His whole body shook as he pointed his new gun in front of him and pressing the firing stud. He did not even train the muzzle on the target properly. The pale pink stitching appeared from the shaft, in a straight line to begin with, but then curving round until it terminated at the cranium of the little robot.
The robot did not explode or burn up or reduce itself to ash, as he had seen on the vid drama. It simply stopped.
The curved line of stitching stayed there, hanging in the air, until Pout took his finger off the firing stud. Then it vanished.
Standing half-crouched for a while, his heart pounding, Pout eventually crept up to the robot. It still did not move.
Then, with a shout of triumph, he knocked it right over. It clattered on its side, rolling from side to side until it became still.
He had killed it!
In his joy he turned and sprayed the weapons house with stitch fire. There was no visible effect; everything remained the same as it was. But the accusing voice did not bother him again, and he retreated to the doorway, tugged it open with an effort and ran down the passageway, through the house of ancient footwear and into the open.
Dusk was coming on. Pout began to contemplate the journey across the savannah, wondering if he would be cold at night and what might lie at the far end. He was almost loath, at the thought of it, to leave his warm, dreary corner.
His eyes scanned the museum complex. Now he was leaving, his hatred of Nascimento took on a poignant aspect. If only he could satisfy himself on that score first…
And why not? As the suggestion blossomed, like a blood-red rose, in his mind, a light popped on in a building some distance away. Through its window a figure was vaguely visible, moving to and fro and holding something in its hand.
Nascimento!
It was like being offered something delicious to eat. It seemed that his feet moved him without any prompting on his part, closer to the building where the light shone, and round to the side where he found a door.
There, his nerve failed him momentarily. He clutched the gun. Its grained stock comforted him; it felt right, sitting there in his hand. A quiet, murmuring voice in his head seemed to be saying, “I am yours. You can maim and you can kill, with your zen gun.”
Zen? What was zen? The question died in Pout’s mind as he pushed open the door, the gun pointed in front of him.
A screen made of coloured glasslike material stood on the other side of the door. It scarcely impeded the view of the scene in the room, however. Nascimento, his saturnine features amiable and relaxed, stood in the middle of the floor. In one hand he held a long-necked glass filled with a hazy green liquid. In the other, was a scangun.
Standing near the wall to the right of Pout were two people who were new to him. One was of medium height—a little shorter than Nascimento—and his black hair was swept clear of his pale, bony face and tied in a knot at the back of his head. There was a look of alert tension about him. His garb was strange; a loose white garment over which was fastened a sort of harness reaching from shoulder to knee, adorned at points by hooks and various fastenings.
Beside him stood a boy: blue-eyed, fair-haired, and with a faintly golden cast to his skin. His tunic and breeches had a flowery blue pattern, and he was unblinking as he stared at Nascimento.
The stranger in the harness spoke to the museum curator. “Your mendacity is of the sort that is total and shameless. In a way it is almost talented, for not everyone can win the trust of a warrior.”
“Not total,” Nascimento replied evenly. “To enter the museum carrying weapons is forbidden; that much was true. I was surprised to see how trustingly you divested yourself of them. You see, kosho, it is your own respect for tradition that has betrayed you. I find that fitting. Like trapping a bee with sugar.”
“And the antique gun you promised to show me? That, I suppose, does not exist?”
“As a matter of fact—well, that’s of no moment. What I need from you now is for you to adjust yourself to your new situation—which, being of a trained, flexible and serene mind I’m sure you can do. One word of warning, though,” Nascimento added quickly as the man in harness made a stirring motion, “don’t plan anything sudden. I have a sympathetic receiver trained on you both, connected to a high-power pulse blast. It will know if you intend a hostile move and will respond before ever you can make it.”
The other man smiled slightly, as though to inform Nascimento that he could deceive the sympathetic receiver. Nascimento slurped from his glass and waved his scangun. “When a sage is about to act, he always appears slightly dull eh, kosho? You see, I know a little about your discipline. As curator of this museum, I know a little about everything.”
“Very well, tell me why you have lured me here.”
“It is something you might well appreciate. You see, kosho, I feel a great duty towards this museum. It has existed for centuries. It was, of course, mostly destroyed during the action of eighty-three—what a barbarous episode!—but I have worked unstintingly to try to restore it and collect together the exhibits. I see the museum as a repository of everything that has been accomplished by this old planet—the original source of human civilisation. Below ground is a department the public is kept away from. There I have a collection of human types of special interest, particularly those that are associated with Earth. You have heard of the genetic statesmen? Purely altruistic, designed to give society the best possible leadership? Well, I have one! Raised from scratch, from the old codes. I also have a clone of Vargo Gridban, the man whose work eventually gave us the feetol drive, raised from the same record collection…
“But genetic codes will never, of course, give me a kosho. They are the result of training. I have no kosho. They are too hard to find, would not enter willingly into captivity, are tricky to catch and, of course, dangerous to keep. I think I may now have overcome these difficulties. You will be taken down below and kept in comfortable quarters. The boy will remain with me and my robots, and will be well cared for. Should you succeed in escaping from your quarters, the boy will be killed in the same instant. Likewise, should he attempt to release you or to leave the museum, you will instantly be killed.”
“Your plan is unworkable,” the kosho said at once. “My nephew will kill himself rather than be the cause of my permanent imprisonment.” And the boy nodded his agreement.
“If the boy kills himself your life will be immediately forfeit.”
“The equation does not balance. The outcome will be as I have stated.”
Nascimento sipped long and thoughtfully from his glass, staring over the rim at the two. The expression on his face showed that he was accepting what the kosho had told him.
He sighed, sadly, then placed the glass on the table.
“I see,” he said slowly, his voice suddenly weak. “Well, can’t afford to have such a dangerous enemy abroad. Regrettably, I shall have to destroy you both.”
With his free hand he made a gesture—or rather he began to make it. At the same moment the kosho, anticipating that he was about to order the pulse blast to fire, sprang.
Whether his leap would have succeeded was doubtful. In the event, it was redundant. Behind the transparent screen Pout was crouched, listening with increasing excitement. He could contain himself no longer. He fired through the screen, unheedful that perhaps it would impede the action of the gun.
It did not. And neither was Pout’s aim any better than in the weapons house. The pink stitching, more sparkling and thrilling than had been noticeable in the fusty exhibition hall, sprang into being, transfixing the screen, curving through the air, ending at the small of Nascimento’s back. The curator crumpled without a sound, his murderous gesture never completed.