Robert Silverberg - Travelers

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TRAVELERS

BY ROBERT SILVERBERG

"ARE WE ALL READY, THEN?" Nikomastir asks. He has fashioned a crown of

golden protopetaloids for himself, and gleaming scarlet baubles dangle

from his ears: the bright translucent shells of galgalids, strung on

slender strands of pure gold. His long, pale arms wave in the air as

though he is conducting a symphony orchestra. "Our next destination is-"

and he makes us wait for the announcement. And wait. And wait.

"Sidri Akrak," says Mayfly, giggling.

"How did you know?" cries Nikomastir. "Sidri Akrak! Yes! Yes! Set your

coordinates, everybody! Off we go! Sidri Akrak it is!"

A faint yelp of dismay comes from Velimyle, and she shoots me a look of

something that might almost have been fear, though perhaps there is a

certain component of perverse delight in it also. I am not at all happy

about the decision myself. Sidri Akrak is a nightmare world where gaudy

monsters run screaming through the muddy streets. The people of Sidri

Akrak are cold and dour and inhospitable; their idea of pleasure is to

wallow in discomfort and ugliness. No one goes to Sidri Akrak if he can

help it, no one.

But we must live by our rules; and this day Nikomastir holds the right

of next choice. It is devilish of Mayfly to have put the idea of going

to Sidri Akrak into his head. But she is Eke that, is Mayfly. And

Nikomastir is terribly easily influenced.

Will we all perish on hideous Sidri Akrak, victims of Mayfly's casual

frivolity?

I don't think so, however nasty the visit turns out to be. We often get

into trouble, sometimes serious trouble, but we always get out of it.

We lead charmed lives, we four travelers. Someday Mayfly will take one

risk too many, I suppose, and I would like not to be there when she does.

Most likely I will be, though. Mayfly is my mask-sister. Wherever she goes,

I go. I must look after her: thoughtful, stolid, foolish me. I must protect

her from herself as we four go traveling on and on, spinning giddily across

the farflung worlds.

Sidri Akrak, though--

The four of us have been to so many wondrous lovely places together: Elang-Lo

and the floating isle of Vont, and Mikni and Chchikkikan, Heidoth and Thant,

Milpar, Librot, Froidis, Smoor, Xamur and Iriarte and Nabomba Zom, and on and

on and on. And now -- Sidri Akrak? Sidri Akrak?

WE STAND a circle in the middle of a field of grass with golden blades, making

ourselves ready for our relay-sweep departure from Galgala.

I wouldn't have minded remaining here a few months longer. A lovely world

indeed is Galgala the golden, where a myriad of auriferous microorganisms

excrete atoms of gold as metabolic waste. It is everywhere on this planet,

the lustrous pretty metal. It turns the rivers and streams to streaks of

yellow flame and the seas to shimmering golden mirrors. Huge filters are

deployed at the intake valve of Galgala's reservoirs to strain the silt of

dissolved gold from the water supply. The plants of Galgala are turgid in

every tissue, leaf and stem and root, with aureous particles. Gold dust, held

in suspension in the air, transforms the clouds to golden fleece.

Therefore the once-precious stuff has grievously lost value throughout the

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galaxy since Galgala was discovered, and on Galgala itself a pound of gold

is worth less than a pound of soap. But I understand very little about these

economic matters and care even less. Only a miser could fail to rejoice in

Galgala's luminous beauty. We have been here six weeks we have awakened each

morning to the tinkle of golden chimes, we have bathed in the golden rivers

and come forth shining, we have wrapped our bodies round with delicate golden

chains. Now, though, it is time for us to move along, and Nikomastir has

decreed that our new destination is to be one of the universe's most disagreeable

worlds. Unlike my companions, I can see nothing amusing about going there.

It strikes me as foolish and dangerous whimsy. But they are true sophisticates,

untrammeled creatures made of air and light, and I am the leaden weight that

dangles from their soaring souls. We will go to Sidri Akrak.

We all face Nikomastir. Smiling sweetly, he calls out the coordinate numbers

for our journey, and we set our beacons accordingly and double-check the

settings with care. We nod our readiness for departure to one another.

Velimyle moves almost imperceptibly closer to me, Mayfly to Nikomastir.

I would have chosen a less flighty lover for her than Nikomastir if matters

had been left to me. He is a slim, elegant youth, high-spirited and shallow,

a prancing fantastico with a taste for telling elaborate, fanciful lies. And

he is very young: only a single rebirth so far. Mayfly is on her fifth, as am

I, and Velimyle claims three, which probably means four. Sembiran is Nikomastir's

native world, a place of grand valleys and lofty snow-capped mountains and

beautiful meadows and thriving cities, where his father is a minor aristocrat

of some sort. Or so Nikomastir has said, although we have learned again and

again that it is risky to take anything Nikomastir says at face value.

My incandescent mask-sister Mayfly, who is as small and fair as Nikomastir is

tall and dark, encountered him while on a visit to Olej in the Lubrik system

and was immediately captivated by his volatile, impulsive nature, and they

have traveled together ever since. Whither Mayfly goeth, thither go I: That is

the pledge of the mask. So do I trudge along now from world to world with them,

and therefore my winsome, sly, capricious Velimyle, whose psychosensitive

paintings are sought by the connoisseurs of a hundred worlds but who belongs

to me alone, has willy-nilly become the fourth member of our inseparable

quartet.

Some people find relay-sweep transport unlikable and even frightening, but I

have never minded it. What is most bothersome, I suppose, is that no starship

is involved: You travel unprotected by any sort of tangible container, a mere

plummeting parcel falling in frightful solitude through the interstices of the

continuum. A journey-helmet is all that covers you, and some flimsy folds of

coppery mesh. You set up your coordinates, you activate your beacon, and you

stand and wait, you stand and wait, until the probing beam of some far-off

sweep-station intersects your position and catches you and lifts you and carries

you away. If you've done things right, your baggage will be picked up and transported

at the same time. Most of the time that is so.

It is a stark and unluxurious mode of travel. The relay field wraps you in cocooning

bands of force and shoots you off through one auxiliary space and another, kicking

you through any convenient opening in the space-time lattice that presents itself,

and while you wait to be delivered to your destination, you drift like a bauble afloat

in an infinite sea, helpless, utterly alone, bereft of all power to override the sweep.

Your metabolic processes are suspended, but the activity of your consciousness is not,

so that your unsleeping mind ticks on and on in the most maddening way and there is

nothing you can do to quiet its clamor. It is as though you must scratch your itching

nose and your hands are tied behind your back. Eventually-you have no idea whether it

has been an hour, a month, a century--you are plunked unceremoniously down into a

relay station at the planet of your choice, and there you are. Relay-sweep transport

is ever so much more efficient than any system requiring vast vessels to plow the

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Robert Silverberg - Travelers

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