Bob Shaw - The Fugitive Worlds

He stood up, as steady as a well-rooted tree, and was starting in the direction of the table to avail himself of Kettoran’s generosity when he saw a woman approaching him. She was slim and dark-haired, and he knew before being able to see her face properly that she was Vantara. She was wearing full uniform—no doubt her way of distancing herself from those officers who were prepared to forget about rank for the sake of the revel—and Toller braced himself for a verbal skirmish. He did not have long to wait.

“What’s this?” she said lightly. “No sword? Of course! How silly of me to forget—there aren’t any kings ripe for skewering at this little gathering.”

Toller nodded, acknowledging the reference to his grandfather, who had been dubbed Kingslayer by the populace of his day. “That’s very funny, captain.” He made to move past her, but she halted him by placing a hand on his arm.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No.” Toller was disconcerted by the unexpected physical contact. “1 would add that I’m going to replenish my glass.”

Vantara looked up into his face, frowning slightly as she scanned his features. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I fail to understand the question.”

“Where is the great warrior, Toller Maraquine the Second, who is immune to bullets? Is he off duty tonight?”

“I was never one for riddles, captain,” Toller said stonily. “Now, if I may be excused—I’m ready for another of the commissioner’s sleeping potions.”

Vantara transferred her grip to the hand in which he held his glass—the warmth of her touch like ambersparks playing on his flesh—and briefly bowed her head over it. “Brandy? Bring one for me, please. But not on such a gigantic scale.”

“You want me to bring you a drink?” Toller said, aware of sounding slow-witted.

“Yes—if you don’t mind.” Vantara sat down and made herself comfortable on the bench. “I’ll wait here for you.”

Feeling slightly bemused, Toller made his way back to the refreshments table and obtained another huge bumper of brandy for himself and a normal-sized one for Vantara, to the accompaniment of much nodding and winking from Kettoran and Wotoorb. While he was on his way back to the bench a ptertha came drifting across the garden, its bubble-like structure glinting but scarcely visible in the uncertain light. It was ascending in the updraught from one of the fires when it was noticed by a group of the revelers. Whooping with glee, they began throwing large twigs and pebbles at it. One of the sticks flailed through the ptertha and it abruptly ceased to exist. A cheer went up from the onlookers.

“Did you see that?” Vantara said as Toller approached her. “Just listen to them! Overjoyed because they managed to kill something.”

“The ptertha killed many of us in their day,” Toller replied, unmoved. Including twenty-one unborn babies.

“So you approve of killing them for sport?”

“No, no,” Toller said, sensing a return of Vantara’s old antagonism and feeling unable to cope with it. “I don’t approve of killing anything, for sport or any other reason. I’ve seen enough of the butchers’ handiwork to last me a lifetime.” He sat down, handed Vantara her glass and took a sip from his own.

“Is that what’s wrong with you?”

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

“I know—that’s what is wrong with you. Having something wrong is a natural state with…” Vantara paused. “I’m sorry. As well as being too involuted, that was uncalled for.”

“Did you ask for that drink merely to occupy your hands?” Toller took a gulp of his brandy, suppressing a grimace as the excessive quantity of the fiery liquid washed into his throat.

“Why are you so determined to get drunk tonight?”

“In the name of… !” Toller gave an exasperated sigh. “Is this your normal mode of conversation? If it is I’d be grateful if you would go and sit elsewhere.”

“Again, I apologize.” Vantara gave him a placatory smile and sipped from her glass. “Why don’t you lead the conversation, Toller?”

The informal and quite intimate use of his given name surprised Toller, adding to the mystery of her change of attitude towards him. He gazed thoughtfully at Vantara and found that in the half-light her face was impossibly beautiful, a concordance of perfect features which might have existed only in the mind of an inspired artist. It occurred to him that one of his fantasies had suddenly and unexpectedly been translated into reality— she, with all of her incredible womanliness, was close beside him. And it was a night for romance. And there was a thrilling softness in her voice. And it was the duty of every human to seize what happiness he could whenever he could—no matter how many tiny skeletons he had looked upon—because nature produced millions of beings of every species for the precise reason that some of them were bound to be unfortunate, and if a member of the lucky majority failed to savor life to the full that would be a betrayal of the few who had been sacrificed on his behalf. It was now up to him to make the maximum effort to win the object of all his desires by attracting her to him with his qualities of strength, courage, consideration, fortitude, knowledge, humor, generosity. Perhaps a well-turned compliment would be the best way to begin.

“Vantara, you look so…” He paused, aware of the scrutiny of eyes that no longer existed in twenty-one fist-sized skulls, and listened like a bystander to the words which were issuing from his mouth. “What is happening here? Usually when we meet you behave like an arrogant bitch, and now—all of a sudden—we’re on first-name terms and the very air is suffused with warmth and friendliness. What private scheme are you about?”

Vantara laughed and gasped at the same time. “Arrogance! You talk to me about arrogance* You who always approach a woman with your male armor clanking and your phallic sword swinging through the air!”

“That is the most twisted and…”

Vantara silenced him by raising one hand, fingers spread out, as a barrier between their eyes and mouths. “Say no more. Toller, I beg you! Neither of us is wearing armor on this night and therefore either of us could easily be wounded. Let us accept things the way they are for this single hour; let us have this drink together; and let us talk to each other. Will you agree to that?”

Toller smiled. “How could any reasonable man refuse?”

“Very well! Now, tell me why you are no longer the Toller Maraquine I have always known.”

“We’ve returned to the same subject!”

“We never left it.”

“But…” Toller gazed at her in perplexity for a moment, and then the unthinkable happened—he began to speak freely about what was in his mind, to confess his newly discovered weaknesses, to admit his growing belief that he would never be able to live up to the example set for him by his grandfather. At one point, while he was describing the tragic find at the pumping station in Styvee, his voice faltered and he experienced a terrible fear that he would be unable to continue. When he had finished he took another drink of his brandy, but found it was no longer to his taste. He set the glass aside and sat staring down at his hands, wondering why he felt as shaky as a man who had just emerged from the most harrowing ordeal of his life.

“Poor Toller,” Vantara said gently. “What has life done to you that you should be ashamed of having finer feelings?”

“You mean, of being weak.”

“It isn’t weakness to feel compassion, or to experience doubt, or to need human contact.”

Toller thought he glimpsed a way of repairing some of the cracks in his personal facade. “I could do with lots of human contact,” he said wryly. “Provided it’s the right sort.”