"I don't know. Honest I don't."
"So? That's what I tell my wife when she asks personal questions. Quit wiggling; I'm almost through. There... congratulations and welcome to the ranks of free men. I've been free a parcel of years now and I predict that you will find it looser but not always more comfortable."
Chapter 4
Thorby's leg hurt for a couple of days; otherwise manumission left his life unchanged. But he really was becoming inefficient as a beggar; a strong healthy youth does not draw the alms that a skinny child can. Often Baslim would have Thorby place him on his pitch, then send him on errands or tell him to go home and study. However, one or the other was always in the Plaza. Baslim sometimes disappeared, with or without warning; when this happened it was Thorby's duty to spend daylight hours on the pitch, noting arrivals and departures, keeping mental notes of slave auctions, and picking up information about both traffics through contacts around the port, in the wineshops, and among the unveiled women.
Once Baslim was gone for a double nineday; he was simply missing when Thorby woke up. It was much longer than he had ever been away before; Thorby kept telling himself that Pop could look out for himself, while having visions of the old man dead in a gutter. But he kept track of the doings at the Plaza, including three auctions, and recorded everything that he had seen and had been able to pick up.
Then Baslim returned. His only comment was, "Why didn't you memorize it instead of recording?"
"Well, I did. But I was afraid I would forget something, there was so much."
"Hummph!"
After that Baslim seemed even quieter, more reserved, than he had always been. Thorby wondered if he had, displeased him, but it was not the sort of question Baslim answered. Finally one night the old man said, "Son, we never did settle what you are to do after I'm gone."
"Huh? But I thought we had decided that, Pop. It's my problem."
"No, I simply postponed it... because of your thickheaded stubbornness. But I can't wait any longer. I've got orders for you and you are going to carry them out."
"Now, wait a minute, Pop! If you think you can bully me into leaving you --"
"Shut up! I said, 'After I'm gone.' When I'm dead, I mean; not one of these little business trips... you are to look up a man and give him a message. Can I depend on you? Not goof off and forget it?"
"Why, of course, Pop. But I don't like to hear you talk that way. You're going to live a long time -- you might even outlive me."
"Possibly. But will you shut up and listen, then do as I tell you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You'll find this man -- it may take a while -- and deliver this message. Then he will have something for you to do... I think. If he does, I want you to do exactly what he tells you to. Will you do that also?"
"Why, of course, Pop, if that's what you want."
"Count it as one last favor to an old man who tried to do right by you and would have done better had he been able. It's the very last thing I want from you, son. Don't bother to burn an offering for me at the temple, just do these two things: deliver a message and one more thing, whatever the man suggests that you do."
"I will, Pop," Thorby answered solemnly.
"All right. Let's get busy."
The "man" turned out to be any one of five men. Each was skipper of a starship, a tramp trader, not of the Nine Worlds but occasionally picking up cargoes from ports of the Nine Worlds. Thorby thought over the list. "Pop, there's only one of these ships I recall ever putting down here."
"They all have, one time or another."
"It might be a long time before one showed up."
"It might be years. But when it happens, I want the message delivered exactly."
"To any of them? Or all of them?"
"The first one who shows up."
The message was short but not easy, for it was in three languages, depending on who was to receive it, and none of the languages was among those Thorby knew. Nor did Baslim explain the words; he wanted it learned by rote in all three.
After Thorby had stumbled through the first version of the message for the seventh time Baslim covered his ears. "No, no! It won't do, son. That accent!"
"I'm doing my best," Thorby answered sullenly.
"I know. But I want the message understood. See here, do you remember a time when I made you sleepy and talked to you?"
"Huh? I get sleepy every night. I'm sleepy now."
"So much the better." Baslim put him into a light trance -- with difficulty, as Thorby was not as receptive as he had been as a child. But Baslim managed it, recorded the message in the sleep instructor, set it running and let Thorby listen, with post-hypnotic suggestion that he would be able to say it perfectly when he awakened.
He was able to. The second and third versions were implanted in him the following night Baslim tested him repeatedly thereafter, using the name of a skipper and a ship to bring each version forth.
Baslim never sent Thorby out of the city; a slave required a travel permit and even a freedman was required to check in and out. But he did send him all over the metropolis. Three ninedays after Thorby had learned the messages Baslim gave him a note to deliver in the shipyard area, which was a reserve of the Sargon rather than part of the city. "Carry your freedman's tag and leave your bowl behind. If a policeman stops you, tell him you're looking for work in the yards."
"He'll think I'm crazy."
"But he'll let you through. They do use freedmen, as sweepers and such. Carry the message in your mouth. Who are you looking for?"
"A short, red-hailed man," Thorby repeated, "with a big wart on the left side of his nose. He runs a lunch stand across from the main gate. No beard. I'm to buy a meat pie and slip him the message with the money."
"Right."
Thorby enjoyed the outing. He did not wonder why Pop didn't viewphone messages instead of sending him a half-day's journey; people of their class did not use such luxuries. As for the royal mails, Thorby had never sent or received a letter and would have regarded the mails as a most chancy way to send a note.
His route followed one arc of the spaceport through the factory district. He relished that part of the city; there was always so much going on, so much life and noise. He dodged traffic, with track drivers cursing him and Thorby answering with interest; he peered in each open door, wondering what all the machines were for and why commoners would stand all day in one place, doing the same thing over and over -- or were they slaves? No, they couldn't be; slaves weren't allowed to touch power machinery except on plantations -- that was what the riots had been about last year and the Sargon had lifted his hand in favor of the commoners.
Was it true that the Sargon never slept and that his eye could see anything in the Nine Worlds? Pop said that was nonsense, the Sargon was just a man, like anybody. But if so, how did he get to be Sargon?
He left the factories and skirted the shipyards. He had never been this far before. Several ships were in for overhaul and two small ships were being built, cradled in lacy patterns of steel. Ships made his heart lift and he wished he were going somewhere. He knew that he had traveled by starship twice -- or was it three times? -- but that was long ago and he didn't mean traveling in the hold of a slaver, that wasn't traveling!
He got so interested that he almost walked past the lunch stand. The main gate reminded him; it was twice as big as the others, had a guard on it, and a big sign curving over it with the seal of the Sargon on top. The lunch stand was across from it; Thorby dodged traffic pouring through the gate and went to it.