The talk strayed for an hour, wandering over stars and planets. Brannoch exerted himself to charm, and thought he was succeeding.
“I’ve got to go,” said Langley at last. “My nursemaids must be getting fretful.”
“As you say. Come in again any time.” Brannoch saw him to the door. “Oh, by the way. There’ll be a present for you when you get back. I think you’ll like it.”
“Huh?” Langley stared at him.
“Not a bribe. No obligation. If you don’t keep it, I won’t be offended. But it occurred to me that all the people trying to use you as a tool -never stopped to think that you are a man.” Brannoch clapped his shoulder. “So long. Good luck.”
When he was gone, the Thorian whirled back toward his listeners. There was a flame in him. “Did you get it?” he snapped. “Did you catch any thoughts?”
There was a pause. Chanthavar didn’t know, thought Brannoch half drunkenly, or he would never have let Langley come here. Even the Thorians hadn’t realized for a long time that a Thryman was telepathic, and since discovering it they had been careful to keep the fact secret. Maybe.., maybe—
“No,” said the voice. “We could not read his mind at all.”
What?”
“It was gibberish. There was nothing recognizable. Now we must depend on your scheme.”
Brannoch slumped into a chair. Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had a slow accumulation of mutations altered the human brain that much? He didn’t know; the Thrymans had never told anyone how their telepathy worked.
But- Well, Langley was still a man. There was still a chance. A very good chance, if I know men. Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to ease the tautness within himself.
10
The police escort dogged him all the way back. And there would be others in the throngs on the bridgeways, hidden behind the blurring rain which funneled off the transparent coverings. No more peace, no more privacy. Unless he gave in, told what he really thought.
He’d have to, or before long his mind would be wrenched open and its knowledge pried out. So far, reflected Langley, he’d done a good job of dissimulation, of acting baffled. It wasn’t too hard. He came from another civilization, and his nuances of tone and gesture and voice could not be interpreted by the most skilled psychologist today. Also, he’d always been a good poker player.
But who? Chanthavar, Brannoch, Valti—didn’t Saris have any rights in the matter? They could all have been lying to him, there might not be a word of truth in any of their arguments. Maybe no one should have the new power, maybe it was best to burn Saris to ash with an energy beam and forget him. But how could even that be done?
Langley shook his head. He had to decide, and fast. If he read a few of those oddly difficult books, learned something—just a little, just enough for a guess as to who could most be trusted. Or maybe he should cut cards. It wouldn’t be any more senseless than the blind blundering fate which seemed to rule human destiny.
No... he had to live with himself, all the rest of his days.
He came out on the flange of the palace tower which held his apartment. (Only his. It was very big and lonely now, without Jim and Bob. ) The hall bore him to a shaft, and he sped upward toward his own level. Four guards, inhuman-looking in the stiff black fabric of combat armor, followed; but at least they’d stay outside his door.
Langley stopped to let it scan him. “Open, sesame,” he said in a tired voice, and walked through. It closed behind him.
Then, for a little while, there was an explosion in his head, and he stood in a stinging darkness.
It lifted. He swayed on his feet, not moving, feeling the tears that ran down his face. “Peggy,” he whispered.
She came toward him with the same long-legged, awkward grace he remembered. The plain white dress was belted to a slender waist, and ruddy hair fell to her shoulders. The eyes were big and green, there was gentleness on the wide mouth, her nose was tilted and there was a dusting of freckles across its bridge. When she was close, she stopped and bent the knee to him. He saw how the light slid over her burnished hair.
He reached out as if to touch her, but his hand wouldn’t go all the way. Suddenly his teeth were clapping in his jaws, and there was a chill in his flesh. Blindly, he turned from her.
He beat his fists against the wall, hardly touching it, letting the forces that shuddered within him expend themselves in controlling muscles that wanted to batter down a world. It seemed like forever before he could face her again. She was still waiting.
“You’re not Peggy,” he said through his tears. “It isn’t you.”
She did not understand the English, but must have caught his meaning. The voice was low, as Hers had been, but not quite the same. “Sir, I am called Marin. I was sent as a gift by the Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”
At least, thought Langley, Brannoch had enough brains to give her another name.
His heart, racing in its cage of ribs, began skipping beats, and he snapped after air. Slowly, he fumbled over to the service robot. “Give me a sedative,” he said. “I want to remain conscious but calm.” The voice was strange in his ears.
When he had gulped the liquid down, he felt a darkness rising. His hands tingled as warmth returned. The heart slowed, the lungs expanded, the sweating skin shivered and eased. There was a balance within him, as if his grief had aged many years.
He studied the girl, and she gave him a timid smile. No -not Peggy. The face and figure, yes, but no American woman had ever smiled in just that way, that particular curve of lips; she was a little taller, he saw, and did not walk like one born free, and the voice—
“Where did you come from?” he asked, vaguely amazed at the levelness in his tone. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I am a Class Eight slave, sir,” she answered, meekly but with no self-consciousness about it. “We are bred for intelligent, pleasant companionship. My age is twenty. The Lord Brannoch purchased me a few days ago, had surgical alterations and psychological conditioning performed, and sent me here as a gift to you. I am yours to command, sir.”
“Anything goes, eh?”
“Yes, sir.” There was a small flicker of fear in her eyes, stories about perverted and sadistic owners must have run through the breeding and training centers; but he liked the game way she faced up to him.
“Never mind,” he said. “You’ve nothing to worry about. You’re to go back to the Lord Brannoch and tell him that he’s just wrecked any chance he ever had of getting my co-operation.”
She flushed, and her eyes filmed with tears. At least she had pride—well, of course Brannoch would have known Langley wasn’t interested in a spiritless doll—It must have been an effort to control her reply: “Then you don’t want me, sir?”
“Only to deliver that message. Get out.”
She bowed and turned to go. Langley leaned against the wall, his fists knotted together. O Peggy, Peggy!
“Just a minute!” It was as if someone else had spoken. She stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
Tell me... what’ll happen to you now?”
“I don’t know, sir. The Lord Brannoch may punish—” She shook her head with a queer, stubborn honesty that did not fit a slave. But Peggy had been that way, too. “No, sir. He will realize I am not to blame. He may keep me for a while, or sell me to someone else. I don’t know.”
Langley felt a thickness in his throat.
“No.” He smiled, it hurt his mouth. “I’m sorry. You... startled me. Don’t go away. Sit down.”
He found a chair for himself, and she curled slim legs beneath her to sit at his feet. He touched her head with great gentleness. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Lord Brannoch said you were a spaceman from very long ago who got lost and—I look like your wife, now.