Glory Road Page 7

  This should annoy the “Woolfe.” And if I were the gal, it would annoy me, too; it sounds like a nauseous mixture. But that’s the exact formula, spelling and all, so if you are having trouble keeping her in line and have a “Woolfe” handy, try it. Let me know the results. By mail, not in person.

  There were several recipes for making a woman love you who does not but a “Woolfe” was by far the simplest ingredient. Presently I put the book down and the light out and watched the moving silhouette on that translucent silk. Star was brushing her hair.

  Then I quit tormenting myself and watched the stars, I’ve never learned the stars of the Southern Hemisphere; you seldom see stars in a place as wet as Southeast Asia and a man with a bump of direction doesn’t need them.

  But that southern sky was gorgeous.

  I was staring at one very bright star or planet (it seemed to have a disk) when suddenly I realized it was moving.

  I sat up. “Hey! Star!”

  She called back, “Yes, Oscar?”

  “Come see! A sputnik. A big one!”

  “Coming.” The light in her tent went out, she joined me quickly, and so did good old Pops Rufo, yawning and scratching his ribs. “Where, milord?” Star asked.

  I pointed. “Right there! On second thought it may not be a sputnik; it might be one of our Echo series. It’s awfully big and bright.”

  She glanced at me and looked away. Rufo said nothing. I stared at it a while longer, glanced at her. She was watching me, not it. I looked again, watched it move against the backdrop of stars.

  “Star,” I said, “that’s not a sputnik. Nor an Echo balloon. That’s a moon. A real moon.”

  “Yes, milord Oscar.”

  “Then this is not Earth.”

  “That is true.”

  “Hmm—” I looked back at the little moon, moving so fast among the stars, west to east.

  Star said quietly, “You are not afraid, my hero?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of being in a strange world.”

  “Seems to be a pretty nice world.”

  “It is,” she agreed, “in many ways.”

  “I like it,” I agreed. “But maybe it’s time I knew more about it. Where are we? How many light-years, or whatever it is, in what direction?”

  She sighed. “I will try, milord. But it will not be easy; you have not studied metaphysical geometry—nor many other things. Think of the pages of a book—” I still had that cookbook of Albert the Great under my arm; she took it. “One page may resemble another very much. Or be very different. One page can be so close to another that it touches, at all points—yet have nothing to do with the page against it. We are as close to Earth—right now—as two pages in sequence in a book. And yet we are so far away that light-years cannot express it.”

  “Look,” I said, “no need to get fancy about it. I used to watch Twilight Zone. You mean another dimension. I dig it.”

  She looked troubled “That’s somewhat the idea but—”

  Rufo interrupted. “There’s still Igli in the morning.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “If we have to talk to Igli in the morning, maybe we need some sleep. I’m sorry. By the way, who is Igli?”

  “You’ll find out,” said Rufo.

  I looked up at that hurtling moon. “No doubt. Well, I’m sorry I disturbed you all with a silly mistake. Good night, folks.”

  So I crawled back into my sleeping silks, like a proper hero (all muscles and no gonads, usually), and they sacked in, too. She didn’t put the light back on, so I had nothing to look at but the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I had fallen into a book.

  Well, I hoped it was a success and that the writer would keep me alive for lots of sequels. It was a pretty nice deal for the hero, up to this chapter at least. There was Dejah Thoris, curled up in her sleeping silks not twenty feet away.

  I thought seriously of creeping up to the flap of her tent and whispering to her that I wanted to ask a few questions about metaphysical geometry and like matters. Love spells, maybe. Or maybe just tell her that it was cold outside and could I come in?

  But I didn’t. Good old faithful Rufo was curled up just the other side of that tent and he had a disconcerting habit of coming awake fast with a dagger in his hand. And he liked to shave corpses. As I’ve said, given a choice. I’m chicken.

  I watched the hurtling moons of Barsoom and fell asleep.

  SIX

  Singing birds are better than alarm clocks and Barsoom was never like this. I stretched happily and smelled coffee and wondered if there was time for a dip before breakfast. It was another perfect day, blue and clear and the sun just up, and I felt like killing dragons before lunch. Small ones, that is.

  I smothered a yawn and rolled to my feet. The lovely pavilion was gone and the black box mostly repacked; it was no bigger than a piano box. Star was kneeling before a fire, encouraging the coffee. She was a cave-woman this morning, dressed in a hide that was fancy but not as fancy as her own. From an ocelot, maybe. Or from DuPont.

  “Howdy, Princess,” I said. “What’s for breakfast? And where’s your chef?”

  “Breakfast later,” she said. “Just a cup of coffee for you now, too hot and too black—best you be bad tempered. Rufo is starting the talk with Igli.” She served it to me in a paper cup.

  I drank half a cup, burned my mouth and spat out grounds. Coffee comes in five descending stages: Coffee, Java, Jamoke, Joe, and Carbon Remover. This stuff was no better than grade four.

  I stopped then, having caught sight of Rufo. And company, lots of company. Along the edge of our terrace somebody had unloaded Noah’s Ark. There was everything there from aardvarks to zebus, most of them with long yellow teeth.

  Rufo was facing this picket line, ten feet this side and opposite a particularly large and uncouth citizen. About then that paper cup came apart and scalded my fingers.

  “Want some more?” Star asked.

  I blew on my fingers. “No, thanks. This is Igli?”

  “Just the one in the middle that Rufo is baiting. The rest have come to see the fun, you can ignore them.”

  “Some of them look hungry.”

  “Most of the big ones are like Cuvier’s devil, herbivorous. Those outsized lions would eat us—if Igli wins the argument. But only then. Igli is the problem.”

  I looked Igli over more carefully. He resembled that scion of the man from Dundee, all chin and no forehead, and he combined the less appetizing features of giants and ogres in The Red Fairy Book. I never liked that book much.

  He was vaguely human, using the term loosely. He was a couple of feet taller than I am and outweighed me three or four hundred pounds but I am much prettier. Hair grew on him in clumps, like a discouraged lawn; and you just knew, without being told, that he had never used a man’s deodorant for manly men. The knots of his muscles had knots on them and his toenails weren’t trimmed.

  “Star,” I said, “what’s the nature of the argument we have with him?”

  “You must kill him, milord.”

  I looked back at him. “Can’t we negotiate a peaceful coexistence? Mutual inspection, cultural exchange, and so forth?”

  She shook her head. “He’s not bright enough for that. He’s here to stop us from going down into the valley—and either he dies, or we die.”

  I took a deep breath. “Princess, I’ve reached a decision. A man who always obeys the law is even stupider than one who breaks it every chance. This is no time to worry about that local Sullivan Act. I want the flamethrower, a bazooka, a few grenades, and the heaviest gun in that armory. Can you show me how to dig them out?”

  She poked at the fire. “My hero,” she said slowly, “I’m truly sorry—but it isn’t that simple. Did you notice, last night when we were smoking, that Rufo lighted our cigarettes from candles? Not using even so much as a pocket lighter?”

  “Well…no. I didn’t give it any thought.”

  “This rule against firearms and explosives is not a law such as you have back
on Earth. It is more than that; it is impossible to use such things here. Else such things would be used against us.”

  “You mean they won t work?”

  “They will not work. Perhaps ‘hexed’ is the word.”

  “Star. Look at me. Maybe you believe in hexes. I don’t. And I’ll give you seven to two that Tommy guns don’t, either. I intend to find out. Will you give me a hand in unpacking?”

  For the first time she looked really upset. “Oh, milord, I beg of you not to!”

  “Why not?”

  “Even the attempt would be disastrous. Do you believe that I know more about the hazards and dangers—and laws—of this world than you do? Will you believe me when I say that I would not have you die, that in solemn truth my own life and safety depend on yours? Please!”

  It is impossible not to believe Star when she lays it on the line. I said thoughtfully, “Maybe you’re right—or that character over there would be carrying a six-inch mortar as a side arm. Uh, Star, I’ve got a still better idea. Why don’t we hightail it back the way we came and homestead that spot where we caught the fish? In five years well have a nice little farm. In ten years, after the word gets around, we’ll have a nice little motel, too, with a free-form swimming pool and a putting green.”

  She barely smiled. “Milord Oscar, there is no turning back.”

  “Why not? I could find it with my eyes closed.”

  “But they would find us. Not Igli but more like him would be sent to harry and kill us.”

  I sighed again. “As you say. They claim motels off the main highway are a poor risk anyhow. There’s a battle-axe in that duffel. Maybe I can chop his feet off before he notices me.”

  She shook her head again. I said, “What’s the matter now? Do I have to fight him with one foot in a bucket? I thought anything that cut or stabbed—anything I did with my own muscles—was okay?”

  “It is okay, milord. But it won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Igli can’t be killed. You see, he is not really alive. He is a construct, made invulnerable for this one purpose. Swords or knives or even axes will not cut him; they bounce off. I have seen it.”

  “You mean he is a robot?”

  “Not if you are thinking of gears and wheels and printed circuits. ‘Golem’ would be closer. The Igli is an imitation of life.” Star added, “Better than life in some ways, since there is no way—none that I know of—to kill him. But worse, too, as Igli isn’t very bright nor well balanced. He has conceit without judgment. Rufo is working on that now, warming him up for you, getting him so mad he can’t think straight.”

  “He is? Gosh! I must be sure to thank Rufo for that. Thank him too much. I think. Well, Princess, what am I supposed to do now?”

  She spread her hands as if it were all self-evident. “When you are ready, I will loose the wards—and then you will kill him.”

  “But you just said—” I stopped. When they abolished the French Foreign Legion very few cushy billets were left for us romantic types. Umbopa could have handled this. Conan, certainly. Or Hawk Carse. Or even Don Quixote, for that thing was about the size of a windmill. “All right. Princess, let’s get on with it. Is it okay for me to spit on my hands? Or is that cheating?”

  She smiled without dimpling and said gravely, “Milord Oscar, we will all spit on our hands; Rufo and I will be fighting right beside you. Either we win…or we all die.”

  We walked over and joined Rufo. He was making donkey’s ears at Igli and shouting, “Who’s your father, Igli? Your mother was a garbage can but who’s your father? Look at him! No belly button! Yaaa!”

  Igli retorted, “Your mother barks! Your sister gives green stamps!”—but rather feebly, I thought. It was plain that that remark about belly buttons had cut him to the quick—he didn’t have one. Only reasonable, I suppose.

  The above is not quite what either of them said, except the remark about the belly button. I wish I could put it in the original because, in the Nevian language, the insult is a high art at least equal to poetry. In fact the epitome of literary grace is to address your enemy (publicly) in some difficult verse form, say the sestina, with every word dripping vitriol.

  Rufo cackled gleefully. “Make one, Igli! Push your finger in and make one. They left you out in the rain and you ran. They forgot to finish you. Call that thing a nose?” He said in an aside to me, in English, “How do you want him. Boss? Rare? Or well done?”

  “Keep him busy while I study the matter. He doesn’t understand English?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Good. How close can I go to him without getting grabbed?”

  “Close as you like as long as the wards are up. But, Boss—look. I’m not supposed to advise you—but when we get down to work, don’t let him get you by the plums.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “You be careful.” Rufo turned his head and shouted, “Yaaa! Igli picks his nose and eats it!” He added, “She is a good doctor, the best, but just the same, you be careful.”

  “I will.” I stepped closer to the invisible barrier, looked up at this creature. He glared down at me and made growling noises, so I thumbed my nose at him and gave him a wet, fruity Bronx cheer. I was downwind and it seemed likely that he hadn’t had a bath in thirty or forty years; he smelled worse than a locker room at the half.

  It gave me a seed of an idea. “Star, can this cherub swim?”

  She looked surprised. “I really don’t know.”

  “Maybe they forgot to program him for it. How about you, Rufo?”

  Rufo looked smug. “Try me, just try me. I could teach fish. Igli! Tell us why the sow wouldn’t kiss you!”

  Star could swim like a seal. My style is more like a ferry boat but I get there. “Star, maybe that thing can’t be killed but it breathes. It’s got some sort of oxygen metabolism, even if it burns kerosene. If we held his head underwater for a while—as long as necessary—I’ll bet the fire would go out.”

  She looked wide-eyed. “Milord Oscar…my champion… I was not mistaken in you.”

  “It’s going to take some doing. Ever play water polo, Rufo?”

  “I invented it.”

  I hoped he had. I had played it—once. Like being ridden on a rail, it is an interesting experience—once. “Rufo, can you lure our chum down toward the bank? I take it that the barrier follows this line of furry and feathery friends? If it does, we can get him almost to that high piece of bank with the deep pool under it—you know, Star, where you dunked me the first time.”

  “Nothing to it,” said Rufo. “We move, he’ll come along.”

  “I d like to get him running. Star, how long does it take you to unswitch your fence?”

  “I can loose the wards in an instant, milord.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan. Rufo, I want you to get Igli to chasing you, as fast as possible—and you cut out and head for that high bank just before you reach the stream. Star, when Rufo does that, you chop off the barrier—loose the wards—instantly. Don’t wait for me to say so. Rufo, you dive in and swim like hell; don’t let him grab you. With any luck, if Igli is moving fast, as big and clumsy as he is he’ll go in, too, whether he means to or not. But I’ll be pacing you, flanking you and a bit behind you. If Igli manages to put on the brakes, I’ll hit him with a low tackle and knock him in. Then we all play water polo.”

  “Water polo I have never seen,” Star said doubtfully.

  “There won’t be any referee. All it means this time is that all three of us jump him, in the water, and shove his head under and keep it there—and help each other to keep him from shoving our heads under. Big as he is, unless he can outswim us he’ll be at a terrible disadvantage. We go on doing this until he is limp and stays limp, never let him get a breath. Then, to make sure, well weigh him down with stones—it won’t matter whether he’s really dead or not. Any questions?”

  Rufo grinned like a gargoyle. “This is going to be fun!”

  Both those pessimists seeme
d to think that it would work, so we got started. Rufo shouted an allegation about Igli’s personal habits that even Olympia Press would censor, then dared Igli to race him, offering an obscene improbability as a wager.

  It took Igli a lumbering long time to get that carcass moving but when he did get rolling, he was faster than Rufo and left a wake of panicked animals and birds behind him. I’m pretty fast but I was hard pushed to hold position on the giant, flanking and a few paces back, and I hoped that Star would not loose the wards if it appeared that Igli might catch Rufo on dry land.

  However, Star did loose the wards just as Rufo cut away from the barrier, and Rufo reached the bank and made a perfect racing dive without slowing down, all to plan.

  But nothing else was.

  I think Igli was too stupid to twig at once that the barrier was down. He kept on a few paces after Rufo had gone left oblique, then did cut left rather sharply. But he had lost speed and he didn’t have any trouble stopping on dry land.

  I hit him a diving tackle, illegal and low, and down he went—but not over into the water. And suddenly I had a double armful of struggling and very smelly golem.

  But I had a wildcat helping me at once, and quickly thereafter Rufo, dripping wet, added his vote.

  But it was a stalemate and one that we were bound to lose in time. Igli outweighed all of us put together and seemed to be nothing but muscle and stink and nails and teeth. We were suffering bruises, contusions, and flesh wounds—and we weren’t doing Igli any damage, Oh, he screamed like a TV grunt and groaner every time one of us twisted an ear or bent back a finger, but we weren’t really hurting him and he was decidedly hurting us. There wasn’t a chance of dragging that hulk into the water.

  I had started with my arms around his knees and I stayed that way, of necessity, as long as I could, while Star tried to weigh down one of his arms and Rufo the other. But the situation was fluid; Igli thrashed like a rattler with its back broken and was forever getting one limb or another free and trying to gouge and bite. It got us into odd positions and I found myself hanging onto one callused foot, trying to twist it off, while I stared into his open mouth, wide as a bear trap and less appetizing. His teeth needed cleaning.