Damon Knight - Orbit 15

Sam smiled. She recognized the tall, dark man who lounged so impudently on the far side of the chamber. “Well, then, Prince Collante,” she said, “we seem to be alone.”

The man smiled in reply. He took off his bizarre feathered hat and his heavy black gloves. “Yes,” he said, “we are quite alone.”

Sam listened to Collante, knowing what he would say, what he would do. She felt a thrill of excitement; if this strange affair developed in the same way, exactly as in Slaves of Blood, it would be fun. She had a flash of panic: Collante was at least eighteen inches taller than she, and with a comparable reach and strength, not to mention the fact that she had never touched a sword in her life. She was momentarily terrified that she would depart the script and her life at the same moment, with Collante’s rapier right through her. The feeling passed; she spoke her lines with no conscious prompting, and she trusted that her movements would be similarly directed. “You, also, may expect little succor from that quarter,” she said confidently.

Anxiously Mac dressed and left his cell. No one else was about. The corridors were oddly, oppressively silent. He ran to the elevator. He hated the sound his heels made on the black and white checkerboard tiles. The noise echoed.

Outside, the day was very cold, though bright. There was no one in the yard. The walls stood out against the deep blue of the sky; the walls were as blank as dreamless sleep, taller than anything built by men should be. The only sounds were the clumsy noises of Mac’s feet as he ran across the distance to the lecture hall. The wind was cold, and Mac’s cheeks and ears stung after a little while.

“Jennings isn’t going to be crazy about this,” thought Mac. “I don’t think anybody’s missed a lecture in years. And it has to be me, huh? Terrific.” He felt a cold, heavy feeling in his bowels. He was a little lightheaded with fear, and his ears buzzed. “Jennings isn’t going to be none too fond of this trick.”

“I am not dismayed.” Mac looked up in surprise. He had just pushed open the door of the lobby in the lecture hall. He turned around, but there was only a satin-padded door with a silver knob in the shape of a dryad and a goat copulating. Mac turned around again. The stranger was removing a belt with a scabbard from his waist. “Observe,” said the man, whom Mac had no difficulty identifying, but more trouble accepting. “I ask that you do the same, in the interests of delicacy.”

“Delicacy,” thought Mac scornfully. “I know exactly why, you creep. I seen this before.” He wondered for a moment what he was going to do, realizing that he was not Philip Gatelin, and, even more, he definitely was not Gerhardt Friedlos.

“As you wish, Collante,” said Mac, wondering where the words had come from. He removed his own sword belt, amazed that he even had one. He relaxed then, understanding that the situation was some sort of fantasy, and that matters were likely out of his control. He turned to the divan to make a choice of swords, knowing what was certainly to happen. He tried to turn, to watch, to prevent Collante’s stroke, but he couldn’t. The swords on the divan caught his interest with their variety and excellence.

Willie woke slowly; he snorted when he saw how late it was. He got dressed, neither more quickly nor more fearfully than usual. Willie had seen many horrible things in his life, and he had flinched at none of them; his outlook had been justified, time after time. Every horrible thing had gone away, eventually. He yawned as he walked to the elevator in his dorm. He crossed the yard, perhaps a little more hurriedly than usual, but not so much as to make him out of breath. The cold air finished the job of waking him up, and he liked the almost savage wind that cut so forcefully through the layers of his clothing. Willie could appreciate anything, human or otherwise, that earned his respect. Jennings had long ago earned Willie’s respect. The wind was a lesser thing. The walls were nothing at all.

Willie pushed through the lobby doors of the lecture hall. He heard no voices, saw no one, was surprised at the chilliness of the building. It seemed like the heat had been turned off during the weekend and not raised again on Oneday morning. He shrugged, and waited for the elevator to take him to the lecture hall.

The elevator arrived, its warning light blinked on, then off, and the doors opened. Willie entered. It was the only time that he had been in an elevator—any elevator, in any building—alone. He pushed the button for the seventy-third floor.

Suddenly he felt a great tearing pain in his right arm. The pain spread up through his shoulder and began to throb. Willie stifled a cry. He raised his arm slightly to look, and the movement sent a blaze of agony through his body. The arm had a long, jagged wound and was bleeding swiftly, soaking his sleeve. Even though the pain was growing, becoming unbearable, Willie refused to cry out. The wound looked familiar. He only casually wondered how it came to be there; he was mildly startled when he began speaking, almost without his conscious knowledge. “I see that you have leaped to a somewhat unfortunate conclusion,” he said.

The man standing behind Willie was the devious Prince Collante of Gaedre, cruel pretender to the throne of Breulandy and reputed intimate of the Suprina Without a Name. Willie only smiled coldly. Collante had attempted to take advantage of Willie’s confidence and trust, by weakening what the prince thought was Willie’s sword arm. The prince had made a fatal error.

The two men fought then, across the gaudily appointed apartment of the prince. They overturned furniture and decorations whose price could have purchased any throne in Europe. Willie said little as they struggled, listening to the prince’s desperate pleadings, enjoying the man’s panting and wheezing as he tired. Soon, Willie knew, soon Collante would spring his final trap. Willie was ready, whatever that gambit might prove to be. Willie was always ready.

“Look,” cried Prince Collante exultantly, “behind you!”

“No,” said Sam, “it won’t work.” She knew only that the dark man stood before her, unarmed.

“I think he’s right, this time,” said Mac. “I think he means it.”

“Of course I do,” said Prince Collante.

“Of course he does,” said Willie. “Look.”

The three friends turned, and five men dressed in the uniforms of the Suprina’s guard were running toward them, swords raised threateningly. Collante laughed scornfully, and walked slowly from the apartment.

“Another time, my prince,” called Sam, Mac, and Willie in unison. The prince stopped on the threshold and saluted them gallantly, laughed again, then went through the door and closed it behind him. The three friends could hear the click of the lock.

There was little time for words. Sam faced to the right, Mac to the left, and Willie faced forward. Protecting each other’s sides, they waited for the charge of the guardsmen.

“Simple,” said Mac. “It’s very obvious, I think. It was all part of the reinforcement. Something new.”

“Wonderful,” said Willie sullenly. His arm had actually been badly wounded, and it was now carefully dressed and bandaged.

“I wonder how much was real,” said Sam. “I wonder if we could have gotten away.”

“Away?” asked Willie. He really didn’t seem to have much interest in the discussion.

“Sure,” said Mac. “If we knew what to do, we could have gone out right through the front gate. I’ll bet there was nobody around. Maybe Jennings was testing us. Maybe he was giving us a chance.”