his lounger to face
Geoff. There was a hint of anger in those pale eyes that quite
belied a sigh of contentment over the drama. And then Geoff
became aware Sorenson was staring at the torn sleeve. He
glanced down and fingered the remnant of material, estimating
possible cost of replacement. "Memento."
"Of what?"
"A man now dead."
Sorenson's lounger jackknifed him upright and the Director's
expression became intent.
"Some brawl down in the marketplace. Don't -trouble
yourself. I wasn't involved, except as an innocent bystander who
got his sleeve ripped. One of the participants made the mistake
of thinking I'd take his part."
Sorenson got to his feet and walked slowly toward the bar. He
was a beefy man past middle age, and his former hardness and
capability were being eroded by Deliyas' soporific climate and
easy morality. Sorenson took careful pains pouring a goblet of
good wine, the purplish mist from the dispenser swirling about
his hands giving him the air of a sorcerer. "Who was killed? A
Deliyan?"
"No and yes, I'm not sure of…"
They did not hear the door open but they heard the burst of
conversation from the sub-lobby. The newcomer paused just
inside the room and waited as the door once more sealed them
off from the outside bustle. Formally, the new arrival bowed,
the hem of his pale orange cloak brushing the carpet. "Honored
Director Sorenson, my apologies for my late arrival."
Sorenson waved his goblet, gesturing the speaker forward.
"As it turns out, you're not late at all. If you'd been much
earlier, we'd have had to wait for Geoff. This is Geoff Lat-imer,
the man I mentioned earlier. Geoff, Tahn-pa-Nyala, Citizen of
Pa-Lüna."
Enormous dark eyes, almost devoid of any encircling white,
blinked solemnly several times as their possessor studied him.
"My pleasure to be in your presence, Honored Sir."
"Citizen Tahn."
Pa-Lünan indeed: the newcomer was a distillation of the
"Typical Pa-Lünan, male" section of the tapes Survey had
obtained from Deliyan sources. The frame was smaller, even
more delicate than that of a Deliyan; and his other features
—white hair gathered in tiny plaits, lemur-like eyes, curling
four-fingered paws, almost-albino skin—all marked him a
pure-blooded native of Deliyas' protectorate sister world.
On an inviting wave from Sorenson, Citizen Tahn came to the
refresher bar and cupped his tiny fingers about the mist exuded
by the dispenser. He brought the trapped cloud to his slit
nostrils and inhaled deeply before speaking. "I am chagrined to
suspect I interrupted your conversation, Honored Sirs. Please
continue." His speech and physique were pure Pa-Lünan, but
there was a great deal of Terra in Tahn-pa-Nyala's mannerisms.
There was no reply from Sorenson, who was busy fiddling
with the controls on the vid-unit, seeking a particular channel.
Without looking at Geoff he muttered, "How long ago was this
brawl?"
摘要：

ChapterOne"Pleasure,HonoredVisitor.Howmayweserveyou?"DuringhisfirstfewweeksonDeliyas,GeoffhadoccasionallywanderedthroughthisvastmarketsquareonhiswaytotheFederationComplexmerelyonwhim;butnowhedidsoeverydaywithasenseofkeepinghiscontemptfresh."Pleasure,"thevendorsappealedtohim,"wewillsupplyJoyorPain—yo...

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