A. van Vogt - The Empire of Isher

It took longer than that to turn over the money but ap parently the continuity of acquiescence was all that was required. He was allowed to put his empty pocketbook back into his pocket and several coins were ignored. “You’ll need a bite before we land,” Seal said generously.

The gun disappeared under the table and Seal leaned back in his chair with an easy relaxation. “Just in case,” he said, “you decide to complain to the captain, let me tell you that we would kill you instantly without worrying about the consequences. Our story is simple. You’ve been foolish and lost all your money at cards.” He laughed and climbed to his feet, once more imperturbable and mysteri ous. “Be seeing ya, fellow. Better luck next time.”

The other men were climbing to their feet. The three sauntered off and, as Cayle watched, they disappeared into the forward cocktail bar. Cayle remained in his chair, hunched and devastated.

His gaze sought the distant clock—July 15, 4784 Isher—two hours and fifteen minutes out of Ferd and an hour still to Imperial City.

With closed eyes Cayle pictured himself arriving in the old city as darkness fell. His first night there that was to have been so thrilling, would now be spent on the streets.

He couldn’t sit still. And three times, as he paced through the ship, he paused before full length energy mirrors. His bloodshot eyes glared back at him from the lifelike image of himself. And over and above the desperate wonder of what to do now, he thought: How had they picked him for victim? What was there about him that had made the gang of three head unerringly toward him?

As he turned from the third mirror he saw the weapon shop girl. Her gaze flicked over him without recognition. She wore a soft blue tailored dress, and a strand of creamy pearls around her tanned neck. She looked so smart and at ease that he didn’t have the heart to follow her. Hopelessly, Cayle moved out of her line of vision and sank into a seat.

A movement caught his distracted gaze. A man was slumping into a chair at the table across the aisle. He wore the uniform of a colonel in Her Imperial Majesty’s Army. He was so drunk he could hardly sit, and how he had walked to the seat was a mystery rooted deep in the laws of balance. His head came around, and his eyes peered wearily at Cayle.

“Spying on me, eh?” His voice went down in pitch, and up in volume. “ Waiter!”

A steward hurried forward. “Yes, sir?”

“The finest wine for my shadow n’me.” As the waiter rushed off, the officer beckoned Cayle. “Might as well sit over here. Might as well travel together, eh?” His tone grew confidential. “I’m a wino, y’know. Been trying to keep it from the empress for a long time. She doesn’t like it.” He shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t like it at all. Well, what’re you waiting for? C’mon over here.”

Cayle came hastily, cursing the drunken fool. But hope came too. He had almost forgotten, but the weapon shop girl had suggested he join the Imperial forces. If he could obtain information from this alcoholic and join up fast, then the loss of the money wouldn’t matter. “I’ve got to decide,” he told himself. He distinctly thought of himself as making a decision.

He sipped his wine presently, more tense than he cared to be, eyeing the older man with quick, surreptitious glances. The man’s background emerged slowly out of a multitude of incoherent confidences. His name was Laurel Medlon. Colonel Laurel Medlon, he would have Cayle understand, confidant of the empress, intimate of the palace, head of a tax collecting district.

“Damned, hic, good one, too,” he said with a satisfaction that gave more weight to his words than the words themselves.

He looked sardonically at Cayle. “Like to get in on it, eh?” He hiccoughed. “Okay, come to my office—tomorrow.”

His voice trailed. He sat mumbling to himself. And, when Cayle asked a question, he muttered that he had come to Imperial City “…when I was your age. Boy, was I green!” He quivered in a spasm of vinous indignation. “Y’know, those damned clothes monopolies have different kinds of cloth they send out to the country. You can spot anybody from a village. I was sure spotted fast…”

His voice trailed off into a series of curses. His reminiscent rage communicated itself to Cayle.

So that was it—his clothes!

The unfairness of it wracked his body. His father had consistently refused to let him buy his suits even in nearby Ferd. Always Fara had protested, “How can I expect the local merchants to bring their repair work to me if my family doesn’t deal with them?” And having asked the unanswerable question, the older man would not listen to further appeals.

“And here I am,” Cayle thought, “stripped because that old fool—” The futile anger faded. Because large towns like Ferd probably had their own special brand of cloth, as easily identifiable as anything in Glay. The unfairness of it, he saw with reaching clarity, went far beyond the stubborn stupidity of one man.

But it was good to know, even at this eleventh hour.

The colonel was stirring. And, once more, Cayle pressed his question. “But how did you get into the Army? How did you become an officer in the first place?”

The drunken man said something about the empress having a damned nerve complaining about tax money. And then there was something about the attack on the weapon shops being a damned nuisance, but that wasn’t clear. Another remark about some twotiming dames who had better watch out made Cayle visualize an officer who maintained several mistresses. And then, finally came the answer to his question.

“I paid five thousand credits for my commission—damn crime…” He gabbled again for a minute, then, “Empress insists on giving them out for nothing right now. Won’t do it. A man’s got to have his graft.” Indignantly, “ I sure paid plenty.”

“You mean,” Cayle urged, “commissions are available now without money? Is that what you mean?” In his anxiety, he grabbed the man’s sleeve.

The officer’s eyes, which had been half closed, jerked open. They glared at Cayle suspiciously. “Who are you?” he snapped. “Get away from me.” His voice was harsh, briefly almost sober. “By God,” he said, “you can’t travel these days without picking up some leech. I’ve a good mind to have you arrested.”

Cayle stood up, flushing. He staggered as he walked away. He felt shaken and on the verge of panic. He was being hit too hard and too often.

The blur faded slowly from his mind. He saw that he had paused to peer into the forward cocktail bar. Seal and his companions were still there. The sight of them stiffened him and he knew why he had come back to look at them. There was a will to action growing in him, a determination not to let them get away with what they had done. But first he’d need some information.

He spun on his heel and headed straight for the weapon shop girl, who sat in one corner reading a book, a slim, handsome young woman of twenty years or so. Her eyes studied his face as he described how his money had been stolen. Cayle finished. “Here’s what I want to know. Would you advise me to go to the captain?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t do that. The captain and the crew receive a forty percent cut on most of these ships. They’d help dispose of your body.”

Cayle leaned back in his seat. He felt drained of vitality.

The trip, his first beyond Ferd, was taking toll of his strength. “How is it?” he asked finally, straightening, “that they didn’t pick you? Oh, I know you probably aren’t wearing village type clothes, but how do they select?”

The girl shook her head. “These men,” she said, “go around surreptitiously using transparencies. The first thing they discover is, if you’re wearing a weapon shop gun. Then they leave you strictly alone.”