Robert Silverberg: Stepsons of Terra

The history of the Fourth Millennium was a predictable one; Ewing had already extrapolated it from the data given him, and it was little surprise to come across confirmation. There had been retrenchment. The robot-served culture of Earth became self-sufficient, a closed system. Births and deaths were carefully equalized.

With stability came isolation. The wild men on the colony worlds no longer had need for the mother world, nor Earth for them. Contacts withered.

In the year 3800, said the text, only Sirius IV of all Earth’s colonies still retained regular communication with the parent planet. Representatives of the thousand other colonies were so rare on Earth as to be virtually nonexistent there.

Only Sirius IV. It was odd, thought Ewing, that of all the colonies the harsh people of Sirius IV should alone be solicitous of the mother world. There was little in common between Rollun Firnik and the Scholar.

The more Ewing read, the less confident he became that he would find any aid for Corwin here. Earth had become a planet of gentle scholiasts, it seemed; was there anything here that could serve in the struggle against the advancing Klodni?

Possibly not. But Ewing did not intend to abandon his quest at its very beginning.

He read on, well into the afternoon, until he felt hunger. Rising, he disconnected the viewer and rewound the reels, slipping them back into their containers. His eyes were tired. Some of the physical fatigue Myreck had taken from him had begun to steal back into his body.

There was a restaurant on the sixty-third level of the hotel, according to the printed information sheet enameled on the inside of his door. He showered and dressed formally, in his second-best doublet and lace. He checked the chambers of his ceremonial blaster, found them all functioning, and strapped the weapon to his hip. Satisfied at last, he reached for the housephone, and when the subservient roboperator answered said, “I’m going to eat dinner now. Will you notify the hotel dining room to reserve a table for one for me?”

“Of course, Mr. Ewing.”

He broke the contact and glanced once again in the mirror above his dresser to make sure his lace was in order. He felt in his pocket for his wallet; bulged with Terrestrial paper money, enough to last him the length of his stay.

He opened the door. Just outside the door was an opaque plastic receptacle which was used for depositing messages, and to Ewing’s surprise the red light atop it was glowing, indicating the presence of a message within.

Pressing his thumb to the identiplate, he lifted the top of the box and drew out the note. It was neatly typed in blue capital letters. It said:

COLONIST EWING:

IF YOU WANT TO STAY IN GOOD HEALTH, KEEP AWAY FROM MYRECK AND HIS FRIENDS.

It was unsigned. Ewing smiled coldly; the intrigue was beginning already, the jockeying back and forth. He had expected it. The arrival of a strange colonial on Earth was a novel enough event; it was sure to have its consequences and repercussions as his presence became more widely known.

“Open,” he said shortly to his door.

The door slid back. He reentered his room and snatched up the house phone.

The desk robot said, “How may we serve you, Mr. Ewing?”

“There seems to be a spy vent in my room some place,” Ewing said. “Send someone up to check the room over, will you?”

“I assure you, sir, that no such thing could—”

“I tell you there’s a concealed camera or microphone someplace in my room. Either find it or I’ll check into some other hotel.”

“Yes, Mr. Ewing. We’ll send an investigator up immediately.”

“Good. I’m going to the dining room, now. If anything turns up, contact me there.”

The hotel dining room was gaudily, even garishly decorated. Glowing spheres of imprisoned radiant energy drifted at random near the vaulted ceiling, occasionally bobbing down to eye level. The tables themselves were banked steeply toward the outside edge, and in the very center of the room, where the floor level was lowest, a panchromaticon swiveled slowly, casting multicolored light over the diners. A burnished, bullet-headed robot waited at the door. “I have a reservation,” Ewing said. “Baird Ewing. Room 4113.”

“Of course, sir. Come this way, please.”

Ewing followed the robot into the main concourse of the dining room, up a sort of ramp that led to the outermost rim of the great hall, where a few empty tables were visible. The robot came to a halt in front of a table at which someone was already sitting: a Sirian girl, Ewing guessed, from her brawny appearance.

The robot pulled out the chair facing her. Ewing shook his head. “There’s been some mistake made. I don’t know this lady at all. I requested a table for one.”

“We ask indulgence, sir. There are no tables for one available at this hour. We consulted with the person occupying this table and were told that there was no objection to your sharing it, if you were willing to do so.” Ewing frowned and glanced at the girl. She met his glance evenly, and smiled. She seemed to be inviting him to sit down.

He shrugged. “All right. I’ll sit here.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ewing slipped into the seat and let the robot nudge it toward the table for him. He looked at the girl. She had bright red hair, trimmed in what on Corwin would be considered an extremely mannish style. She was dressed in a tailored suit of some clinging purple material; it flared sharply at the shoulders and neck. Her eyes were dark black. Her face was broad and muscular looking, with upjutting cheekbones that gave her features an oddly slant-eyed cast.

“I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience,” Ewing said. “I had no idea they’d place me at your table—or at any occupied table.”

“I requested it,” she said. Her voice was dark of timbre and resonant. “You’re the Corwinite Ewing, I understand. I’m Byra Clork. We have something in common. We were both on colonies of Earth.”

Ewing found himself liking her blunt, forthright approach, even though in her countryman Firnik it had been offensive. He said, “So I understand. You’re a Sirian, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“I guessed,” Ewing said evasively. He directed his attention to the liquor panel set against the wall. “Drink?” he asked her.

“I’ve had one. But I don’t mind if you do.”

Ewing inserted a coin and punched out a cocktail. The drink emerged from a revolving slot in the wall. The Corwinite picked it up and tasted it. It was sweet, with a disturbing undertaste of acridity.

“You said you requested my presence at your table,” Ewing remarked. “And you knew me by name. How come?”

“It isn’t every day that a stranger comes to Earth,” she said, in that impossibly deep, husky, almost-masculine voice. “I was curious.”

“Many people seem to be curious about me,” Ewing said.

A robowaiter hovered at his shoulder. Ewing frowned; he said, “I don’t have any idea what the speciality of the house is. Miss Clork, would you care to recommend something for my dinner?”

She said to the robot, “Give him the same thing I ordered. Venison, creamed potatoes, green beans.”

“Certainly,” murmured the robot. As it scuttled away Ewing said, “Is that the tastiest dish they have?”

“Probably. I know it’s the most expensive.”

Ewing grinned. “You don’t spare my pocketbook, do you?”

“You gave me free reign. Besides, you must have some money in your pocket. I saw you converting a stack of bills at the desk this morning.”

“You saw me, then?” An idea struck him. “You didn’t send me a note this afternoon, did you?”