Roger Zelazny - The Doors of His Face The Lamps of His Mouth

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Roger Zelazny. The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth

_____________________________________________________________________

I'm a baitman. No one is born a baitman, except in a French novel where

everyone is. (In fact, I think that's the title, _We are All Bait_. Pfft!)

How I got that way is barely worth the telling and has nothing to do with

neo-exes, but the days of the beast deserve a few words, so here they are.

The Lowlands of Venus lie between the thumb and forefinger of the

continent known as Hand. When you break into Cloud Alley it swings its

silverblack bowling ball toward you without a warning. You jump then, inside

that firetailed tenpin they ride you down in, but the straps keep you from

making a fool of yourself. You generally chuckle afterwards, but you always

jump first.

Next, you study Hand to lay its illusion and the two middle fingers

become dozen-ringed archipelagoes as the outers resolve into greengray

peninsulas; the thumb is too short, and curls like the embryo tail of Cape

Horn.

You suck pure oxygen, sigh possibly, and begin the long topple back to

the Lowlands.

There, you are caught like an infield fly at the Lifeline landing

area--so named because of its nearness to the great delta in the Eastern

Bay--located between the first peninsula and "thumb." For a minute it seems

as if you're going to miss Lifeline and wind up as canned seafood, but

afterwards--shaking off the metaphors--you descend to scorched concrete and

present your middle-sized telephone directory of authorizations to the

short, fat man in the gray cap. The papers show that you are not subject to

mysterious inner rottings and etcetera. He then smiles you a short, fat,

gray smile and motions you toward the bus which hauls you to the Reception

Area. At the R.A. you spend three days proving that, indeed, you are not

subject to mysterious inner rottings and etcetera.

Boredom, however, is another rot. When your three days are up, you

generally hit Lifeline hard, and it returns the compliment as a matter of

reflex. The effects of alcohol in variant atmospheres is a subject on which

the connoisseurs have written numerous volumes, so I will confine my remarks

to noting that a good binge is worthy of at least a week's time and often

warrants a lifetime study.

I had been a student of exceptional promise (strictly undergraduate)

for going on two years when the _Bright Water_ fell through our marble

ceiling and poured its people like targets into the city.

Pause. The Worlds Almanac re Lifeline: "...Port city on the eastern

coast of Hand. Employees of the Agency for Non-terrestrial Research comprise

approximately 85% of its 100,000 population (2010 Census). Its other

residents are primarily personnel maintained by several industrial

corporations engaged in basic research. Independent marine biologists,

wealthy fishing enthusiasts, and waterfront entrepreneurs make up the

remainder of its inhabitants."

I turned to Mike Dabis, a fellow entrepreneur, and commented on the

lousy state of basic research.

"Not if the mumbled truth be known."

He paused behind his glass before continuing the slow swallowing

process calculated to obtain my interest and a few oaths, before he

continued.

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"Carl," he finally observed, poker playing, "they're shaping

Tensquare."

I could have hit him. I might have refilled his glass with sulfuric

acid and looked on with glee as his lips blackened and cracked. Instead, I

grunted a noncommittal.

"Who's fool enough to shell out fifty grand a day? ANR?"

He shook his head.

"Jean Luharich," he said, "the girl with the violet contacts and fifty

or sixty perfect teeth. I understand her eyes are really brown."

"Isn't she selling enough face cream these days?"

He shrugged.

"Publicity makes the wheels go 'round. Luharich Enterprise jumped

sixteen points when she picked up the Sun Trophy. You ever play golf on

Mercury?"

I had, but I overlooked it and continued to press.

"So she's coming here with a blank check and a fishhook?"

"_Bright Water_, today," he nodded. "Should be down by now. Lots of

cameras. She wants an Ikky, bad."

"Hmm," I hmmed. "How bad?"

"Sixty day contract. Tensquare. Indefinite extension clause. Million

and a half deposit," he recited.

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"I'm Personnel Recruitment. Luharich Enterprises approached me last

month. It helps to drink in the right places.

"Or own them." He smirked, after a moment.

I looked away, sipping my bitter brew. After awhile I swallowed several

things and asked Mike what he expected to be asked, leaving myself open for

his monthly temperance lecture.

"They told me to try getting you," he mentioned. "When's the last time

you sailed?"

"Month and a half ago. The _Corning_."

"Small stuff," he snorted. "When have you been under, yourself?"

"It's been awhile."

"It's been over a year, hasn't it? That time you got cut by the screw,

under the _Dolphin_?"

I turned to him.

"I was in the river last week, up at Angleford where the currents are

strong. I can still get around."

"Sober," he added.

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"I'd stay that way," I said, "on a job like this."

A doubting nod.

"Straight union rates. Triple time for extraordinary circumstances," he

narrated. "Be at Hangar Sixteen with your gear, Friday morning, five hundred

hours. We push off Saturday, daybreak."

"You're sailing?"

"I'm sailing."

"How come?"

"Money."

"Ikky guano."

"The bar isn't doing so well and baby needs new minks."

"I repeat--"

"...And I want to get away from baby, renew my contract with

basics--fresh air, exercise, make cash..."

"All right, sorry I asked."

I poured him a drink, concentrating on H2SO4, but it didn't transmute.

Finally I got him soused and went out into the night to walk and think

things over.

Around a dozen serious attempts to land _Ichthyform Leviosaurus

Levianthus_, generally known as "Ikky", had been made over the past five

years. When Ikky was first sighted, whaling techniques were employed. These

proved either fruitless or disastrous, and a new procedure was inaugurated.

Tensquare was constructed by a wealthy sportsman named Michael Jandt, who

blew his entire roll on the project.

After a year on the Eastern Ocean, he returned to file bankruptcy.

Carlton Davits, a playboy fishing enthusiast, then purchased the huge raft

and laid a wake for Ikky's spawning grounds. On the nineteenth day out he

had a strike and lost one hundred fifty bills' worth of untested gear, along

with one _Ichthyform Levianthus_. Twelve days later, using tripled lines, he

hooked, narcotized, and began to hoist the huge beast. It awakened then,

destroyed a control tower, killed six men, and worked general hell over five

square blocks of Tensquare. Carlton was left with partial hemiplegia and a

bankruptcy suit of his own. He faded into waterfront atmosphere and

Tensquare changed hands four more times, with less spectacular but equally

expensive results.

Finally, the big raft, built only for one purpose was purchased at an

auction by ANR for "marine research." Lloyd's still won't insure it, and the

only marine research it has ever seen is an occasional rental at fifty bills

a day--to people anxious to tell Leviathan fish stories. I've been a baitman

on three of the voyages, and I've been close enough to count Ikky's fangs on

two occasions. I want one of them to show my grandchildren, for personal

reasons.

I faced the direction of the landing area and resolved a resolve.

"You want me for local coloring, gal. It'll look nice on the feature

page and all that. But clear this--If anyone gets you an Ikky, it'll be me.

I promise."

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Roger Zelazny - The Doors of His Face The Lamps of His Mouth

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