Roger Zelazny - To Die In Italbar

Everybody is prepared for bacteriological warfare, on one level or another--even combined approaches, he decided. But here would be a random assault, shotgun-style, attributable to knowable yet still unclassified natural causes. If this is possible and H is the key to controlling the process--or somehow _is_ the process--then I hear the tolling of the death bell. I could hurt the CL more than I'd thought. It but remains to determine whether this Hyneck is indeed H; and if so, to locate him.

For hours they stood and watched the flames and the seething lava, the shifting patterns of sky and sea. Then Morwin cleared his throat.

"I'd like to rest for a time now. I still feel somewhat weak," he said.

"Of course, of course," said Malacar, suddenly withdrawing his attention from something distant. "I believe I will remain here myself. It looks as if another flare-up is due."

"I hope you didn't mind the unexpected company."

"Far from it. You've raised my spirits more than I can tell you."

He watched him go, then chuckled.

Perhaps that dream-globe you created was true, he decided. An accurate prediction of things to come. I never actually had hoped to succeed, unless ... How does it go? Those lines I learned at the university ... ?

Unless the giddy Heaven fall,

And Earth some new Convulsion tear;

And, us to joyn, the World should all

Be cramp'd into a _Planisphere_.

If I'm correct on this thing, I am going to cram it all there--all of the CL, just as you did that vision--into a planisphere.

_Shind!_ he called out. _Do you know what has happened?_

_Yes. I have been listening_.

_I will ask Morwin to stay and mind the shop. We ourselves will soon be leaving on another journey_.

_As you say. Where to?_

_Deiba_.

_I feared as much_.

Malacar laughed at this retort, and the mist ran away with the noon.

He watched the spiraling stars, like the distant fireworks of childhood. His hand fell upon the monogrammed bag fastened at his belt. He had forgotten it was there. He glanced downward when he heard the clicking sound, and for a moment he forgot the stars.

His stones. How lovely they were. How could he have pushed them from his memory with such ease? He fingered them and smiled. Yes, these were true. A piece of mineral never betrays you. Each is unique, a world unto itself and harmless. His eyes filled with tears.

"I love you," he whispered, and one by one he counted them out and replaced them in the bag.

As he tied them again at his belt, he watched the movements of his hands. His fingers left moist smudges upon the material. But his hands were beautiful, she had told him. And she was correct, of course. He raised them near to his face and a surge of power swept through his body and settled within them. He knew that he was stronger now than any man or nation. Soon he would be stronger than any world.

He turned his attention once more to the bright whirlpool that sucked him toward its center: Summit.

He would be there in no time at all.

When the message arrived, his first reaction was a very loud "Damn! Why ask _me?_" But since he already knew the answer he restricted his subsequent reactions to the expletive.

Pacing, he paused to flip a toggle and postpone his lunch until further notice. After a time, he noted that he was in his rooftop garden and smoking a cigar, staring into the west.

"Racial discrimination, that's what it is," he muttered, then moved to a hidden plate, thumbed it open and flipped another toggle.

"Send me a light lunch in the manuscript library in about an hour," he ordered, not waiting for a reply.

He continued to pace, breathing in the smells of life and growth that surrounded him and ignoring them completely.

The day grew gray and he turned to the east where a cloud had covered his sun. He glared at it and after a few moments it began to dissipate.

The day brightened once more, but he growled, sighed and walked away from it.

"Always the fall guy," he said, as he entered the library, removed his jacket, hung it on a hook beside the door.

He moved his eyes along the rows of cases which contained the most complete collection of religious manuscripts in the galaxy. On shelves beneath each case were bound facsimiles of the originals. He passed into the next room and continued his search.

"Way up there by the ceiling," he sighed. "I might have known."

Setting the foot of the ladder within three feet of the Qumran scrolls, he adjusted its balance and climbed.

He lit a cigarette after he had seated himself in an easy chair with a fac-copy of _The Book of Life's Manifold Perils and Pleas for Continued Breathing_, in ancient Pei'an script, across his knees.

It seemed but moments later that he heard a click and a programmed cough at his right elbow. The robot had entered, rolled silently across the thick carpeting, come to rest beside him and lowered the covered tray to a comfortable eating level. It proceeded to uncover it.

He ate mechanically and continued reading. After a time, he noted that the robot had departed. He had no memory whatever of what it was that he had eaten for lunch.

He continued to read.

Dinner passed in the same fashion. Night occurred and the lights came on about him, brightening as the darkness deepened.

Sometime in the middle of the night he turned the final page and closed the book. He stretched, yawned, rose and staggered. He had not realized that his right foot had grown numb. He reseated himself and waited for the tingling to pass. When it did, he climbed the ladder and replaced the volume. He restored the ladder to its corner. He could have had robot-extensors and gray-lifts, but he preferred libraries of the old-fashioned sort.

He passed through sliding windows and walked to his bar on the west terrace. He seated himself before it and the light to its rear came on.

"Bourbon and water," he said. "Make it a double."

There was a ten-second pause, during which he could feel the faintest of vibrations through his fingertips resting on the bar. Then a six-by-six square opened before him and the drink slowly rose into sight, coming flush with the counter top. He raised it and sipped.

"... And a pack of cigarettes," he added, remembering that he had finished his some hours before.

These were delivered. He opened the pack and lit one with what was probably the last Zippo lighter outside of museums. Certainly the last functioning one. Every piece of it had been replaced, countless times, by custom-made duplicates turned out solely to repair _this_ lighter--so it was not, properly speaking, an antique; it was more in the nature of a direct descendant. His brother had given it to him-- When? He took another sip. He still had the original around somewhere, all the broken pieces reassembled within its scratched case. Probably in the bottom drawer of that old dresser .

He dragged on the cigarette and felt the drink grow hot in his stomach, then move its momentary warmth into regions beyond. An orange moon hung low on the horizon and a rapidly moving white one was pacing midheaven. He smiled faintly, listened to the toadingales in their wallows. They were doing something of Vivaldi's. Was it from _Summer?_ Yes. There it was. He took another swallow and swirled the remainder in hi's glass.

Yes, this was his job, he decided. He was really the only one of them with experience in the area. And of course the priest would rather send the inquiry to an alien than to one of his own people. Less of a chance for reprimand, for racial reasons; and if there was something dangerous involved .

Cynical, he decided, and you don't want to be cynical. Just practical. Whatever prompted the thing, it's yours now; and you know what happened the last time something like this occurred. It must be dealt with. The fact that there will be no element of control means that, ultimately, it will be aimed at everybody.