Agent of the Unknown Page 3

  Chapter Three — The Tie

  After Don left Kunitz on that first day, he went down to the beach. He sat for hours in the pink sand, and the thoughts moved slowly within his mind like clouds drifting over the sky. It was enough just to look at her.

  On the second day he woke earlier, and was hungry. He wanted something solid, not just coffee. He ran over expedients mentally. Then he went to a little restaurant in Baade that specialized in fried dakdak pods, and offered to pit and stem the pods in return for two meals daily. The proprietor was skeptical—Don had a certain local notoriety—but he had no robot, and preparing the pods to be fried was a nasty, splintery job. He chewed his lips. He made an agreement with Don.

  On the third day the restaurant owner offered Don a drink—rum and coconut milk—and Don refused it.

  He refused it. It was not until he was on his way back to his shelter that night that the significance of his refusal penetrated to him. He had had a chance at a free drink, a drink he liked; and he had turned it down. What was the matter with him?

  He got the doll out and looked at it. Except for star-shine, the night was quite dark. An artificial moon had certainly been among the refinements intended by the designers of Fyon, but when it had become plain that the planetoid was not going to pay for itself the idea had been abandoned. Those white tropic nights had never materialized. None the less, the doll had a faint ethereal shimmer in the light from the stars. Don could see her well enough.

  "Are you trying to reform me?" he said to her after a silence. "You beauty—you always crying little beauty—are you trying to change me? I won't have it, though you're so lovely. Leave Don alone, my darling. I resent it. I might have to get rid of you. Do you understand me, little weeping one?" His tone was only half humorous.

  He did resent it. He was no good, a bum, disgusting even to himself; but he didn't want to be changed. He wanted to be himself. It might be only coincidence that he had hunted for, and got, a job—his first job in how many years?—since he had found the doll, but he rather thought not. In her unique and peculiar way, she was "unsettling" him.

  Of course he could get rid of the doll. She was valuable.

  He hadn't needed Kunitz to tell him that. If he sold her ... He could, there was no reason why he shouldn't. When the next space liner touched at Fyon—there was one due in a couple of days—he'd talk to the passengers. The passengers on system cruises were almost always wealthy people. He might be able to make a useful contact, anyhow.

  Standing under the palm tree in the starlight, holding the doll in his hand, he began to prepare phrases to be used in his opening speech to likely-looking prospects. He'd do it. It was the sensible thing. Kunitz was right. He'd get rid of her.

  As he drifted toward sleep that night in his sand shelter, he insisted to himself again and again on his determination—his unswervable determination—to get rid of the doll.

  The space liner touched at Fyon about eleven o'clock in the morning, on the day that passed as Wednesday. Strictly speaking, the liner did not "touch": Fyon had no space port. Land space was somewhat limited on the planetoid, and besides, its designers had considered that a space port would break the mood the planetoid was meant to create. Ships therefore hovered outside Fyon's atmosphere, and passengers and supplies were ferried down in small craft and lighters to it.

  The bar, in anticipation of the liner's arrival, had been decorated with fresh flowers, mainly hibiscus, ilangilang, and jasmine. (There were two bars in Baade, but only one had social standing enough to need to make special preparations for the space liner.) The girl at the curio counter in the bar building had brought out her choicest items. When Don stuck his nose in the door, about eleven-thirty, the bar was jammed with gabbling tourists downing rum-based "tropical" drinks, and the air was heavy with the bloodlike smell of jasmine.

  The tourists were mainly terrestrials. They were of all colors and all backgrounds, but they had this in common, that they nearly all belonged to a high economic level. Don ran his eyes over their ranks, trying to decide which ones looked possible and which would merely tell him to go away. His heart was beating rather fast.

  He had taken especial pains to look presentable. His ducks were freshly washed, he had shaved, he had even combed his hair. Payne, the owner of the restaurant where he was working, had loaned him a shirt. But when he regarded the easy affluence of the room full of tourists, he became uneasily aware that he'd forgotten to borrow any shoes. Oh, well. They might think his being barefooted was picturesque.

  The women, as usual, were spending more money than the men, but he didn't want to approach a woman. Don licked his lips speculatively and tried to assess the men in an impartial manner. He hoped that Henry, who ran the bar, wouldn't see him and throw him out.

  Don settled at last on a group of three men at the left of the bar. All of them were conspicuously well dressed, and one of them, a shortish, pudgy man, was wearing a full set of miragems, including tie stay and wristlet. He was complaining about the poor service and the flavor of the drinks, which Don thought a good sign.

  Don went outside to wait. He didn't want to tackle the men while they were drinking; Henry would throw him out if he tried that. He sat down on the ground near an ilangilang and waited, picking dakdak splinters out of his hands.

  Women came out in twos and threes, waving curios at each other and laughing. Why were tourist women always so unattractive? Their figures were good, their faces well cared for, and yet it added up to soup. Some of the men were carrying the bulky, if weightless, paraphernalia of "re-creative" films; Don had been a rek-film fan once himself. There was no doubt that the passengers from the liner represented a good deal of wealth.

  One of the men in Don's group of three came out of the bar building, and Don let him go. More women, two with green hair erected into high plates and dotted with miniature china beetles. It must be a new fashion. It was hideous. And then, alone, the man with the miragems, the pudgy man.

  Seen close to, the man was not alarming. He was plump, not fat, in the same way that a child is plump, and he had a round, compliant-looking double chin. His hair and eyes were dark, and though his tunic and breeks were impeccably tailored, he did not seem smothered in them. He looked, in short, like a grown-up version of a rather spoiled, not un-amiable child.

  Don got to his feet and went up to him, clearing his throat. He was horribly aware of the dust on his bare feet, of the uncouth length of his brown hair. He said, "Would you be interested in a rare art object, sir?" He had to push the "sir" out; it seemed to stick in his throat.

  The man with the miragems looked at him testily. He waved his hand; the deep purple gems gave out a dazzle of apricot light. "Go away, go away," he said impatiently. "Do I seem like that sort of man?"

  Don felt a gush of relief whose intensity surprised him. He'd tried it; now he was excused. He wouldn't have to sell her, his little beauty, his private miracle. He could keep the doll.

  But the pudgy man was still talking. "... always pick on me. Do I look like an amateur of pornography? It's an insult. Try someone else."

  Oh. Then he wasn't excused. Don said, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not selling tactifilms, or anything like that. It's a real art object. Very ... beautiful, sir."

  The man looked at him severely, and then laughed. "Excuse me. Not tactifilms. We're a very moral people these days, but on some of the pleasure planetoids ... I don't mind so much when they tout for women, but boys ... Well. So what you have isn't like that?" He was smiling.

  "No, sir. I—it—the—the thing would only be suitable for a serious collector. It's extremely rare, and valuable. Only a really wealthy man could buy it."

  "And you're selling it?" The tone was mocking.

  Don flushed. The man was laughing at him. "Yes," he replied stuffily. "Or rather, I'm an agent for it. Are you an art collector, sir?"

  "Oh, I'm not, I'm not." This with a wave of the hand, so that the miragems flashed wildly again. "But I have a friend who is. A great
collector, putting it mildly. Perhaps he'd be interested."

  "I—mm—"

  "It isn't exactly art objects he collects, though," Don's interlocutor went on. He seemed to be enjoying himself; at any rate, he was smiling. "He goes in more for rare and valuable things, odd curiosities. His collection is almost complete. I doubt if ... Well, what have you got? One of the eating eggs? I imagine that's about the only thing he hasn't got that he'd be interested in."

  Don quivered. He felt as if he stepped abruptly into a deep, cold stream. He knew what the eating eggs were; he had seen one once. They were hair-thin objects which swelled, when soaked in water, into pinkish eggs. In the egg state, they ate matter omnivorously. But what the eggs did was not, at present, relevant; what mattered was their provenance. The eggs were one of the things which were popularly believed to come from Vulcan's workshop. Vulcan! Of course, it might be nothing but a coincidence.

  "You look a bit startled," the pudgy man said solicitously. "I assure you his collection is valuable. And he's a wealthy man, yes, indeed. He's ... of a somewhat elevated position in the Corona cult." The plump hands moved before the chest in an intricate sign.

  Don said nothing. After a second, the plump man laughed. "It appears you're not an initiate, whatever else you are. Well, let me see your, h'm, art object. If I think he'd be interested, I'll tell him when I get back."

  Don wanted to say, "I haven't got it with me." He refrained. If selling the doll had been a sort of game he was playing with himself, he could not stop merely because he might lose the game. And besides, there were all sorts of advantages to getting rid of her. Urgent reasons. If he could not recall, at this moment, precisely what they were, it was only because he was nervous and rushed.

  "All right," he said to the tourist. He felt a sort of surprise at hearing himself speak. "I'll show you."

  His hand moved to his pocket. His fingers fastened around the doll. The tourist was watching him interestedly.

  "Go on," the man said after a second. "Why the delay? What are you waiting for?"

  Don's fingers had fallen away from the doll. He blinked and shook his head. It seemed to him that he had walked with bound eyes to the very edge of a deadly cliff. Sell the doll? Oh, what could he have been thinking of?

  To part with her was as base as selling a beloved mistress would have been. She was beautiful. She had come to him unsought, as if some wonderful golden bird had flown of its own accord into his negligent hand. She was a blessing, a wonder. Part with her? Betray her? He couldn't. Perhaps he never would be able to. He was ashamed that he had thought of it.

  "I made a mistake," he said to the tourist. "I'm sorry. I haven't anything for sale."

  He turned to go ... And if she was unsettling him, it was nothing but her prerogative.

  The tourist's face grew red. "Oh, come now! You can't do this! After the build-up you've given me ... Or are you merely playing coy? I want to see your art object, whatever it is. If it's something valuable, I might buy it myself." He was pouting, but his eyes had an angry look.

  "I'm sorry," Don repeated helplessly. "It was a mistake."

  "Oh, yes? You won't get any more out of me by resorting to this tactic, young man. I'm going to see it, whatever it is!" Before Don could realize what he meant to do, the pudgy hand darted toward Don's pocket.

  The man with the miragems screamed. It was a high, short note. Heads turned toward him. People craned their necks to look.

  The tourist was holding one hand at the wrist with the other and shaking it, while he cursed in a shrill voice. His face had gone white. Don stared at him in amazement. He could not imagine what the trouble was.

  "You tried to disable me," the man with the miragems said, becoming articulate. Tears were running down his cheeks. In Don's dazed condition, it did not occur to him that they were tears of pain. "You almost burned my hand off! You bdeleron! You tricked me. I'll see that you pay for this!"

  "I—I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "Oh, don't you?" the plump tourist said dangerously. "There's a high-vi field around you, you grapster. And you deliberately led me to contact it."

  Don looked around him. People were coming toward them, curious, excited, already a little angry.

  The tourist's threat to cause trouble could, in one sense, be discounted. Under ordinary civil law, at least, the physical person was sacrosanct, and if the tourist had suffered through contacting a force field (force field? How could that possibly be? It was nonsense.) around Don, it was plainly the tourist's fault. But if there was any sort of investigation at all, the doll would certainly be discovered. And—

  For an instant longer Don stood watching the crowd, the excited, gabbling crowd, hurrying toward him. Were these well-dressed, slightly tipsy people capable of pursuing him? He didn't think they were. He took to his heels and ran.

  Chapter Four — The Long-legged Bait

  "SO you think there's a high-vi force field around you?" Kunitz said. His tone made it almost as much a statement as a question.

  Don shrugged. The two men were sitting in Kunitz' living room; it was the day after Haig's encounter with the plump tourist. With a part of his mind, Don noticed that the room seemed slightly less disorderly than usual. It must be because Kunitz had pulled up the sheets on the bed and covered it with a length of one of the "exotic native fabrics" (there were no natives on Fyon, naturally) which the girl in the curio shop in the bar sold.

  "I don't think anything about it," Haig replied, looking absently at the iridescent blue and pistachio flowers on the fabric. "How could there possibly be a field around me? A field requires some sort of projector. It's nonsense. I haven't got anything like that. But that's what the man with the miragems said."

  "Um." Kunitz opened a box of prepared Betla chews and popped one of the cubes in his mouth. He offered the box to Don, who refused. "Well," he said, shoving his cud into his cheek with his tongue, "something must have happened. He didn't imagine it. It's true you haven't a conventional projector, but ... I've got an idea. Give me the doll, Don."

  Don reached into his pocket, took out the tiny weeping image, and handed her to Kunitz. The latter accepted her and set her down gently on the table top. "Nothing happened, you see," Kunitz said. "Put her back in your pocket, Don. This time I'm going to try to take her away from you."

  Don obeyed. Rather gingerly the older man came toward him, slipped his hand into the pocket, and extracted the doll. "No fireworks that time, either," Kunitz remarked. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Don thought he looked rather surprised. "I wonder if ... Um ... Look here, Don, when the tourist reached for the doll, did you want him to have her?"

  "Of course not. I told you I'd already decided not to sell her. I was trying to get away from him."

  "That might make the difference. This time, when I try to take the doll, I want you to keep your mind fixed on not wanting me to have it. I'm the fat tourist with the miragems, and you resent everything about me. Concentrate!"

  Don did as he was told. Kunitz came toward him once more, looking wary. He reached out for the doll. Don felt a fine tingle, like a network of slender electric shivers, run over his skin. And almost synchronously with the tingle, Kunitz gave a sharp cry.

  "Pharol!" he said. He was holding his hand and shaking it, just as the tourist had done. "Of all the damned—! Pharol! How it hurts!"

  He was almost hopping with pain. He looked around the room wildly until he found a jug of water. He hurried to it and thrust his hand into the liquid. The pain seemed to subside.

  "I'm sorry," Don said. He had been watching helplessly.

  "Oh, that's all right," Kunitz said. His color was coming back. "It was my own idea, anyway. I thought I'd get some reaction. But I didn't think it would be so intense as this."

  "What happened? Was it a force field?"

  Kunitz shook his head. "Damned if I know. Something seemed to take hold of all the nerves in my hand and start scalding them. I don't think I'd have been surpris
ed if steam had gone up when I put my hand in the water pot. I guess a force field could cause it. I'm not a physicist."

  "But—where would a field be coming from?"

  "From the doll, I suppose. Maybe it projects some sort of force. That might account for the doll's 'unsettling' effect. Perhaps that's what the force field does when it's not on strong."

  "Um." Haig swished the phlomis around in his glass.

  "Or the doll might focus mental force, in the way that a lens focuses light. You were concentrating on not wanting me to take the doll away from you. Let's see if it works when the doll isn't actually in contact with your body."

  "How about your hand?"

  "I'll use the other one," Kunitz said a trifle grimly. "Take the doll out of your pocket and put it on the table, so. Now, stand near it. A little closer, Don—oh, about a meter away. That's it." Kunitz cocked his head critically. "Yes, and remember this time too that I'm the plump tourist. You can't decide what it is about me that you hate the most, but you'd just about as soon kill me as that I should touch the doll. Concentrate! Now!"

  Once more Don felt the slight tingle. This time Kunitz' exclamation of pain was softer. "Not quite so bad as before," he said, biting his lips. "Pharol, though, but it's hard to take. It seems to tickle up all the pain possibilities of my nerves."

  "Yes. Look here, Kunitz, you take the doll and put it in your pocket. Concentrate on not wanting me to have it. And I'll try to take her away from you."

  "All right. I'm warning you, though, you may get a bad jolt."

  The tiny drama was performed. "No jolt at all," Don said, holding out the doll.

  "And I really was doing my best at concentrating. You know what I think, Don? I think the doll is somehow, unh, atuned to you."

  "To me personally?"

  "That's what it looks like. (I wonder if your finding her was really accidental? If she's actually atuned to you personally, it can hardly have been.) But whether or not she was planted purposively for you to find, she apparently can't be taken from you without your consent.