Robert Silverberg - Shadrach in the Furnace

“Someone might have done it without telling you about it.”

“Talk,” Ficifolia says. “It’s safe here.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Why didn’t you stay where you were?”

“The Citpols knew where I was, every minute. Avogadro himself dropped in on me in Peking.”

“What did you expect? Taking commercial transport all around the world. There are ways of hiding, but — did Avogadro make you come back here, then?”

“I had already bought my ticket.”

“Jesus, why?”

“I came back because I saw a way of saving myself.”

“The way to save yourself is to go underground.”

“No,” Shadrach says emphatically. “The way to save yourself is to return and continue to carry out my functions as the Chairman’s doctor. You know that the Chairman is ill?”

“Bad headaches, they tell me.”

“Dangerous headaches. We’ll need to operate.”

“Brain surgery?”

“That’s right.”

Ficifolia compresses his lips and studies Shadrach’s face as though examining a map of El Dorado. “I once told you that you weren’t crazy enough to survive in this city. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re plenty crazy. You have to be crazy if you think you can intentionally bungle an operation on Genghis Mao and get away with it. Don’t you think Warhaftig will notice what you’re doing and stop you? Or turn you in, if you actually do pull it off? What good is killing the Khan if you end up in the organ farms yourself? How—”

“Doctors don’t kill their patients, Frank.”

“But—”

“You’re jumping to conclusions. Projecting your own fantasies, perhaps. I’m simply going to operate. And cure the Chairman’s headaches. And see to it that he stays in good health.” Shadrach smiles. “Don’t ask questions. Just help me.”

“Help you how?”

“I want you to find Buckmaster for me. There’s a special piece of equipment I’ll need, and he’s the right man to build it. Then I’ll want you to help me rig the telemetering circuits to run it.”

“Buckmaster? Why Buckmaster? There are plenty of capable microengineering people right here on the staff.”

“Buckmaster’s the one I want for this job. He’s the best in his field, and he happens to be the one who built my implant system. He’s the one who ought to build any additions to that system.” Shadrach’s gaze is uncompromising. “Will you get me Buckmaster?”

Ficifolia, after a moment, blinks and brusquely nods. “I’ll take you to him,” be says. “When do you want to go?”

“Now.”

“Right now? Right this literal minute?”

“Now,” Shadrach says. “Is he very far from here?”

“Not really.”

“Where is he?”

“Karakorum,” Ficifolia replies. “We hid him among the transtemporalists.”

January 2, 2009

I insisted, and they allowed me to sample the transtemporal experience. Much talk of risks, of side effects, of my responsibilities to the commonwealth. I overruled them. It is not often that I have to insist. It is rare that I can speak of being allowed. But this was a struggle. Which of course I won, but it was work. Visited Karakorum after midnight, light snow falling. The tent was cleared. Guards posted. Teixeira had given me a full checkup first. Because of the drugs they use. Clean bill of health: I can handle their most potent potions. And so, into the tent. Dark place, foul smell. I remember that smell from my childhood-burning cow-chips, uncured goathides. Little slump-backed lama comes forth, very unimpressed with me, no awe at all — why be awed by Genghis Mao, I guess, when you can gulp a drug and visit Caesar, the Buddha, Genghis Khan? — and mixes his brews for me. Oils, powders. Gives me the cup to drink. Sweet, gummy, not a good taste. Takes my hands, whispers things to me, and I am dizzy and then the tent becomes a cloud and is gone and I find myself in another tent, wide and low, white flags and brocaded hangings, and there he is before me, thick-bodied, short, a man of middle years or more long dark mustache, small eyes, strong mouth, stink of sweat coming from him as if he hasn’t bathed in years, and for the first time in my life I want to sink to my knees before another human being, for this is surely Temujin, this is the Great Khan, this is he, the founder, the conqueror.

I do not kneel, except within myself. Within myself I fall at his feet. I offer him my hand. I bow my head.

“Father Genghis,” I say. “Across nine hundred years I come to do you homage.”

He regards me without great interest. After a moment he hands me a bowl. “Drink some airag, old man.”

We shared the bowl, I first, then the Great Khan. He is dressed simply, no scarlet robes, no ermine trim, no crown, just a warrior’s leather costume. The top of his head is shaven and in back his hair reaches his shoulders. He could kill me with a slap of his left hand.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“To see you.”

“You see me. What else?”

“To tell you that you will live forever.”

“I will die like any man, old one.”

“Your body will die, Father Genghis. Your name will live in the ages.”

He considers that. “And my empire? What of that? Will my sons rule after me?”

“Your sons will rule over half the world.”

“Half the world,” Genghis Khan says softly. “Only half? Is this the truth, old man?”

“Cathay will be theirs—”

“Cathay is already mine.”

“Yes, but they will have it all, down to the hot jungles. And they will rule the high mountains, and the Russian land, and Turkestan, Afghanistan, Persia, everything as far as the gates of Europe. Half the world. Father Genghis!”

The Khan of Khan grunts.

“And I tell you this, also. Nine hundred years from now a khan named Genghis will rule everything from sea to sea, from shore to shore, all souls upon this world naming him master.”

“A khan of my blood?”

“A true Tatar,” I assure him.

Genghis Khan is silent a long while. It is impossible to read his eyes. He is shorter than I would have thought, and his smell is bad, but he is a man of such strength and purpose that I am humbled, for I thought I was of his kind, and in a way I am, and yet he is more than I could ever have been. There is no calculation about him; he is altogether solid, unhesitating, a man who lives in the moment, a man who must never have paused for a second thought and whose first thought must always have been right. He is only a barbarian prince, a mere wild horseman of the Gobi, to whom every aspect of my ordinary daily life would seem the most dazzling magic: yet put him down in Ulan Bator and he would understand the workings of Surveillance Vector One in three hours. A barbarian he is, yes, but not a mere barbarian, not a mere anything, and though I am his superior in some ways, though my life and my power are beyond his comprehension, I am second to him in all the ways that matter. He awes me. As I expected him to do. And, seeing him, I come close to a willingness to yield up all my authority over men, for, next to him, I am not worthy. I am not worthy.

“Nine hundred years,” he says at last, and the shadow of a smile crosses his face. “Good. Good.” He claps for a servant. “More airag,” he calls. We share another drink. Then he says he must depart; it is time to ride out from Karakorum to the camp of his son Chagadai, where the royal family is to hold a tourney today. He does not invite me to join him. He has no interest in me, though I come from out of the realm of distant time, though I bring him bright tales of Mongol empires to come. I am unimportant to him. I have told him all he cares to know; now I am forgotten. Only the tourney matters now. He leaps to his mare; he rides away, followed by the warriors of his court, and only the servant and I remain.