I
THE RELUCTANT SWORDSMAN
When the Goyaz touched down at Novorecife, the loudspeakers boomed: “Chégamos; todos passageiros for a! We have arrived; all passengers out!”
Airlocks hissed, doors clanged, and the passengers shuffled down the ramp. Terrans marveled at the spectacular cloud effects and the peculiar vegetation, with its leaves not only of green but also pink, blue, and purple. They eagerly sniffed the warm spring air of the planet’s subtropical zone.
At the foot of the ramp, the fat security officer, Cristôvão Abreu, watched them come. The dozen tourists from the Magic Carpet Travel Agency, recognizable by their red arm bands, formed a block in the middle of the line. Abreu picked out their courier, Fergus Reith, who was flitting about like an agitated sheep dog, counting his charges and chivvying them to stay in line and close ranks. This pale, thin young man with carrot-red hair did not impress Abreu as quite the fearless leader. With the instinct of a longtime policeman, Abreu foresaw trouble with this group.
The twelve tourists and their guide soon stood at counters in the customs room. Under the direction of a big, scowling Russian, the customs officers went through their baggage.
Otto Schwerin, the stubby tourist with bad teeth and cameras hung all over him, had trouble. Some of his cameras were neither small enough to hide in the hand nor equipped with self-destruct mechanisms. After expostulating in voluble German and broken English, he had to leave them under seal.
Once through customs, the gaggle of tourists got red-carpet treatment. The Comandante, silver-haired William Desmond Kennedy, shook hands all around and introduced Security Officer Abreu, Comptroller Angioletti, and Magistrate Keshavachandra.
“You are celebrities,” said Kennedy. “This is the first guided tour to reach Krishna. Earthmen are after coming here for decades, but they’ve mostly been scientists, adventurers, missionaries, and officials. This is the beginning of organized tourism.”
“Then,” asked Fergus Reith, “the Middle Kingdom Travel Bureau hasn’t shown up yet?”
“They have not, sir. You’re the first”
“That’s something. There’s been a race among the agencies to bring the first party to Krishna, and we thought the Chinese might have beaten us to it. We could hardly match the resources of that government But you know, Mr. Kennedy, you’re something of a celebrity yourself. The Terran press calls you the most successful of all the Terran administrators abroad.”
“Do they now? That’s very flattering. But you must remember, Mr.—ah—Reith, that back in the days of the British Empire, we Irish were very successful colonial administrators.” Kennedy chuckled. “Having grown up in an atmosphere of hospitality, flattery, treachery, and murder, we weren’t surprised when we encountered these things in the colonies.”
A small, squirrel-like man came in. Kennedy said, “Let me present Senhor Herculeu Castanhoso, assistant to Senhor Abreu. He’ll get you outfitted.”
Castanhoso took the party to their quarters. When Reith tried out his Portuguese on Castanhoso, the latter laughed.
“Que está cômico, o Senhor Dom Herculeu?” asked Reith.
“Excuse me,” said Castanhoso, “but I was marveling at your European pronunciation.”
“Well, the fellow who made the phonograph records I studied from spoke European Portuguese.”
“Bem. Our Brazilian form, which we use in the Viagens Interplanetarias, is closer to the Spanish. Now suppose I meet you all in front of the Compound in one hour, to take you to the outfitting shop.”
###
The outfitter was the first Krishnan whom Reith had seen at close range. He was about the size and shape of a tall, lean earthman—taller than Reith, who was of good height himself. The Krishnan’s skin had a faint olive-green tinge and his hair a dark, bluish-green sheen. His features were not unlike those of Reith’s tourists—all but one of them Caucasoids—but flatter and more oriental-looking.
When Reith looked closely, he picked out many small differences: the pointed ears, the form of the teeth, and so on. The most conspicuous feature was the Krishnan’s external organs of smell: a pair of feathery appendages, like a moth’s antennae. They sprouted up and out from the inner ends of the Krishnan’s eyebrows, like a pair of extra brows.
Castanhoso explained: “Years ago, earthmen went out disguised with wigs and dyes. It was not safe to travel otherwise. Now we have normal relations with nearby states, and their people know we are not all scoundrels or sorcerers. Likewise, they are no longer so easily fooled; most of them know a Terran voice. For the more distant parts, however, we still advise the old disguises. Now I present Mr. Sivird bad-Fatehán, our outfitter.”
The Krishnan said: “May ze stars favor you. Ze Senhor Dom Herculeu and I, we have already discuss your requirements. You will need some rough clozes for ze outdoors, and formal costumes for presentation at ze court of Dur . . .”
Because of lack of space, the tourists had brought few changes of clothes. For most sightseeing, Terran garments would do; but it was thought that, for the court of Dur, it was better to follow local custom.
“Is this one of those courts,” said Silvester Pride, “where the dames go around with bare tits? Boy, I can’t wait to see that!”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Pride,” said Castanhoso coldly. “That is the custom at Rosid and Hershid, but Baianch is nearly a thousand kilometers north of here. I must warn all of you that you will need to dress more warmly. It is like going from your Philadelphia to—to—what would be an example, Mr. Reith?”
Reith thought. “Montreal.”
For formal outfits, most of the party chose sober costumes. But the two tanned, muscular young men, Considine and Turner, who jingled with jewelry and kept to themselves, would out-peacock the peacock. The handsome Venezuelan couple named Guzmán-Vidal also chose colorful garb. Valerie Mulroy, a tall, angular, but good-looking woman, wanted a bare-breasted gown. It took the combined efforts of Sivird and Castanhoso to dissuade her. Reith was relieved; as he had reason to know, her assets were modest
###
Next morning, Castanhoso greeted Reith: “Bom dia, Senhor Dom Fergus! Como vai?”
“Bem, obrigado. E o Senhor?”
“Good! Now I take you to the ginásio, where you will be trained.”
“How about my tourists?”
“We have some little local tours planned to keep them happy while you enjoy the ministrations of the Senhor Heggstad.”
In the gym, Reith found a stocky, bald, blue-eyed, burly man flinging himself about on the parallel bars.
“Senhor Dom Fergus,” said Castanhoso, “this is Ivar Heggstad, in charge of physical survival. Até logo!”
“How do you do, Mr. Haystack?” said Reith.
Heggstad felt Keith’s biceps. “Uff! Too skinny. How do you expect to survive in a vorld where everything is depending on the physical?”
“Please! I didn’t ask for this job, but now I’ve got to make the best of it.”
“You are not a regular tourist guide?”
“No sir! I was assistant office manager at Magic Carpet, in Philadelphia. The courier assigned to this tour got married. Naturally, his bride wouldn’t stand for his going off for a quarter-century, objective time. That’s why people who make these trips are nearly always without close family ties on earth: the difference between objective and subjective time. His back-up man was in the hospital, and all our other regular couriers were out on tour, or pregnant, or something. We couldn’t find a freelance guide to take over; so, being single without close kin, I was drafted.”
“They couldn’t have made you go. You could have quit your yob, unless America has changed.”
“I know. I suppose I didn’t fight very hard because in all the science fiction novels I read as a kid, the hero goes to some distant planet, has thrilling adventures, and marries a beautiful native princess. One fellow, Otis Burroughs or some such name, wrote a lot of stories like that . . . But none of these old romancers tells about the practical difficulties.”
“Who vants to read a story about practical difficulties? Vell, have you had any guiding experience?”
“Some local guiding around historic Philadelphia, and one little Latin American tour. That didn’t turn out very well. One couple got lost in Bogotá and weren’t found for days. Another man, taking a picture at Machu Picchu, backed off a cliff and was killed.”
“Those things happen. But let us get to business. Do you ride? Sail? Fence? Shoot the bow? Have you had military experience?”
Reith shook his head. “None of these things. If somebody had told me a year ago that I’d need these medieval skills, I might have done something about it. As it is, I’m just an ex-schoolteacher and office manager—a paper-shuffler—who plays a little golf and was put here by happenstance.”
Heggstad sighed. “Ah, vell, in a year I could maybe make a real man of you. In a mere fifteen days—but ve shall see. Firsht, see how many times you can chin yourshelf on that bar.”
###
Later, Reith sat in the Nova Iorque Bar, trying out kvad, the local tipple. With him was Castanhoso. Reith groaned. “After a day with that Norse physical-culture fanatic, I haven’t been so stiff and sore in my life.”
“Sinto muito. But I, too, have had troubles. That Schwerin! Every time it is time to go, he is off somewhere, taking one more photo. And I think the Senhora Mulroy would strike up an intrigue with any big Krishnan male she sees, if she could get him alone for ten minutes.”
“That nympho!” said Reith. “She kept us busy on the Goyaz. First me—an education, you might say. Then we quarreled when I stopped her from smoking a cigarette. So she took up with Afonso, the steward. Maybe you noticed Afonso looking a little pale and wan.”
“Yes, I suppose that little old professor, her husband, is no longer able to keep her stoked.”
“She’s got the money.”
“Entendido. But does he tolerate these games?”
“He seems to turn a blind eye, as we say. I guess he needs all the help he can get in that department.”
Castanhoso shrugged. “Tell me about the others.”
“Well, the middle-aged black woman is Miss Shirley Waterford, a retired schoolteacher who inherited money.”
“She seems nice, except when she wants to argue with everybody about racism. Go on.”
“The stout French couple are Aimé and Mélanie Jussac; he’s a retired jeweler. The two young men in extreme clothes—the dear boys, Valerie calls them—are Maurice Considine and John Turner. The big, muscular one is Considine; the shorter, plumper one is Turner. They’re that way.” Reith flipped a limp wrist. “Turner hasn’t given any trouble, but Considine is always complaining. He’s a sculptor or something; throws his weight around and likes his bottle. Turner seems to have the money.
“The real old lady is Mrs. Whitney Scott. She could buy all the rest of us. Be careful with her; she’s well over two hundred and fragile. That clown who wears funny hats and tells bad jokes is Silvester Pride—”
An uproar arose outside. When Reith and Castanhoso got out; Santiago Guzmán-Vidal was chasing his wife with a knife. Reith tripped him, and Castanhoso jumped on his back. Between them, they got the knife away from him. He sputtered:
“I kill them both! She was making eyes at that big Russian matón—”
Pilar Guzmán came back when she saw it was safe. Santiago Guzmán sank to his knees in front of her, crying:
“Kill me! ¡Lo merezcor!”
“¡Ah, queridísimor!” she said, folding him in her arms. They had a passionate reconciliation, with tears and kisses, until Guzmán suggested that they go back to their quarters.
“Un momento?” she said, and departed. Guzmán looked dreamily after her.
“After the esstorm, the sunshine,” he said.
Castanhoso asked: “Do you do this sort of thing often?”
“Bery often! All the time, in fact!”
“It sounds strenuous, Senhor.”
“It is the esspice of life. And now my adored one awaits. “¡Arriba!” Off went Guzmán-Vidal.
“Whew,” said Castanhoso. “Did you have that, too?”
“Oh, yes,” said Reith. “One time Santiago hid in my cabin when his wife was looking for him to brain him with a camera tripod. Valerie Mulroy had made passes at him, and he didn’t discourage her. If that’s married life, I’m glad I’m single.”
“In your business you practically have to be, because of the time lag. How do you make that ass Pride shut up?”
“Short of hitting him with a club, I don’t know. There’s at least one in every group.” Reith yawned. “Now I have to eat with my lambs. Then I’m supposed to study a couple of your foul Krishnan languages, but I’m so tired I’ll probably fall asleep in the first declension.”
“Gozashtandou and Durou are not too hard. They are as much alike as, say, Spanish is like Portuguese, and they have fewer irregularities than most European tongues. Katai-Jhogorai is something else; it belongs to another language family.”
“We’re to depend on Prince Tashian’s man as interpreter there.”
“Watch yourself; I mistrust that Tashian.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Reith.
“I do not know. It is just a feeling. In police work, we tend to get suspicious of everybody.”
“Where are you taking them tomorrow?”
“Through the Hamda’. They can unload some of their ill-gotten wealth on the vendors of trinkets, all of whom are salivating in anticipation. Krishnans think all Terrans as rich as Dezful the pirate king.”
“They have to be pretty well fixed to make the trip,” said Reith, yawning again. “Boa noite.”
###
Ivar Heggstad said: “So what if you are stiff? A little vork-out vill soon fix that. Come on, now: deep knee bends. Down! Up! Down! . . .”
When Reith thought himself on the verge of collapse, Heggstad produced an armful of fencing masks and padding. “Put these on. Now take this.”
He handed Reith a fencing saber with a blunt point and a big bowl-shaped guard. Reith looked dubious, saying: “In the stories, the hero goes to work with a skinny little épée and skewers the villains while they’re waving big cutting swords around.”
“Akk ja! Those little toothpicks are all right for a couple yentlemen in silk breeches and powdered vigs, on level ground vit seconds to see everything is done by the rules. Here, the Terran comes up against a Krishnan in armor, and his blade bends double. Or the Krishnan hits his blade real hard and snaps it. Then the gallant earthman is dead. So, for these conditions, nineteenth-century saber is the thing. En garde!”
###
Reith ended the day with his right arm black and blue to the shoulder where Heggstad had whacked him. He joined his tourists on their return from the Hamda’. This was a suburb of Novorecife outside the wall. The dwellers were a raffish lot of deracinated Krishnans and broken-down Terran adventurers. There one could buy native artifacts, gimcrack souvenirs, and real or fake antiquities.
Old Mrs. Scott had bought a pair of earrings allegedly worn by the pirate Dezful. Turner came back festooned with a necklace said to have been worn by Dángi when she was imprisoned in the haunted tower. Considine and Pride each got a sword supposed to have belonged to the hero Qarar. When Reith spoke to Aimé Jussac, the portly jeweler smiled indulgently.
“They tried all sorts of junk on me,” he said. “Me, I played dumb. The dumber I played, the more fantastic the stories they told about their little pieces of jewelry. Then Castanhoso let slip that I was the retired vice president of Tiffany and Company. Zut! You should have seen their faces. But then we settled down to a plain business talk, with the little Hercules interpreting. I picked up a piece not bad, at a good price.”
Jussac showed a fire-opal ring. “Of course,” he continued, “the art of faceting is in its infancy here. I could show them a thing or two, if that Saint-Rémy treatment did not tie the tongue whenever an earthman tries to give a Krishnan technical information. In passing,” he added with a shrewd look, “do you get a commission from local merchants to whom you steer your tourists, the way guides do on earth?”
“No,” said Reith. “For that, you have to live in the place. At Magic Carpet, we disapprove of such commissions. We can’t control the local guides, but we bear down on couriers from the home base.”
###
During the following days, when not straining his guts in Heggstad’s gymnasium, or being lashed and prodded with a fencing saber, or cracking his skull over the Gozashtando and Duro tongues, Fergus Reith learned to ride. He rode an aya, which had six legs, horns, a hard trot, and a mean disposition. He also rode a shomal, which had only four legs, looked something like a humpless camel, and tended to balk like a mule.
He learned to use Krishnan eating tools, which were little spears held like chopsticks.
Although Reith felt like a heretic on the losing side of a theological argument with the Chief Inquisitor, he tried not to complain. His ancestor Robert the Bruce, he told himself, had not complained in equally dire straits.
While Reith was being hardened for his task, Castanhoso took Reith’s tourists up the Pichidé River to Rimbid and down the river to Qou. At Qou they saw a village of the tame Koloftuma—the tailed primitives of Krishna. The sight touched off a furious argument between Professor Winston Mulroy and Shirley Waterford.
“They were still at it when I left them,” Castanhoso told Reith. “Mulroy brought in intelligence tests, interspecies fertility, and those fossil Terran apemen called austral-something. The Senhorita Waterford just talked louder and louder about his racism. Anyway, nobody got lost or hurt.”
###
One of Reith’s last conferences before leaving was with Pierce Angioletti, the Comptroller. Angioletti was a thin-lipped, graying, reserved man with a Bostonian twang. After they had gone over maps, written accounts of the lands the party was to see, and the expedition’s financial accounts, Angioletti said: “I can’t tell you too often to be careful. Between us, I opposed letting a mob of tourists loose on Krishna yet.”
“Too risky, you think?”
“Just so. We have enough trouble when the people we’ve been getting—missionaries, scientists, and adventurers—go off and disappear. The I.C. insists we avoid anything smacking of imperialism, while the Terran governments give us a hard time when we can’t find out what happened to their citizens, let alone rescue them. The French even put pressure on us when that fellow Borel vanished in Dur, although everyone knew he was just a con man.”
“What did happen to him? After all, we’re going to Dur.”
Angioletti shrugged. “If I knew, there wouldn’t be any mystery. But God knows what’ll happen when you set out with a dozen Ertsuma, some of them obvious damned fools. If nobody gets murdered or seized for ransom, I’ll eat my codfish with chocolate sauce.”
Reith sighed. “I can only do my best. What did Castanhoso mean, warning me against the Regent Tashian? Could he have had anything to do with Borel’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know. Tashian’s a shrewd operator with no more scruples than you expect of a Renaissance prince. But it’s to his advantage to build up tourist traffic to Dur, so he’ll probably stand by his promises.
“I don’t think he did Borel in. Felix Borel disappeared in one of the wilder parts, not under the government’s control. The kind of man he was, he had it coming to him sooner or later. He tried one of his con games on that Russian big shot, Trofimov. But he picked the wrong sucker. Trofimov caught on and might have had Borel jailed, or perhaps quietly murdered, if Borel hadn’t skedaddled.
“Mr. Reith, just imagine you’re Thomas Cook, but living in, say, the eighteenth century. You’re taking a party of Europeans on a tour of North America, visiting the most warlike tribes, like the Iroquois and the Blackfeet. That gives you an idea.”
“You sure fill me with confidence,” said Reith.
“Oh, don’t let it worry you. If you get into trouble in Majbur, go see Gorbovast, the Gozashtando commissioner. He does some chores for us, and he can fix anything.”
###
Later, on one of the paths of the compound, Reith fell into talk with Magistrate Keshavachandra. The judge was a slight, brown-skinned man, shorter than Reith, with bushy gray eyebrows and a fringe of gray hair around his bald head.
“Judge,” said Reith, “I’m discouraged. I must have done something pretty awful in a previous incarnation to be put in this fix.”
“How so?”
“I’m not an experienced tourist guide; yet, circumstances have dumped me into a situation where I need to be Hercules, d’Artagnan, and Talleyrand, all at once. But I’m not. Heggstad has been training me physically, but it would take years to make me into the kind of muscle man he is. I’ve been practicing Durou and Gozashtandou with some help from Sivird, but all I can say is a few simple things like, ‘Pour me a drink,’ and ‘Where is the toilet?’ It’s one thing to say ‘two fried eggs, please,’ in a foreign language, but quite another to carry on an intelligent conversation. I have just the merest smattering of all the things I’m supposed to know, and no time to master any of them.
“I feel doomed; but we’ve taken these yucks’ money, so ifs up to me to give them their tour if it kills me.”
Keshavachandra asked: “Are you familiar with the Bhagavad Gítá, Mr. Reith?”
Reith looked puzzled “No. That’s some Hindu legend, isn’t it?”
“It’s much more than that. Let me explain. The Bhagavad Gítá is a section of the Mahâbhârata, the old Indian epic, sometimes called the world’s longest poem. As a scientific materialist, I don’t believe the legends; but like your Bible it has some useful philosophy.
The Bhagavad Gítá tells how Prince Arjuna is about to fight in a great battle between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Arjuna’s charioteer is Krishna, an incarnation of God. Arjuna gets qualms about fighting against some of his own kinsmen. But Krishna tells him that since God has made him a warrior, his job is to be the best warrior he can and not to worry about who gets killed.
“So, young man, let me be your Krishna. You find yourself in a fix for which you are not prepared. Well, make yourself prepared. What you don’t know, learn. Practice your exercises and your languages every spare minute, and you may find that you do better than you think possible.”
###
Reith went to the gym to find Heggstad practicing tumbling. “Ivar,” he said, “I’d like to borrow some of that fencing stuff to take on the tour. A couple of those jackets and masks—”
“Hey!” said Heggstad. “Not my good fencing sabersh! I couldn’t replace them. Here, you can have these.”
The gymnast produced a pair of singlesticks, the thickness of broom handles, with bowl-shaped wicker guards. “Have you got a real sword for yourself?”
“No. Was I supposed to?”
“How much good you think one of those sticks would do you against a real blade? Sivird can sell you one at a fair price. Not so pretty as you get in the Hamda’, but good steel.”
“I can charge it to the tourist agency. How do I keep it from getting tangled up in my legs?”
“Vear it high and hold the scabbard when you come to stairsh and suchlike. Don’t vear it around native taverns, or some drunken tough guy may pick a fight; but you get more respectable treatment from ordinary Krishnans when you vear vun. Who you going to fence vit? Poor old Mrs. Scott?”
Reith smiled. “Maybe I can con Mr. Pride into a match. One good whack at his fat butt would be worth the trip.”