The Steel of Raithskar Read online

  “You must be, my dear. At dinner this evening, the gentleman next to me—Colonello Gucci—distinctly said to me, ‘Dottore, you see that most beautiful woman sitting a few places down from the end, at the Captains table? That is the Contessa di Falco.’ Since you were the most beautiful woman at that table—indeed, on the ship—I concluded he meant you.”

  “No.” She shook her head and made the silver-set dangles at her ears wink in the moonlight. “That is my sister, who was sitting next to me. I am Antonia Alderuccio.”

  I gestured at the dress. “You are Alderuccio of Rome?”

  “Wrong again, signore. That is my uncle.” She moved closer to the railing, and the breeze brought the light scent of her perfume past me. “I am sorry, signore, that no one pointed out to me such a distinguished man as yourself. You are Dottore …?”

  “Ricardo Carillo, at your service, signorina.”

  She turned to face me. The surprise on her face was a fine compliment. “You are Spanish? You speak Italian perfectly!”

  “Thank you, but I am Spanish only by ancestry. I am an American.”

  “Naturalized, then?”

  “No, native born. My ancestors were living in California before the English ever heard of the place.”

  “How wonderful! I have seen the cinema films of the early Californians.” She drew up the skirt of her gown, assumed the en garde, and attacked me with an invisible rapier in her right hand. “Zorro! So! Zzzt-zzzt-zzzt!”

  She stopped. I looked at her in astonishment, then laughed as I had not laughed in years. She dropped her pose and laughed with me.

  I was grateful to her. She was young enough to be my granddaughter, yet with her exuberance, she had not so much flaunted her own youth as reminded me of mine. We were closer now; friends.

  When we could speak again, she said: “But that still does not explain how you speak Italian so well.”

  “The truth is dull, I’m afraid. I have the honor to be a Professor of Romance Languages, University of California at Santa Barbara.”

  “But I think of professores always as intense and stoop-shouldered, wearing glasses and not quite looking at one.” She looked at me critically. “You look more like a military man.”

  Her zaniness was infectious. I snapped to attention and saluted crisply.

  “Master Sergeant Ricardo Carillo, United States Marine Corps, Retired; at your service, signorina.” I relaxed and added, “Actually, I only made corporal in the regulars; the six stripes came from reserve time.”

  “I know the reputation of the Marines of the United States—they are the finest fighting force in the world. How brave you must be!” Was she laughing at me? A little, perhaps, but not entirely. I had indeed impressed her; knowing that I could impressed me.

  “Not brave, signorina. Cautious. The Corps has a saying: ‘There are old Marines, and there are bold Marines, but there are no old, bold Marines.’ It’s funnier in English, I’m afraid.”

  “But it makes sense in any language,” she said seriously. “Why are you sailing the Mediterranean on a cruise ship, Ricardo?” The sound of my first name was very special in her voice. It was a gentle intimacy between us.

  “I’m taking a sabbatical leave, Antonia. I’ve been to Europe before—often, in fact. But always on business. Linguistics research, conferences, and other such mundane activities which didn’t allow me to appreciate the countries I saw. This time it’s just for fun: a pleasure trip.”

  I told her only what she needed to know of the truth. Could I tell her that my health was bad, that diabetes and kidney infection and just plain old age had caught up with me? I don’t think the knowledge would have driven Antonia away, but I was afraid that it would drive her closer, which, under these circumstances, would have been even more repellent to me. Besides, the deck of a cruise ship, surrounded by the shimmering, restive Mediterranean, was no place to speak of death.

  “Oh, look, Ricardo. Look!” She had been watching the sky with that thoughtful look that is so appealing in young women, but now she pointed upward, completely alert. “That star! It is getting brighter and brighter.”

  I did look. There was a pinpoint of light in the sky, unmoving, which was indeed growing brighter second by second.

  “Is that what the astronomers call a nova?” she asked. There was excitement in her voice.

  I watched the light closely; it changed color. It was orange, then yellow, finally white. And still it grew brighter.

  “I’m afraid that’s not in my line, Antonia,” I told her. “But I’d say it has to be at least a supernova.”

  I tried to keep the fear from my voice. But now it was a small ball of fire, visibly growing, which did not seem to move. I thought I knew what it was.

  A meteor, I thought. It’s coming straight at us.

  A falling star, a boloid, a great hunk of rock or iron—it wasn’t my field, as I’d told Antonia, but I knew enough to be frightened. It was a huge mass of space debris, coming in from the sky at a velocity measurable only in miles per second. To say “thirty-six thousand miles an hour” doesn’t mean anything unless you think about it, and we had no time to think.

  But I had time to feel. I had come to terms, more or less, with my own death long ago. I had half expected to die before I got home; only the manner of it was an incredible surprise. But I felt a totally irrational guilt, as though this disaster were my fault, and because of me, everyone on the ship would die, too.

  And Antonia. I was angry on her behalf. So young … Too young …

  I didn’t tell her what I knew. I didn’t even try to give an alarm, because I knew there was no time. We simply stood together and watched it grow in eerie silence—it was moving far faster than the speed of sound. From the time she had first seen it until it struck could not have been more than ten or twelve seconds.

  Brighter and brighter … larger … closer …

  It became a great ball of unbearable light …

  I woke up screaming.

  3

  I opened my eyes. The soft light around me, diffused through the frosty walls, told me that day had come again. I sat up slowly, surprised to find that I was feeling quite well.

  The young man was seated on a nearby white block, padded, as mine was, with colorful tapestry. He stood up with the silent grace cultivated by those who tend the sick, and smiled at me tentatively.

  “You had a bad night last night,” he said. “Are you better this morning?”

  “Much better,” I assured him. “I’m sorry if I worried you. I had a—a dream.” As I said it, I knew it hadn’t been precisely a dream.

  “You screamed,” he said. There was a look of consternation on his face, as though he wanted to ask me why, but hesitated. He compromised. “Were you sent a portent of disaster?”

  “No. A … memory of a past one.” I smiled at him; I didn’t want more questions right now. “Don’t disturb yourself, please. It was nothing.”

  The worry fell away from his face. “Good. I am Keddan of the Fa’aldu. I think you will have more water, then we will bring you a porridge. These things must not be done too swiftly, or you will be sick at your stomach and waste much water.”

  I watched him as he unstoppered the decorated pitcher and poured water into two of the fragile cups. He moved with studied care and spilled not a single drop. He was wearing the same kind of long white tunic as the “Respected Father” had worn, and I wondered briefly if the white robes were a uniform of some kind. I put the thought aside as Keddan brought the two cups over to me.

  He offered both of them, unmistakably inviting me to choose one for myself. I understood the gesture; he was assuring me that this drink was not drugged. And it wasn’t until he dismissed it in this way that I realized the suspicion had been in my mind. Gratefully, I took one of the cups and drank thirstily—though I was careful not to spill any.

  The water was cool and had a pleasant flavor which I didn’t recognize at first. I realized as I finished the cup that it was brac kish. There was salt in the water—enough, at least, to taste it.

  The well must contain a trace of salt, I decided; that would hardly be surprising out here in the desert.

  “I will go now to prepare your breakfast,” Keddan said, when he had placed pitcher and cups in a narrow recess cut from one of the blocks that formed an inside wall. “Is there any other service you desire?”

  “No, thank you, Keddan. May I sit here and rest a little?”

  “That would be good, Rider. When you are ready to water your sha’um, you have but to ask.” He pushed aside a tapestry which concealed a doorway and was gone.

  I was glad to be alone. I had a lot to think about. And I was infinitely glad to be able to think again. The day before had been a jumble of confusion and exhaustion; an incoherent desperation had driven me across the desert. Yesterday I had only wanted to survive.

  Today I wanted answers. What the hell has happened to me? Where am I? Oh, I know, I told myself impatiently, in the Refreshment House of Yafnaar, among the Fa’aldu. And where does that get me?

  Today, at least, I had a rational mind. I had defined the problem and could approach it logically. The first step: assemble all the facts I had—the facts, that is, as I understood them.

  FACT ONE: My name was Ricardo Emilio Carillo, lately of California. All right, face the toughest one first. Do you mean “lately” or simply “late”? Yesterday I had considered with utter detachment the possibility that I had died and arrived in Hell. Certainly I had believed, when the fireball was coming toward me, that I was about to die.

  I had never thought much about the character of Hell—or, for that matter, of Heaven. But I had always assumed, I realized as I thought about it now, that I would feel very different. Whatever the place was like—either one—I should not feel as … well, as alive.

  And right now, with my head still dully throbbing, the hardness of the block beneath me intangible even through the thin padding, the pleasant salty taste of the water lingering in my mouth, I felt very much alive.

  I made up my mind, then, to set aside the question of my death in another life. In this life, in this world, I was alive; and the world around me was absolutely real.

  It occurred to me that my decision followed classic lines of thought: the nature of reality a la Bishop George Berkeley, and the Cartesian cogito ergo sum. Whatever it was based on, having made the decision made me feel much better. And it led me to examine the next fact.

  FACT TWO: This place did not exist on the Earth as I knew it. It had similarities to Death Valley in California, the great salt flats of Utah, and the desert areas around the Dead Sea. But I had been to all three places; I knew for a certainty that this desert was different. Nor could it be the Sahara or the Gobi, which I hadn’t seen; I knew they had nothing like the salty quality of this place.

  Could I be on an entirely different planet? Only, I decided, if it weren’t in Earth’s planetary system. Even I knew that there were no planets except Earth in the Solar System with breathable atmosphere.

  I didn’t have enough information to settle this question at the moment. I set it aside.

  FACT THREE: I had studied languages all my life, specializing in the Romance languages, but along the way acquiring a nodding friendship with most of the languages of my world. I had never even heard of this language. Where, when, and how did I acquire such an automatic command of Gandaresh?

  There! It happened again! A word I need pops out of nowhere—a word I know, and yet I don’t.

  Gandaresh: people-talk.

  The word was there in my mind as though it had always been there. With it was another one: Gandalara. People-place. I had one of the answers I had been searching for. Where was I? Why, in Gandalara, of course.

  But where, damn it, is Gandalara?

  No answer.

  So I had a memory I hadn’t had before, but it was limited to things of this world, the Gandalaran world. It would be no help in solving the puzzle of my presence here. But, I thought with relief, it’s going to be a hell of a lot of help in getting along here!

  FACT FOUR: I had a very painful bump on the right side of my head, just above and behind the ear. What was that contributing to my state of mind?

  It didn’t matter, I decided. I had done all the logical thinking I could or wanted to do. I’d relax a while and simply accept things as they came.

  I got up from the padded stone and stretched experimentally. I could feel an annoying sting here and there on my hide—and winced at the memory of my trek across the desert. Looking back, it was almost as though I had bounced across it: up on my feet, flat on my face, up on my feet, slam to the ground …

  All in all, it was remarkable that I felt so good. Abrasions all over my body, of course, and the palms of my hands felt very tender. I was a little stiff, but the stretching helped that. It could have been worse. Very much worse. By comparison to the condition I might have been in, I felt terrific.

  I walked a few steps around the room, intending to look at everything, but I was first drawn to the wall of the house. Its translucent stone intrigued me; it was like no building material I had ever seen before. It had a random crystalline quality: it was generally more translucent than alabaster, but in some places it was as transparent as glass, in others as opaque as fine white marble. The closest familiar comparison I could make was to rock crystal—quartz.

  The engineering problem seemed enormous. It took precision and skill and lots of power to mine and shape that hard mineral, and the impression these people had given me had no suggestion of that kind of power. How on Earth—try to think like a native: how in Gandalara?—could they mine and handle blocks about the size and shape of a case of beer?

  Faen. Beer. Thank you, memory. It was nice to know that fermentation was practiced here. Oh, a beer—how I wanted an ice cold beer!

  I withdrew from that line of thought as fast I could. I had to concentrate on learning about this world, not waste time in longing for the one I had lost.

  Still fascinated by the stone, I ran my dry palms over the wall. It was smoother than I had suspected. In fact, it seemed too smooth to be a natural mineral. Could it be some kind of cast glass? No; the crystalline structure was quite apparent. As I stared thoughtfully into the block which was at my eye level, I began to see something familiar in it. Distorted as they were, the crystals seemed cubic and they reminded me of something …

  It came to me. To confirm it, I wet one forefinger with my tongue, rubbed it on the wall, and tasted it.

  Son of a bitch! I thought. The place is made of rock salt.

  Now here was knowledge I could use. It meant, of course, that rock salt was readily available to the Fa’aldu, but besides that: One, it hadn’t rained here since this house was built; and Two, rain must have been unknown here for a long time before they built it. Surely nobody would go to the trouble to build a house like this if he expected it to be washed away at any moment. Building materials have to suit the environment. Adobe works fine, for instance, in the arid Southwest United States, but try building a ‘dobe hacienda on the coast of Maine.

  I moved over to the draped doorway through which Keddan had gone. The heavy curtain seemed to have been woven of several different thicknesses of yarn. Some were merely thin threads, as smooth as tanned leather, but others were three times as thick, some of them fuzzy and bristly, like fat twine.

  They were all different tones of the same medium blue, except for a wide strand so much lighter than the rest that it stood out from the blue background. It formed no pattern that I could see this close to it, so I stepped back a pace—

  —and caught my breath.

  The overall effect of the thing was a sheet of water—cascading from ceiling to floor.

  An indoor waterfall in the middle of the desert! It was incredibly beautiful—even cooling.

  I wondered, suddenly, if one of the people I had met had crafted that amazing tapestry.

  As I looked around the room for more wonders, I caught sight of a polished bronze plaque set shoulder-high in the outer wall. I was seeing it from a shallow angle which should have made visible anything etched on its surface, and I could see nothing there. Curious, I walked over to stand directly in front of it.

  For a moment, I thought I was looking through transparent metal—a window of some kind. Through it I saw, looking in, another member of that same family of heavy-browed, pug-nosed people. Embarrassed by the confrontation, I opened my mouth to speak—I don’t know what, a greeting, an apology—but I never said anything.

  The man “outside” moved when I moved.

  I was looking at my own reflection in a Gandalaran mirror—except that the face I saw in it was not my face. At least, it was not the face of Ricardo Carillo.

  I stared into the eyes of a face I had never seen before, and they began to look terribly frightened. I looked away and examined the rest of the face instead. I was wearing it, after all; I should get to know it.

  The supraorbital ridges were quite pronounced, making a semicircle of bone that hooded the eyes. The eyebrows were faint and sparse, composed of fine dark-blond hairs that followed the bony ridges across the top of the nose, around, and down to the corners of the eyes.

  Above the supraorbital ridges, the brow was high, and short dark-blond hair swept down from the scalp in a sharp widow’s peak. I reached up with my left hand and touched it. It was short all over, like a crew cut, but it lay nearly flat against the skull. It was fine and soft, almost like fur.

  I followed the line between the eyes down to the nose, and as I watched it, it wrinkled with distaste. Pug. Not as flat as that of the corpse in the desert, but most definitely a pug nose, and I have never been fond of them. They offend me for some reason—maybe because I don’t care to be looking up people’s nostrils.

  I looked down to the mouth. Firm and large, perhaps a little too thin-lipped, but a very pleasant mouth—a mouth I could live with.

  I smiled at the mirror image, just a little. Only the great canines showed. I smiled wider.