Robert Silverberg - Stepsons of Terra

“At the other side of the park, near the big square entrance.”

Ewing squinted. “I’m afraid I don’t see it. Could we walk over there a little way? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you in any way…

“Perfectly all right.”

They left the vendor’s booth and started to cross the park. Halfway toward the big entrance, the Earther stopped. Pointing, he said, “It’s right over there. See? You can’t miss it.”

Ewing nodded. “There’s one final thing—”

“Of course.”

“I seem to have lost all my money in an unfortunate accident this morning. I lost my wallet, you see. Could you lend me about a hundred credits?”

“A hundred credits! Now, see here, fellow. I don’t mind giving travel directions, but a hundred credits is a little out of line! Why, it won’t cost you more than one credit eighty to get to the Consulate from here.”

“I know,” Ewing said tightly. “But I need the hundred.” He pointed a finger through the fabric of his trouser pocket and said, “There’s a stun-gun in this pocket, and my finger’s on the stud. Suppose you very quietly hand me a hundred credits in small notes, or I’ll be compelled to use the stunner on you. I wouldn’t want to do that.”

The Earther seemed on the verge of tears. He glanced quickly at the boy with the balloon, playing unconcernedly fifteen feet away, and then jerked his head back to face Ewing. Without speaking, he drew out his billfold and counted out the bills. Ewing took them in equal silence and stored them in the pocket where he had kept his wallet, before Firnik had confiscated it.

“I’m really sorry about having to do this,” he told the young Earther. “But I can’t stop to explain, and I need the money. Now I’d like you to take the child by the hand and walk slowly toward that big lake over there, without looking back and without calling for help. The stunner is effective at distances of almost five hundred feet, you know.”

“Help a stranger and this is what you get,” the Earther muttered. “Robbery in broad daylight, in Municipal Park!”

“Go on—move!”

The Earther moved. Ewing watched him long enough to make sure he would keep good faith, then turned and trotted rapidly toward the park entrance. He reached it just as the rounded snout of a Number Sixty bus drew up at the comer. Grinning, Ewing leaped aboard. An immobile robot at the enerance said, “Destination, please?”

“‘Grand Circle.”

“Nothing and sixty, please.”

Ewing drew a one-credit note from his pocket, placed it in the receiving slot, and waited. A bell rang; a ticket popped forth, and four copper coins jounced into the change slot. He scooped them up and entered the bus. From the window he glanced at the park and caught sight of the little boy’s red balloon; the flame-haired man was next to him, back to the street, staring at the lake. Probably scared stiff, Ewing thought. He felt only momentary regret for what he had done. He needed the money. Firnik had taken all of his money, and his rescuer had unaccountably neglected to furnish him with any.

Grand Circle turned out to be just that—a vast circular wheel of a street, with more than fifteen street-spokes radiating outward from it. A monument of some sort stood in a grass plot at the very center of the wheel.

Ewing dismounted from the bus. Spying a robot directing traffic, he said, “Where can I get the downtown undertube line?”

The robot directed him to the undertube station. He transferred at the Three Hundred Seventy-eighth Street station, as his unfortunate acquaintance had advised, and shortly afterward found himself in the midst of a busy shopping district.

He stood thoughtfully in the middle of the arcade for a moment, nudging his memory for the equipment he would need. A privacy mask and a stun-gun; that seemed to be about all.

A weapons shop sign beckoned to him from the distance. He hurried to it, found it open, and stepped through the curtain of energy that served as its door. The proprietor was a wizened little Earther who smiled humbly at him as he entered.

“May I serve you, sir?”

“You may. I’m interested in buying a stun-gun, if you have one for a good price.”

The shopkeeper frowned. “I don’t know if we have any stun-guns in stock. Now let me see… ah, yes!” He reached below the counter and drew forth a dark-blue plastite box. He touched the seal; the box flew open. “Here you are, sir. A lovely model. Only eight credits.”

Ewing took the gun from the little man and examined it. It felt curiously light; he split it open and was surprised to find it was hollow and empty within. He looked up angrily. “Is this a joke? Where’s the force chamber?”

“You mean you want a real gun, sir? I thought you simply were looking for an ornament to complement that fine suit you wear. But—”

“Never mind that. Do you have one of these that actually functions?”

The shopkeeper looked pale, almost sick. But he vanished into the back room and reappeared a moment later with a small gun case in his hand. “I happen to have one, sir. A Sirian customer of mine ordered it last month and then unfortunately died. I was about to return it, but if you’re interested it’s yours for ninety credits.”

Ninety credits was almost all the money he had. And he wanted to save some to hand over to the rescued man.

“Too much. I’ll give you sixty.”

“Sir! I-”

“Take sixty,” Ewing said. “I’m a personal friend of Vice-Consul Firnik’s. See him and he’ll make up the difference.”

The Earther eyed him meekly and sighed. “Sixty it is,” he said. “Shall I wrap it?”

“Never mind about that,” Ewing said, pocketing the tiny weapon, case and all, and counting out sixty credits from his slim roll. One item remained. “Do you have privacy masks?”

“Yes, sir. A large assortment.”

“Good. Give me a golden one.”

With trembling hands the shopkeeper produced one. It fit the memory he had of the other reasonably well. “How much?”

“T-ten credits, sir. For you, eight.”

“Take the ten,” Ewing said. He folded the mask, smiled grimly at the terrified shopkeeper, and left. Once he was out on the street, he looked up at a big building-clock and saw the time: 1552.

Suddenly he clapped his hand to his forehead in annoyance: he had forgotten to check the most important fact of all! Hastily he darted back into the weapons shop. The proprietor came to attention, lips quivering. “Y-yes.”

“All I want is some information,” Ewing said. “What day is today?”

“What day? Why—why, Twoday, of course. Twoday, the eleventh.”

Ewing crowed triumphantly. Twoday on the nose! He burst from the store a second time. Catching the arm of a passerby, he said, “Pardon. Can you direct me to the Sirian Consulate?”

“Two blocks north, turn left. Big building. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Ewing said.

Two blocks north, turn left. A current of excitement bubbled in his heart.

He began to walk briskly toward the Sirian Consulate, hands in his pockets. One clasped the coolness of the stun-gun, the other rested against the privacy mask.

Ewing had to push his way through a good-sized crowd at the Consulate—Sirians all, each of them bound on some private business of his own. Ewing was surprised that there were so many Sirians in Valloin.

The Consulate was a building of imposing dimensions; evidently one of the newest of Valloin’s edifices, its architecture was out of key with that of the surrounding buildings. Clashing planes and tangential faces made the Consulate a startling sight.

Ewing passed through the enormous lobby and turned left to a downramp. He gave only passing thought to the question of how he was going to reach the subterranean dungeon, where at this moment another version of himself was undergoing interrogation. He knew that he had been rescued once, and so it could be repeated.