A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 5

Ian stepped through, and the panel hissed behind him. He turned, to find only the blank stony surface of the Egg, pitted and rain-washed. He could see no seam. It looked for all the world like a great gray stone again. He turned away, shaking his head and marveling.

Then he remembered that he was out in the open once more, and that the keeper, or even soldiers, might still be looking for him.

He ran quickly and lightly to the cover of the nearby woods, trying to move as quietly as he could. He threaded his way between the trees, looking for a path. He found none, but finally saw a glint in the night and heard the warbling of water swirling. He pushed through the underbrush and found a small stream, sparkling in the moonlight and babbling to itself like an idiot. He was thirsty; he dropped his staff, went down on his hands and knees, and drank.

As he lifted his head, he saw a man sitting across the stream from him.

Magnus stared up through the port beside the airlock, amazed at the size of the ship. “All this, for only one man?”

“Two, if necessary,” Matilda answered, “and for a year or more. It is a home away from home, and has to store food and water for twelve Terran months, as well as a selection of robot bodies for the ‘brain,’ and everything our experts can think of, for survival on a strange planet.”

Magnus was awed. This close to the ship, it seemed vast, a great golden disk whose rim was twenty feet in the air. Beside it, the converted asteroid that was his father’s ship seemed small and inconsequential.

Then Magnus noticed the cable connecting the two ships. He frowned and was about to ask, but even as he opened his mouth, the cable disconnected from Fess’s ship and reeled slowly back into the golden disc, waving like a snake charmer’s cobra in the negligible gravity. “Why were the two ships connected?”

Aunt Matilda looked blank. “Why, I’ve no idea.” Magnus shrugged it off; the matter seemed inconsequential. He gazed up at the huge ship, sitting in golden splendor amid the desolation of the airless asteroid, and felt exalted at the mere thought that it was his ship, now. “It is magnificent!”

“Not quite as noble as it looks,” Aunt Matilda said, amused. “The color is due to a superconducting finish that allows the most effective force-field ever developed, to be erected around the ship with far less energy than ever before.”

“I am glad it has a utilitarian excuse,” Magnus answered, “for I will feel sinfully sybaritic in such a craft. What did my uncle term it—a TLC?”

“That is its model number,” Aunt Matilda explained. “It stands for ‘Total Life Conserver,’ since it is equipped to protect the lives of its passengers in every way known, up to and including cryogenic freezing, if all else fails.”

“Reassuring,” Magnus murmured.

“It has a serial number, of course,” Matilda went on, “but it also has a more personal designation, connoting its strength and abilities—Hercules Alfheimer.”

“Hercules Alfheimer?” Magnus stared. Hercules, of course, was the great hero of the Greeks—but Alfheim was the home of the light elves of the Norse. “You don’t mind mixing your mythologies, do you?”

The Countess’s eyes glowed, and Magnus suddenly realized that he’d apparently passed some sort of unexpected test. “Quite so, Nephew,” she said. “We try to do that with every new robot, to indicate that it is not restricted to the world-view of any one culture. Naming gives it a more convenient designation than its serial number alone, and one which helps to humanize its behavior.”

Both of which made it seem less intimidating to the humans who had to deal with it, Magnus realized.

“When it is sold, of course,” Matilda went on, “its new owner can change its name to whatever he or she pleases.”

Magnus intended to; the collision of cultures jarred on his sensibilities. “I will treasure it, Aunt. I thank you deeply.”

“Think of us always,” she admonished. “Now, if you must leave, young man, you must. Do come again.”

“It shall be a matter of great anticipation,” Magnus assured her. “My thanks to you, Aunt Matilda, and to my uncle…” He turned to Pelisse and therefore necessarily toward Robert, who stood behind Pelisse with his hand touching her shoulder, still defiant as he stared at Magnus—but forcing a smile now, at least. “Farewell, cousins,” Magnus said. “My life is richer for knowing you.”

“Oh, not farewell!” Pelisse was dewy around the lashes. “Say only, ‘till we meet again!’ ”

“Au revoir, then,” Magnus said, trying to make his smile warm. “This has been an unforgettable experience.” He reached out to squeeze her hand, then turned away and made his escape into the boarding tunnel.

He came out into the ship; the hatch dogged itself behind him, and a soft, deep voice said, “Greetings, Master Magnus.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Hercules Alfheimer.” Magnus inclined his head, remembering what his father had told him: Be polite to robots, even if they don’t need it—it’ll keep you in the habit of being polite to people. Magnus already knew how thoroughly all human beings are creatures of habit.

“Thank you, Master Magnus,” the robot’s voice answered.

“ ‘Magnus’ alone will do,” the young man said. “I have no wish to have one call me ‘master‘; adjust it in your programming.”

“Noted,” the computer replied. “My name, too, can be changed to suit you, Magnus. I have found that most human beings prefer to shorten long designations.”

“Indeed.” Magnus nodded. “Let us make a contraction of ‘Hercules Alfheimer’: ‘Herkimer.’ ” He smiled; there was something amusing about so grand a ship having so modest a name.

“ ‘Herkimer’ I shall be henceforth,” the computer agreed. “Would you like a tour of the ship, Magnus?”

“After we are in space,” Magnus said. “For now, I would like to be away as quickly as possible.”

“The control room is straight ahead,” Herkimer informed him.

Magnus nodded; he had surmised as much, from the blunt ending of the corridor inside the airlock. He paced forward a dozen steps and found himself looking through an open doorway into the bridge. To his right was a drop shaft; to his left… “What is this hatch across from the elevator?”

“A bunkroom, for those occasions when you wish to sleep near the bridge,” Herkimer answered. “There is a more fitting bedchamber below.”

Magnus could just bet there was. Judging from his guest quarters in Castle d’Armand, it was going to be such a swamp of luxury that he’d probably prefer the bunkroom permanently. He nodded, stepped through the door, sat down on the control couch—and suddenly felt that the ship was really his. “Warm your engines and plot a course for…” Magnus paused; he hadn’t thought this far ahead. Then he shrugged; he wanted to get to Terra sooner or later. “Plot a course inward, toward the sun; we will adjust it in space.”

“Very good, Magnus.”

Magnus was barely aware of the most subtle of vibrations; somewhere in the ship, machinery had come to life.

One final matter remained. “A communication channel to Fess, please.”

“Here, Magnus.”

That had been suspiciously fast. “Fess, you are once again the property of Rod Gallowglass, née Rodney d’Armand, High Warlock of Gramarye. You are to return to him as quickly as possible.”

“Understood, my former master. You will understand, though, Magnus, that I leave you with some trepidation.”

“You may take it with you; I already have enough trepidation to last me a lifetime.”

“A feeble attempt at humor, Magnus.”

“Perhaps, Fess, but I have become wary of sentiment. I will treasure your regard; and you may be as sure as any may, of my safety.”

“That is my cause for concern, Magnus.”

Magnus smiled. “Still, we must bear it, old companion. Farewell, till I see you again on Gramarye! Give my love to my parents and Cordelia, and my warmest regards to my brothers.”

“I shall, Magnus.”

“Depart for Gramarye now, Fess. May your trip be smooth.”

“And yours, Magnus. Bon voyage!”

A surge of feeling hit Magnus, and he might have said more, but Herkimer’s voice murmured, “Ready for liftoff.”

“Which shall lift off, Maxima or we? Nevertheless, let us go.”

There was absolutely no sense of motion—after all, it didn’t take much acceleration to escape from so small a worldlet. But escape they did, and Magnus felt a massive surge of relief. “Viewscreen on, please.”

The screenful of stars before him faded into a view of the “castle,” with the boarding tunnel curving out of the eastern wing. The rough, pitted form of Fess’s ship stood by it, dull in the merciless sunlight. As Magnus watched, the lumpy ball rose and drifted upward, but away from them, toward the constellation of Cassiopeia. When it was well away from the surface, it began to accelerate, dwindling rapidly. Magnus watched as his last contact with home diminished, feeling suddenly very much alone. Just before the ship shrank from sight, Magnus murmured, “Farewell, companion of my youth. You shall ever be with me.”

“You may be sure of that, Magnus,” Fess answered. “Farewell.”

Then he was gone, and Magnus was staring at the screen, not at all sure he liked that last remark. “Herkimer—what did he mean?”

“There was insufficient information in his last remark, Magnus; I would have to conjecture almost blindly.”

But Magnus was developing a nasty conjecture of his own. “Why were the two of you connected by cable, just before I came aboard?”

“Why, for a data transfer, Magnus.”

“Indeed.” Magnus braced himself. “What data was transferred?”

“The entire contents of his memory, Magnus, except for personal matters that his previous owners wished kept confidential.”

Magnus’s heart sank. “You now know all that Fess knew?”

“Everything, Magnus, with the exceptions noted previously.”

“Including my entire biography.”

“As much of it as Fess knew, yes.”

Fess had been right—he would always be with Magnus. “Well, it is good to have reminders of home,” Magnus sighed. “But, Herkimer?”

“Yes, Magnus?”

“You do understand that it is not necessary to tell everything you know?”

“Of course, Magnus. Any personal information of yours shall not be disclosed to anyone but you.”

“That, of course,” Magnus said, “but I was more concerned with family history. You understand that there is no reason to seek to impress me with the importance of the d’Armands, or the obligations of my rank?”

“Why ever should I wish to do that?” Herkimer said, in tones of mystification.

“I can’t think of a single reason—but Fess could, and did.” Magnus breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he breathed another, realizing that he was finally, really away from that cloying and clinging excuse for a Maximan family. It came to him that he had narrowly escaped the exact mesh of entangling relationships his cousin Roger had feared. Magnus found himself wondering if perhaps he had not betrayed the man, then wondered if he had not himself shirked his responsibilities. “I know that I must be my brother’s keeper,” he muttered, “but must I also watch over my cousins?”

“They are not your burden, Magnus,” Herkimer replied.

Magnus looked up, startled, then realized that he had phrased it as a question. He was oddly reassured by the machine’s response. It might be logical, but it lacked humane considerations, and was therefore not necessarily ethical—but it was still reassuring.

Which brought another matter to mind. “Herkimer—if you have all Fess’s data, you are aware of my … talents?”

“Your psionic abilities?” Herkimer asked. “Yes, Magnus, I am—and I know those of your brothers and sister, and your mother and father, as well.”

“And my grandfather, no doubt, and all of the rest of the knowledge of Gramarye.” Magnus relaxed another stage; he could talk freely about home, if he wanted to. “Then you will understand that I have been raised with certain ethical standards in regard to the use of those abilities.”

“I am so aware, yes.”

“And you are aware that I used them to influence my cousin Roger?”

“That was included in Fess’s briefing.”

“And that such use violated my ethical code?” The robot was silent for a half-second, then said, “I cannot truly discriminate, Magnus. There were extenuating circumstances.”

But Magnus knew, and knew well. To get himself out of a bind with his relatives, he had violated a major ethical principle: he had altered the memories and emotions of a human being who was not an enemy, and without that person’s permission. In retrospect, he thought he might perhaps have committed the equally unethical, but lesser, offense, of just walking out on his relatives with words of rebuke.

Though truly, he could see no third choice. There might have been one, and he could have stayed till he had found it—but that would have taken months, perhaps years, and by the time he’d been able to see it, he would have become too deeply enmeshed in the family’s troubles to be able to free himself.

But that still did not excuse the violation he had committed. He had allowed his integrity to be breached, and his corruption had begun.

He wondered how much further it would go before he would be able to halt it.

Especially since he found that he had no wish to. Now that he was clear of Maxima, he could let his guard down, let himself go, let himself feel the hurt and the pain—and the anger at Pelisse and her grandmother surged white-hot through him. How dare they toy with him, how dare they seek to use him so, to exploit him! Hadn’t they realized that they would degrade him thereby? And themselves?

The whole matter left a very bad taste in his mouth, and great bitterness in his heart. He felt a sudden craving to wash out the one and assuage the other. “Herkimer! Set course for Ceres City!”

“As you wish, Magnus,” the computer replied—then, almost in an echo of Fess, “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Magnus snapped. Ceres City—which, Fess had taught him, was a sink of iniquity, to be well avoided by any young man not wishing to be dragged down into degradation. His father had been much more succinct. “Ceres City is Sin City,” he had said. “If you ever get to the Solar System, stay away from it, unless you really want to be tempted.”

Magnus was in a mood to give in to any temptation that came to hand. If he was going to be corrupted, he wanted to get it over and done with.

“Seal the hatch when I’ve stepped through it,” Magnus told Herkimer, “and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

“Confirmed,” Herkimer answered. Then some data from Fess’s memory banks must have nudged him, because he said, “I hope you won’t do anything rash, Magnus.”

“Never fear,” Magnus assured him. “Everything I do will be well thought out.” And he stepped through the hatch, intent on a very well-considered and thoroughly planned drunk.

He paced through the boarding tunnel and out into the concourse. He looked about him, dazed by the dazzle and glitter of advertising messages and direction signs. A circle of gambling machines filled the rotunda, and asteroid miners and merchant crews and passengers came pounding off their ships to start feeding credit cards into the slots of the mechanical bandits. A 30-degree arc of the rotunda wall was taken up by a mammoth bar, and young and shapely men and women strolled around the edges of the crowd in tight-fitting body suits of dark colors. As Magnus watched, one young woman’s suit suddenly turned transparent around her right breast. She glanced down at it, then up toward a man who was staring at her. The body suit turned opaque again, but another circle turned transparent, highlighting a different portion of her anatomy. Smiling, she strolled toward her prospective customer, hips rolling. Magnus glanced about and saw that the others who were similarly clad were developing transparent circles that came and went in response to the stares of the passers-by. If it was like this in the spaceport area, what would it be like in the corridors of the city proper?

Magnus felt his hormones stir at the display of dancing circles, and turned away just in time to avoid a young woman who was homing in on him. Feeling slightly sick, he stepped over to the bar, ordered a shot of straight grain whiskey, paid for it with one of the coins his cousins had given him, drank it straight down, and turned to follow the signs that promised a way out.

“Hey, fella, what’cha lookin’ up?”

Magnus turned, surprised. Could someone really be talking to him?

It was a slender youth with shortish hair and very old eyes, fine-boned features, and a sinuous walk inside a body suit which was, fortuitously, totally opaque. “Saw y’ walk away from the skirt, pard. Interested in a little something else?”

It came to Magnus that he was being propositioned. He felt that odd sort of locking within him, and his face went neutral. “I thank you, no. My plans for the evening are already fixed.”

“Tightwad,” the young man said contemptuously. His left hip went suddenly transparent. He glanced at it, then up on a line with it, and saw a matronly looking, lumpy woman with hot eyes. Instantly forgetting Magnus, he strolled toward her.

The sickness settled by the whiskey rose again, and Magnus followed the signs down the concourse and through the automatic iris that passed for a door.

The corridor was ten times what the concourse had been, except that the businesses themselves were hidden by partitions with doors. Floating glaresigns and moving, three-dimensional displays lined the sides of the broad thoroughfare, making very clear what sort of goods or services were purveyed behind each door. In the center, overhead, dancing displays advertised various brands of products. Magnus was overwhelmed by simple profusion—and by the decadence of it all. Suddenly, he was glad that he had begun his introduction to modern civilization with the much smaller-scale milieu of Maxima. He had studied all of this in Fess’s data banks and 3DT displays, and it had prepared him for this, but not enough—the physical reality of it was stupefying.

So he cut it down to size. He took the first display that showed liquor pouring from an antique bottle into a glass, and went through the door.

There was a bar against one wall, tables and chairs in the center, and a line of closed booths against the far wall. Magnus could only imagine what went on in such privacy, and from the moans and gasps, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Looking at the displays behind the bar, he realized why—there were at least as many drugs on display as there were liquors.

“Name your poison,” said the man with the smoking dope-stick and traditional sleeve-garters, and Magnus didn’t doubt that he meant it. He scanned the bottles and pointed to something in a fluorescent purple. “That one.”

“Aldebaran Bouncer?” The man shrugged. “Your life, citizen.” He punched a combination on the machine in front of him. “Thumbprint.”

A glowing square appeared in front of Magnus, and he rolled the ball of his thumb across it. Didn’t they need to see the card?

Apparently not; the bartender nodded, satisfied, and took a brimming glass from the machine. He set it in front of Magnus.

Magnus stared; he hadn’t known it would be so large.

“ ‘Smatter? Don’t like it?”

Magnus shrugged, hoisted the tumbler, and drank. It seared his throat, and he could feel the fire trail all the way down into his belly, but it felt good somehow, burning away the shame that had soiled him within. He set the glass down, inhaled long and hard, and found the bartender staring at him. Magnus caught his breath, nodded, and said, “Good. Another.”

The bartender shook himself, shrugged, and said, “Your funeral. Thumb it again.”

Magnus rolled his thumb, and the bartender set another livid purple glass in front of him. Magnus took a bit longer with this one—it must have lasted two minutes. As he lowered the empty, he looked up to see the bartender watching him with a speculative look. “A girl?”

“Several of them.” Magnus pushed the empty glass toward him.

“Several!” The bartender snorted. “Lucky bozo! I’m doing good to get turned down by one! Thumb it.”

Magnus rolled his thumb across the plate and settled down to a single swallow at a time. He was beginning to feel numb inside, and that was good, very good. He studied the people around him, and found that a disconcerting number of them seemed to be looking his way. He scowled and locked stares with them, straightening to his full height, and one by one, they found something more interesting to look at.

Except for one man—in his thirties, at a guess—who was nowhere as tall as Magnus but had arms far longer than they should have been, and shoulders to match. He grinned back into Magnus’s glare and shuffled over toward him.

“Hey now, Orange!” the bartender snapped. “Let the kid alone!”

“Alone?” Orange stepped up close, grinning up at Magnus. “I wouldn’t think of it. You peaceable, kid?”

Magnus recognized a push for a fight when he saw one. Joy lit within him—at least it was something clean! “ ‘Orange’?” he said. “What sort of name is that?”

“Short for ‘orangutang.’ Wanna make something of it?”

“Juice,” Magnus said.

“Not in here!” the bartender yelped.

Orange grinned around at the crowd. “You’re all my witnesses—he tried to put the squeeze on me.” He lifted his hands, balling them into fists.

The bartender lifted his hand—with a nasty-looking little blaster in it. “Out!”

“Why, how inhospitable,” Magnus murmured. “But I was never one to stay where I wasn’t wanted.” He turned away to the door. Behind him, Orange grunted, “Then how come you’re still on Ceres?”

“You don’t want me, then?” Magnus said as he stepped through the door and pivoted about.

“Just for a target,” Orange snapped, as his fist slammed into Magnus’s midriff.

Magnus rolled back, not quite fast enough; the punch hurt, and for a few seconds, his breath was blocked. But he caught Orange’s fist, sidestepped, and yanked, and sent the shorter man sprawling into the wall of spectators, of whom there seemed to be an increasing number—and two of them were moving from person to person, punching the keys of their noteboards. Several of the bystanders obligingly shoved Orange back on his feet, and he snarled, leaping in and out, feinting, then slamming a quick combination of punches at Magnus’s belly and jaw. The second shot at the face clipped Magnus on the cheek; he recoiled and ducked around and in, under Orange’s next punch, and up, hauling him by his shirtfront and throwing him. But one of those long arms snaked out and snagged itself on Magnus’s neck, throwing him off-balance and pulling him down. Magnus stumbled into a fist, staggered back as two more hit him, then caught the third and threw Orange away, shaking his head to clear it and seeing two copies of the human gorilla as he stepped back in, hand grabbing at a flat pocket against his hip …

… and coming out with a knife that flicked open, its blade glowing.

Magnus stepped back, recognizing a force-blade from its descriptions. The cleanliness of punch and pain was suddenly soiled, but not much, for he parried the arm with the blade twice, then caught the wrist with his right hand and slammed an elbow back into Orange’s solar plexus. The shorter man doubled over, gagging; Magnus twisted the blade out of his grip and backhanded him on the side of the head. Orange stumbled into the cheering spectators—there were three times as many of them now, and four men with noteboards moving among them.

The nearest watchers obligingly shoved Orange out again. He was game, he swung at Magnus even now, but the young giant blocked the clumsy punch easily and slammed a right to his jaw. Orange folded and slumped to the ground.

Magnus stood, staring down at the man, teeth bared in a grin, heaving deep breaths. He reached down and hauled Orange to his feet with a surge of fellow-feeling. “Good fighting, friend. I’ll stand you to the next drink.”

“If he can stand to drink,” someone said, but orange only snarled and shoved Magnus away, then tottered back toward the bar. Magnus was about to go after him when he realized he was hearing a high, shrill sound, and the men with the noteboards stopped their collecting and paying-off to call, “Peace-ers!”

The crowd melted on the instant, leaving Magnus standing alone, looking about him, startled.

“Time to disappear, friend,” said one of the men as he passed, stuffing his noteboard into one pocket and currency into another.

Magnus took his advice and hurried away. Glancing back, he saw an armed and uniformed man with a pack on his back, floating through the air and descending toward the bar where Magnus had just been.

Another man with a noteboard passed in the other direction, punching numbers and advising, “Stay out in the open, and the bystanders will point you out to the Peace-er. Better find another bar, pal.”

Magnus did. He found three more. And three more fights. He was drawing larger and larger crowds, and more and more of the little men with the noteboards—until the last fight turned into a full-fledged brawl. That was when he found the Peace-ers. Or they found him.

He didn’t remember it, though. He only remembered ducking, but not fast enough, and the fist exploding in his face.

Then he was coming to, his head and chest one huge ache. He tried to sit up, which was a definite mistake, because his stomach suddenly convulsed, and everything he had downed the night before started back up.

Someone shoved a bucket under his face and growled, “In here, slob. I’m not cleaning up after you.”

Magnus was horrendously sick for what seemed an inordinately long time. When his stomach finally stopped contracting, he managed to straighten up and lean back against something very hard, fumbling out a handkerchief and wiping his face, feeling much better inside but very, very shaky.

“Improved,” someone said critically, and Magnus looked up to see a uniform with a face at the top. Over the breast pocket were the letters “E.D.G.A.R.”

“Go ‘way, Edgar,” he groaned. “Come back for m’ funeral.”

“That’s not the way you check out of here, pal,” the guard said, “and the name’s not ‘Edgar.’ ”

Magnus frowned, trying to make sense out of that. “Says so on y’r pocket.”

The guard’s face came closer, frowning. “Boy, you are from out of town, aren’t you? E.D.G.A.R. stands for the Eleusinian Drinking and Gambling Addiction Reformatory.”

“Eleusinian?” Then Magnus remembered—in Classical Greece, the cult of Ceres centered around the Eleusinian Mysteries. He wished he hadn’t thought of it—the effort made his headache worse. He aimed himself at the bunk and fell, groaning, “Jus’ wanna die.”

But the guard caught him and turned him around so that he sat instead of lying down. “ ‘Fraid not just now, pal. You’ve got a visitor. Here, drink this.” A rough hand hauled his head back and shoved a cup at him. Magnus opened his mouth to protest, but fluid gushed over his tongue, and he had to swallow or choke, then swallow again, and again. When the flow stopped, he pushed the cup away with a grimace. “Iyuch! What was that stuff?”

“H and I.”

Magnus peered up at the man’s face, squinting his eyes against the light. “What? H and I?”

“Gemini Hangover and Intoxication Oil, from Castor Epsilon. You had yourself a real time last night, spacer.”

“I’m not—” Magnus cut the words off—he was a spacer now! The realization gave him an odd feeling, perhaps even an exhilarating one—but his body felt so horrible, he would never have noticed. “Analgesic?”

“You just had one,” the guard informed him. “It’ll take effect in a few minutes, but time’s the only thing that’s going to wipe out the aches from the punches you took. On your feet, spacer—you’ve got company.”

“Company?” Magnus looked up, frowning, then clamped his jaw against the urge to cry out as the guard yanked him to his feet. He almost slumped onto the man’s shoulder, but managed to catch hold of the bars and hold himself upright.

Bars?

Magnus finally looked up at his surroundings—bare plasticrete walls, uncovered toilet, sink, and freshener. “I’m in prison!”

“Jail,” the guard told him. “Just the drunk tank—for prison, you get a trial first. Not that you won’t, if anybody gets serious about those brawls last night. Let’s go see your guest, now.”

Magnus stared. “I’m a stranger! Who’d want to talk to me?”

“About a dozen lawyers, considering how many brawls you wound up in, and how much furniture and glassware got wiped out. Don’t worry, though—the bookies will probably put up your bail.”

Magnus let the man lead him out of the cell, befuddled. “Bookies?”

“You are green, aren’t you? Every time you got in a fight last night, the bookies laid out odds and took bets. As the night went on, they had to give higher and higher odds in your favor, but they started betting on you themselves. Oh, they made a pile off of you, all right, up until the last fight—and even then, they won, because you downed the guy who started the fight with you, before his friends piled in and swamped you. Not that you were alone—everybody who laid their bets on you piled in on your side. It was one hell of a brawl, from what I hear,” he said reverently. “Wish I’d been there.”

Magnus decided that the people of Ceres City were very, very strange. So was the Castor oil—it was taking effect, and the pain of his bruises was dulled, the pounding in his head almost gone. “Who is this who wishes to speak with me?”

“Dunno,” said the guard, “but she’s one hell of a looker. If that’s what they sent every time you got drunk and disorderly, there wouldn’t be a man in Ceres City who wasn’t in jail.” He opened a plain metal door. “In you go, spacer. You sit in your chair, she sits in hers. Don’t try to go over to her, or you’ll trigger the alarm in the force-screen. Good luck.”

Magnus stumbled into the blank, featureless room, started to turn back toward the guard with a protest on his lips—then out of the corner of his eye, saw the woman who was waiting for him, and the protest died aborning. He turned slowly, staring—she was easily the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, save one. Of course, he had been saying that about every woman who had caught his fancy in the last few months—but it had always been true. How unfair of the women, to keep becoming more and more beautiful! How was a man to hold himself back from them?

But even at the thought, he could feel the shield closing about his heart. It still ached at the loveliness of long blonde hair, retrousse nose, huge dark eyes, and full red lips—but he could contain himself; his heart stayed in his chest, not on his sleeve, and he was able to hide his feelings behind an imperturbable mask. He bowed slightly. “Good day, madame—or mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle.” She smiled, amused, and her voice was a husky breath of sensual speculation. “You’re very formal, spacer.”

“Until I have been introduced, or we come to know each other well.” Magnus’s knees were trying to turn to jelly—hopefully only from the aftereffects of his night on the town. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” The woman waved to the chair facing her, surprised. “You certainly are rigidly formal!” Magnus frowned as he sat; he didn’t consider good manners a matter of rigidity—but, then, he had grown up with them. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He regretted the word “pleasure” as soon as it was out of his mouth, and rightly—the woman caught it and smiled lazily, her eyelids drooping. “I hope it will lead to … pleasure … for both of us—even though I don’t know how to address you. What is your name?”

Magnus opened his mouth, but caution made him hold back his real name. He substituted the first one that came to mind. “Ed…” he started, then realized it was the initials over the guard’s pocket he was giving. But it was too late to change now, so he finished, “gar.”

“Ed Gar.” The woman nodded, but didn’t write it down. Frowning, Magnus looked more closely at her.

The brooch she was wearing ostensibly served no purpose other than decoration; but he was willing to bet it was a recording device. She said, “I am Allouene. You carry no identification.”

“I left it aboard ship,” Magnus told her. “I did not wish to chance losing it.”

She smiled as though she did not believe him, then let the smile soften into a lazy, sensuous sultriness as she looked him over more closely. When she lifted her gaze back to his eyes, the sultriness had become an invitation, though not a burning one.

It came to Magnus, with a surge of outrage, that the woman knew exactly what she was doing, knew each intonation and lilt and shade of expression and what its effect would be on him, and was turning them on and off as though they were the keys of an organ—but it wasn’t an organ she was playing, it was him.

The anger was good—it annealed the seal around his heart, strengthened his guard against her. “I am not aware of having met you previously, mademoiselle—to my regret.”

The laziness focused with amusement. “You haven’t. I’m only an interested bystander—or I was last night. I saw you fight Orange at the Shot and Bottle, and I was impressed with your style.”

Style? Magnus had been deliberately trying for clumsiness, to make the fight last! “I was scarcely at my best.”

“So I noticed. I joined the crowd that followed you from bar to bar. The drinks only affected your temper, not your reflexes. Your style improved with the quality of your antagonists.”

“My antagonists improved?”

“Oh, yes.” Allouene smiled, moistening her lips and shifting in her chair. “Word spread along the street, you see, and all the toughs with reputations came out to try you. They had to wait in line, I’m afraid, and they finally grew impatient and all piled in at once at the end.”

“I don’t really remember much of it,” Magnus confessed.

“Of course not; the last bartender handed you a loaded drink to get you out of his place. I watched it all closely, though.”

Magnus tried to hide his disgust. “You must be quite the aficionado of martial arts.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m a representative for a secret agency—quite legitimate, I assure you—and your display, and the emotions that seemed to accompany it, made me think you might be just what my employers are looking for.”

Magnus stared, amazed.

“If you are interested in joining us,” Allouene said, “we’ll take care of any damages you owe, and whisk you out of this jail and off to one of our training centers.” Her tone dropped to load the offer with double meaning: “Are you interested?”

His hormones thrilled, but so did the wariness of alarm. Magnus held himself immobile and asked, “What is the name of your agency?”

“The Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms,” she answered.

Magnus stared at her, frozen with shock. She had named his father’s organization! Had they followed him here from Gramarye? Had the time-travel organization that worked with SCENT alerted them to his presence here?

But no, she had asked his name, had said he was unidentified. Suddenly, Magnus was very glad he had given a false name, had left his identification aboard his ship. She was interested in him for himself alone—or at least, for his ability as a fighter.

If she was telling the truth.

“You seem shocked,” Allouene said. “I assure you, we’re not a bunch of bloodthirsty sadists. We’re rather idealistic—our mission is to help backward planets develop the institutions that will enable them to eventually evolve some form of democratic government, and make it last. We have a strict code of ethics, and we work hard at maintaining it.” Magnus nodded. “I have … heard of you.”

“We are a legitimate department of the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal,” Allouene went on, “and if the government of the Terran Sphere isn’t enough of a recommendation, I don’t know what is.”

Magnus had plenty of recommendations of his own to bring. He had known SCENT from birth, at least by what his father and Fess had told him of it, and had secretly treasured the notion of someday joining them himself, and going forth to free the oppressed. But as he’d grown older, he’d begun to be concerned about living in his father’s shadow.

Now, however, he was being recruited in his own right—perhaps. “Is SCENT so hard-pressed for agents that you must recruit every brawler you find?”

“Certainly not,” Allouene said, with a contemptuous smile. “You’re a rather exceptional brawler, you know, and not just because of your size. You show a great deal of skill—and there’s an intensity about you that speaks of the disillusioned idealist.”

Magnus sat rigid, amazed. Had the woman some psionic gift of her own, that let her see into his heart? Or was she just unusually perceptive? “I have become bitter of late,” he admitted.

Allouene nodded with satisfaction. “You have seen too much of human selfishness and self-seeking. But we try to use those urges, to channel them into some sort of system that makes people protect the rights of everyone, in order to protect their own interests.”

Magnus frowned. “An interesting goal. Have you ever succeeded?” “Never perfectly,” Allouene admitted, “but we have managed to harness self-interest into workable systems again and again. We console ourselves with the thought that no system can be perfect, and we have made progress.”

“Fascinating,” Magnus murmured, holding himself very carefully. All his own near-despair, his disgust with his relatives, his disillusionment in discovering how few people really seemed to care for anyone else’s good—it all came together and stabbed, white-hot, toward an organization that was at least trying to put ideals into action. But some lingering caution made him say, “I should think you would find a great number of recruits.”

Allouene’s expression showed some bitterness of her own. “It would be wonderful—but very few people seem to be interested in working toward anyone’s welfare but their own. Of those who are, many of them aren’t strong enough, either emotionally or physically, to last through our training. The rewards, after all, are only in knowing that you have left a world better off than you found it—and we aren’t even always successful in that.”

“You must have been recruiting for a long time, to have seen enough cases to generalize,” Magnus said. “Every time I put together a new mission team,” Allouene assured him. “When we are appointed Mission Leaders, you see, we are given the responsibility of finding our own agents, of recruiting them and training them.”

Magnus stared. “You mean that if I join SCENT, I will be working with you?”

“After your training,” Allouene said, “yes.” And that, of course, decided the matter.