Man of Two Worlds by Frank Herbert
“Not likely. No mature Dreen would endanger Dreenor.”
“Then I must send stronger idmagers to capture him.”
“No! I have decided we need our strongest to raise the shield. We can spare no more people.”
“But what of Prosik and the erasure ship he seeks?”
“Use people we already have on Earth. That is an order, Jongleur.”
“Yes, Habiba, but if our people free any captives, may I employ them as operatives?”
“Except for the stronger idmagers. Return those to Dreenor.”
Accepting dismissal, Jongleur sped away from Habiba’s exalted presence.
It were better that my son died, he thought. A merged monster may do anything . . . anything at all!
***
The list of matters I do not understand grows longer. My list may be far more complex than that of any other Dreen. I must always weigh a wider range of issues. Oh, the terrible burden of my ignorance!
—Habiba’s journal
Lutt spent part of the Venus passage reviewing data about the planet and wondering if he would find Uncle Dudley there. Perhaps the investigators had missed something in their search for him. It was so easy to vanish on Venus.
The Amita-Oho, the ITC ship carrying him, provided a wide spectrum of Venus publications, including one titled “Survival in a Fiery Hell.” He reread the first entry several times.
“The Venusian atmosphere blocks the escape of infrared radiation. This ‘greenhouse effect’ creates an average surface temperature above 450 degrees Centigrade. You will see the ground glow. In an atmosphere with pressure more than ninety times that of Earth, Venusian winds of only a few knots can blast the unwary visitor into oblivion.
“Inceram armor meeting UL standards compensates for heat and pressure but exceptional conditions can kill you. Of particular danger is the ‘thermistone’ phenomenon peculiar to the planet. This is the term for extremely high temperatures that may concentrate in small mineral pockets on the surface.
“Such pockets may appear to the eye no different from the ordinary glowing surface even though they can be so hot that inceram in contact with them can be destroyed in four minutes. The so-called ‘Venusian hotfoot’ is no joke. Keep moving when on the surface. Watch the readings on your heat-sensors. Travel only in groups. Never go anywhere without your medical pack, your inceram repair kit and an operating transceiver, and always carry a spare wind-deflector attachment.”
Absorbing this information with Lutt, Ryll found it terrifying. Their flesh might be consumed before any idmaged barrier could be created. He suggested idmaging emergency sheets of inceram.
Lutt was excited. Can you do that?
Yes, but it’s a complex material and will require much practice. I don’t think I can do it very rapidly.
Try it at the first opportunity, but not where anyone can see us.
I should’ve thought about this earlier but you were so busy with your Spiral News Service and that work on your ship. Personally, I would not trust that assistant to do everything correctly.
Sam’s perfect for the job.
Ryll thought of responding with an audible sniff but Lutt might suspect an attempt to take over their body and, here in space, who knew what he might try as punishment? Still, Sam R. Kand was a worrisome figure in Ryll’s thoughts. Another “helper” with a peculiar name: Where did he originate?
On that final visit to the lab before departure, Kand had been more interested in the new Vortraveler’s hull than in the Spiral News Service equipment. It had been late afternoon of the day before the Venus trip and Kand, standing in Lutt’s shadow, was a wiry, dark-skinned acolyte as he hustled them through the tour of inspection. The nostrils of his hooked nose dilated as he indicated two workers attaching the metal skin to a hatch.
“As long as there’s no overheating problem in Spiral space, the plasteel will do fine. More structural strength for its weight.”
“But what about the news service equipment?” Lutt wanted to know. He pointed to the workers. “Aren’t those two part of the crew you had working on the transceiver housings?”
“Everything you need will be ready before your big sales party, Boss. Don’t worry.”
“Everything has to be first quality, Sam.”
“That’s why we’re only this far along on the ship. Some of our parts are on back order. And the cost! If you’d come up with more money, I could bring in more men and robots, really speed things up.”
Lutt, knowing he already had tapped his brother and other sources for as much as they would bear, shook his head.
“Then maybe you should delay the Venus thing,” Kand suggested.
“Just go along with me, Sam. In the long run, Venus will speed up completion of this ship. Our profits are going to be big.”
“If you say so, Boss. We’re salvaging as much as we can off the wrecked ship. Some internal structure survived but you told me not to sacrifice quality.”
“Do the best you can, Sam. And put those two men back to work on the transceivers. That’s first priority for now.”
Ryll had thought the exchange unsatisfactory. The assistant clearly was more interested in the ship than in the news service equipment, a mixed blessing from the Dreen point of view.
Lutt, internally seeking data from Ryll to improve the ship, had seemed to offer an opportunity that would create a way of separating them from this merged flesh. But try as he might, Ryll could not remember the lecture material he required. Daydream interference blocked his memory at every turn.
Or was it daydream blockage? Obviously, if Earthers acquired the means of reaching Dreenor, all of Dreendom was in peril. It occurred to Ryll that diverting Lutt into a concentrated effort on the news service at the expense of the ship might delay the ship until Dreens could find a solution to this accursed planet. . . something less drastic than (Habiba save us!) erasure. But Lutt saw the news service as only a temporary diversion of effort, and if it did bring great profits . . .
The Earthers were a truly formidable creation: unpredictable, greedy, readily corrupted. The Earther senator who had arranged this trip struck Ryll as dangerously typical. Senator Gilperton Woon and his cronies controlled ITC. The senator had appeared amused by Lutt’s bargain-seeking efforts but there had been something hard in his eyes.
A dangerous enemy. Ade Stuart was right in his judgment of Woon. No doubt of it, but Lutt did not heed warnings about this.
And the use of faked identification papers might rebound against Lutt, although the justification sounded reasonable.
Lutt traveled under the name of Peter Andriessen, a byline he sometimes used. It could be argued that famous people needed anonymity in public. But what if the deception became the object of a criminal accusation?
Now that they were actually en route, Ryll found his mind dwelling on countless dangerous possibilities. Why did Venus attract Lutt? The planet held little of apparent value save for the geothermal potential, and this was a power source too distant from the more industrialized planets to be of immediate use. But Lutt argued on his father’s side when it came to this point.
“History has a way of turning up uses for the most inhospitable places.”
He cited something called “Seward’s Folly” and the “Xerxic Pluto Land Purchase.”
Midway through the second day in solar space, Lutt emerged from his compartment on the USS Amita-Oho and joined his fellow travelers in the lounge. The Amita-Oho was a venerable sunpellet ship with Spartan private quarters, but it had posh dining and lounge accommodations, although they were upholstered in a hideous shade of green with black trim.
Venus was visible through the forward viewscreen, a brilliant pearl growing larger by the hour as the ship approached.
The recently announced dramatic increase in price of passage to Venus had produced a logical result, Lutt thought. The ship was less than half full. He wondered if Woon and cronies had reached the point of diminishing returns. But there was no great competition for p
assengers. Perhaps the ITC had other motives, Lutt identified only three other media people among the passengers and two of those were from publications known to favor the present administration. Earth history was replete with examples of junket control as a potent tool of those in power.
One of these media representatives, Lorna Subiyama, presented Lutt with a problem. She knew the byline Peter Andriessen, and gave signs of recognizing Lutt. A gabby columnist from the AU-Tex Syndicate, Subiyama was a power in the industry and had been known to embarrass the administration. She was an enormous woman with a bouffant blond wig framing a puffy face. Her blue eyes were a size too small for all of that flesh but they carried a penetrating stare. There she was now off to Lutt’s left chattering at a bony dark woman in a jumpsuit.
Lutt took a seat where he could watch the forward screen and Subiyama immediately broke off her conversation to join him.
“It’s amazing how much you look like Lutt Hanson, Jr.,” she greeted him.
“The boss is somewhat smaller than I am but I hear that a lot,” Lutt said.
“I’ve seen your byline,” Subiyama said. “You write quite well for someone off in a jerkwater place like Seattle.”
“I’ll look you up for a letter of recommendation if I ever need it,” Lutt said.
What if she identifies you? Ryll wanted to know.
It’ll make a good story and help sell subscriptions to our news service.
“I’m amused by all the talk about Venusian volcanoes and the great energy potential,” Subiyama said.
Oh, oh! Lutt thought. She’s been hired by the oil industry to pry into Venusian development plans!
“The volcanoes are big,” Lutt said, “and the planet itself is hot enough just on the surface.”
“Hell! We got a fire department in Dallas could put the whole damn planet out in half an hour.”
“Yeah! Everything in Texas is bigger and better.”
“You bet, Buster! I can get in my car and drive straight ahead for three days and I’m still in Texas.”
“I had a car like that once,” Lutt said.
Subiyama threw back her head in a loud guffaw and slapped him on the back hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Hey! I like you, Buster.”
Now I’ve done it, Lutt thought. I’ll never get rid of her. He closed his eyes in despair.
You wish to drive her away from us?
I don’t think it can be done. She smells a story.
Even as he thought this, Lutt felt his eyes swivel inward. A damp weight settled on his lap and, once more in control of his eyes, he looked down to see a brown protoplasmic blob.
Shocked, Lutt thrust it away with a quick jerk of his arm. The blob landed in Subiyama’s lap and she jumped up with a loud squeal. The blob fell to the floor and wriggled there, creeping back toward Subiyama. She fled to the bulkhead, staring at the thing in horror.
“Great balls of fire! What is that?” someone asked.
It looked to Lutt like a large mound of excrement that had suddenly come to life. It writhed and snapped toward Subiyama, leaving a sluglike film on the floor. Lutt smelled something faintly sweet.
“Keep it away from me!” Subiyama screamed.
That got rid of her, Ryll intruded.
You did that?
I idmaged it. This trip has been as excruciatingly dull as Dreenor itself. Creating a lumpy is an interesting diversion.
What the hell’s a lumpy?
Every Dreen makes them occasionally. . . as amusement. They are primordial organisms. But the stupid things must draw their sustenance from the ambient air.
Why’s it going for Subiyama?
I analyzed the substance of her garb, which gives off barely discernible gassy effusions. Those effusions are now the food of my lumpy.
But what do we do now? How do we explain it?
Pick it up and put it in your pocket. Say it was a joke.
The lumpy had almost reached Subiyama’s feet. She stood on tiptoe, moaning and shuddering as she stared down at it.
A small crowd gathered to look on but no one touched the blob.
“Where’d it come from?” someone asked.
“It fell on that guy’s lap,” another said, pointing at Lutt.
Lutt stood and forced his way through the onlookers. He bent and scooped the blob into both hands. It felt like a mound of animated gelatin. He slipped it into a pocket and grinned at Subiyama.
“Gotcha!” he said. “You should see some of the other things I brought. It gets dull as hell on Venus, they told .me.”
“A practical joke!” someone said.
Subiyama glared at him. “Jokesters should be consigned to the nethermost hell!” she said.
Lutt shrugged and returned to his seat.
Subiyama stalked out of the lounge.
The bony dark woman Subiyama had been talking to when Lutt entered turned and smiled at Lutt, who winked.
“I could’ve used that thing an hour ago,” the woman said. “I thought she’d never stop talking about Texas.”
That sent chuckles through the lounge but no other passengers joined Lutt. He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping this would be another signal to leave him undisturbed.
Why must you swivel our eyes to idmage? Lutt asked.
It’s not absolutely necessary for all forms of idmaging but it does help concentration.
It feels weird in my brain.
Our brain, Ryll corrected him. Would you like me to do it again while you participate? We could reconstitute our lumpy on that dark lady’s head.
Let’s just eliminate the thing. It’s making my pocket wet.
Oh, all right. Go ahead and swivel our eyeballs inward.
Lutt attempted to do as instructed but could not feel movement.
Here, I’ll do it, Ryll interrupted.
Lutt felt his eyes turn slowly counterclockwise. The faint glowing visible through his eyelids vanished in blackness and a tiny pinpoint of light replaced it.
Concentrate on the little light, Ryll instructed.
Lutt suddenly felt all of his brain’s energy focused within the pinpoint of light, which expanded in flowing waves like the ripples from a rock dropped into a pond.
The wet blob vanished from his pocket.
Does it always take that long? Lutt asked.
I did it slowly to let you share in it. An accomplished journeyman Storyteller can do it in an eyeblink. Would you like to try it on your own? See if you can make a small inanimate object?
You think I could do it alone?
Only if I facilitate it, but this does help while away the boring trip. Now concentrate.
What’ll I make?
Try for a grain of sand. Remember to concentrate on how a grain of sand looks and feels.
Again, Lutt felt his eyes swivel inward and the pinpoint of light appeared. He concentrated the way he had as a small boy whenever his governess told him to pray for something. Lutt had always prayed for things he wanted—electronic gadgets, as a rule. Once, he had prayed for the death of Henry Ivory, a twelve-year-old classmate. Both of them had been seeking the attentions of Mareeka Perino, another classmate who had matured early—a young beauty whose body had expanded into repellent fat when she reached her teens.
Lucky thing Henry didn’t die or I’d have been stuck with Mareeka, Lutt thought. Mareeka Freeka we called her.
Stop daydreaming and concentrate!
Lutt returned his attention to the task. It seems stupid just to make a grain of sand.
Later, you might try forming the silica of the sand into glass, then ultimately convert it to a fiber optic strand. That is known as superimposed idmaging and possibly you can learn it.
For the better part of an hour, Lutt tried to no avail.
Ryll finally stopped the effort. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to do it alone.
Are Dreens the only ones who can idmage?
There are no reported examples of others doing it. That does
not mean it’s impossible, because we are taught that anything created in thought can occur in the external universe.
That doesn’t sound logical.
Habiba, our Supreme Tax Collector, says, in theory, a non-Dreen may idmage under certain circumstances, a precise set of conditions apparently unknown in our universe.
Lutt felt his eyes swivel outward. He opened them and stared at the forward viewscreen. Venus was a much larger pearl. Sunlight reflected creamy yellow from its sulfuric acid clouds. One spot of orange in the cloud cover indicated a volcanic eruption.
A female flight attendant came up beside Lutt’s seat to share his view of the screen.
“Mount Maxwell is erupting,” she said. “Not to worry. Well touch down on a plateau at least ten thousand klicks southeast of the volcano.”
Conversation around Lutt rose to a new pitch as others looked at the screen and began to question the attendant. Lutt listened with only half his attention.
So what if Maxwell was more than fifteen kilometers high, nearly twice the height of Earth’s Mount Everest?
“Just one of the many Venusian volcanoes,” the attendant said. “They spew out sulfur and searing heat.”
“Maybe this is what Hell’s supposed to be,” someone said.
“I wish France and China would settle their differences and let us get on with developing the place,” another offered.
“You hear how hot it is in some of the military command centers under the surface?” someone asked, and answered his own question: “Six hundred Centigrade at least.”
Hearing this, Lutt thought about the three inceram suits he had brought for himself.
“Guaranteed no more than a one-degree-Centigrade rise in skin temperature even at depth,” the salesman had promised. “The best you can get. As good as the best used by the military.”
Lutt wondered if he should have done some comparison shopping . . . but the salesman worked for one of old L.H.’s companies and preparing for the sales party and this trip had made urgent time demands.
I should’ve talked to Murphy.
Who’s Murphy? Ryll asked.
Lutt paraded the story of Murphy’s Law for Ryll to study, adding: Every time I learn a lesson the hard way I say, “Well, Murphy got me again.”
“Then I must send stronger idmagers to capture him.”
“No! I have decided we need our strongest to raise the shield. We can spare no more people.”
“But what of Prosik and the erasure ship he seeks?”
“Use people we already have on Earth. That is an order, Jongleur.”
“Yes, Habiba, but if our people free any captives, may I employ them as operatives?”
“Except for the stronger idmagers. Return those to Dreenor.”
Accepting dismissal, Jongleur sped away from Habiba’s exalted presence.
It were better that my son died, he thought. A merged monster may do anything . . . anything at all!
***
The list of matters I do not understand grows longer. My list may be far more complex than that of any other Dreen. I must always weigh a wider range of issues. Oh, the terrible burden of my ignorance!
—Habiba’s journal
Lutt spent part of the Venus passage reviewing data about the planet and wondering if he would find Uncle Dudley there. Perhaps the investigators had missed something in their search for him. It was so easy to vanish on Venus.
The Amita-Oho, the ITC ship carrying him, provided a wide spectrum of Venus publications, including one titled “Survival in a Fiery Hell.” He reread the first entry several times.
“The Venusian atmosphere blocks the escape of infrared radiation. This ‘greenhouse effect’ creates an average surface temperature above 450 degrees Centigrade. You will see the ground glow. In an atmosphere with pressure more than ninety times that of Earth, Venusian winds of only a few knots can blast the unwary visitor into oblivion.
“Inceram armor meeting UL standards compensates for heat and pressure but exceptional conditions can kill you. Of particular danger is the ‘thermistone’ phenomenon peculiar to the planet. This is the term for extremely high temperatures that may concentrate in small mineral pockets on the surface.
“Such pockets may appear to the eye no different from the ordinary glowing surface even though they can be so hot that inceram in contact with them can be destroyed in four minutes. The so-called ‘Venusian hotfoot’ is no joke. Keep moving when on the surface. Watch the readings on your heat-sensors. Travel only in groups. Never go anywhere without your medical pack, your inceram repair kit and an operating transceiver, and always carry a spare wind-deflector attachment.”
Absorbing this information with Lutt, Ryll found it terrifying. Their flesh might be consumed before any idmaged barrier could be created. He suggested idmaging emergency sheets of inceram.
Lutt was excited. Can you do that?
Yes, but it’s a complex material and will require much practice. I don’t think I can do it very rapidly.
Try it at the first opportunity, but not where anyone can see us.
I should’ve thought about this earlier but you were so busy with your Spiral News Service and that work on your ship. Personally, I would not trust that assistant to do everything correctly.
Sam’s perfect for the job.
Ryll thought of responding with an audible sniff but Lutt might suspect an attempt to take over their body and, here in space, who knew what he might try as punishment? Still, Sam R. Kand was a worrisome figure in Ryll’s thoughts. Another “helper” with a peculiar name: Where did he originate?
On that final visit to the lab before departure, Kand had been more interested in the new Vortraveler’s hull than in the Spiral News Service equipment. It had been late afternoon of the day before the Venus trip and Kand, standing in Lutt’s shadow, was a wiry, dark-skinned acolyte as he hustled them through the tour of inspection. The nostrils of his hooked nose dilated as he indicated two workers attaching the metal skin to a hatch.
“As long as there’s no overheating problem in Spiral space, the plasteel will do fine. More structural strength for its weight.”
“But what about the news service equipment?” Lutt wanted to know. He pointed to the workers. “Aren’t those two part of the crew you had working on the transceiver housings?”
“Everything you need will be ready before your big sales party, Boss. Don’t worry.”
“Everything has to be first quality, Sam.”
“That’s why we’re only this far along on the ship. Some of our parts are on back order. And the cost! If you’d come up with more money, I could bring in more men and robots, really speed things up.”
Lutt, knowing he already had tapped his brother and other sources for as much as they would bear, shook his head.
“Then maybe you should delay the Venus thing,” Kand suggested.
“Just go along with me, Sam. In the long run, Venus will speed up completion of this ship. Our profits are going to be big.”
“If you say so, Boss. We’re salvaging as much as we can off the wrecked ship. Some internal structure survived but you told me not to sacrifice quality.”
“Do the best you can, Sam. And put those two men back to work on the transceivers. That’s first priority for now.”
Ryll had thought the exchange unsatisfactory. The assistant clearly was more interested in the ship than in the news service equipment, a mixed blessing from the Dreen point of view.
Lutt, internally seeking data from Ryll to improve the ship, had seemed to offer an opportunity that would create a way of separating them from this merged flesh. But try as he might, Ryll could not remember the lecture material he required. Daydream interference blocked his memory at every turn.
Or was it daydream blockage? Obviously, if Earthers acquired the means of reaching Dreenor, all of Dreendom was in peril. It occurred to Ryll that diverting Lutt into a concentrated effort on the news service at the expense of the ship might delay the ship until Dreens could find a solution to this accursed planet. . . something less drastic than (Habiba save us!) erasure. But Lutt saw the news service as only a temporary diversion of effort, and if it did bring great profits . . .
The Earthers were a truly formidable creation: unpredictable, greedy, readily corrupted. The Earther senator who had arranged this trip struck Ryll as dangerously typical. Senator Gilperton Woon and his cronies controlled ITC. The senator had appeared amused by Lutt’s bargain-seeking efforts but there had been something hard in his eyes.
A dangerous enemy. Ade Stuart was right in his judgment of Woon. No doubt of it, but Lutt did not heed warnings about this.
And the use of faked identification papers might rebound against Lutt, although the justification sounded reasonable.
Lutt traveled under the name of Peter Andriessen, a byline he sometimes used. It could be argued that famous people needed anonymity in public. But what if the deception became the object of a criminal accusation?
Now that they were actually en route, Ryll found his mind dwelling on countless dangerous possibilities. Why did Venus attract Lutt? The planet held little of apparent value save for the geothermal potential, and this was a power source too distant from the more industrialized planets to be of immediate use. But Lutt argued on his father’s side when it came to this point.
“History has a way of turning up uses for the most inhospitable places.”
He cited something called “Seward’s Folly” and the “Xerxic Pluto Land Purchase.”
Midway through the second day in solar space, Lutt emerged from his compartment on the USS Amita-Oho and joined his fellow travelers in the lounge. The Amita-Oho was a venerable sunpellet ship with Spartan private quarters, but it had posh dining and lounge accommodations, although they were upholstered in a hideous shade of green with black trim.
Venus was visible through the forward viewscreen, a brilliant pearl growing larger by the hour as the ship approached.
The recently announced dramatic increase in price of passage to Venus had produced a logical result, Lutt thought. The ship was less than half full. He wondered if Woon and cronies had reached the point of diminishing returns. But there was no great competition for p
One of these media representatives, Lorna Subiyama, presented Lutt with a problem. She knew the byline Peter Andriessen, and gave signs of recognizing Lutt. A gabby columnist from the AU-Tex Syndicate, Subiyama was a power in the industry and had been known to embarrass the administration. She was an enormous woman with a bouffant blond wig framing a puffy face. Her blue eyes were a size too small for all of that flesh but they carried a penetrating stare. There she was now off to Lutt’s left chattering at a bony dark woman in a jumpsuit.
Lutt took a seat where he could watch the forward screen and Subiyama immediately broke off her conversation to join him.
“It’s amazing how much you look like Lutt Hanson, Jr.,” she greeted him.
“The boss is somewhat smaller than I am but I hear that a lot,” Lutt said.
“I’ve seen your byline,” Subiyama said. “You write quite well for someone off in a jerkwater place like Seattle.”
“I’ll look you up for a letter of recommendation if I ever need it,” Lutt said.
What if she identifies you? Ryll wanted to know.
It’ll make a good story and help sell subscriptions to our news service.
“I’m amused by all the talk about Venusian volcanoes and the great energy potential,” Subiyama said.
Oh, oh! Lutt thought. She’s been hired by the oil industry to pry into Venusian development plans!
“The volcanoes are big,” Lutt said, “and the planet itself is hot enough just on the surface.”
“Hell! We got a fire department in Dallas could put the whole damn planet out in half an hour.”
“Yeah! Everything in Texas is bigger and better.”
“You bet, Buster! I can get in my car and drive straight ahead for three days and I’m still in Texas.”
“I had a car like that once,” Lutt said.
Subiyama threw back her head in a loud guffaw and slapped him on the back hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“Hey! I like you, Buster.”
Now I’ve done it, Lutt thought. I’ll never get rid of her. He closed his eyes in despair.
You wish to drive her away from us?
I don’t think it can be done. She smells a story.
Even as he thought this, Lutt felt his eyes swivel inward. A damp weight settled on his lap and, once more in control of his eyes, he looked down to see a brown protoplasmic blob.
Shocked, Lutt thrust it away with a quick jerk of his arm. The blob landed in Subiyama’s lap and she jumped up with a loud squeal. The blob fell to the floor and wriggled there, creeping back toward Subiyama. She fled to the bulkhead, staring at the thing in horror.
“Great balls of fire! What is that?” someone asked.
It looked to Lutt like a large mound of excrement that had suddenly come to life. It writhed and snapped toward Subiyama, leaving a sluglike film on the floor. Lutt smelled something faintly sweet.
“Keep it away from me!” Subiyama screamed.
That got rid of her, Ryll intruded.
You did that?
I idmaged it. This trip has been as excruciatingly dull as Dreenor itself. Creating a lumpy is an interesting diversion.
What the hell’s a lumpy?
Every Dreen makes them occasionally. . . as amusement. They are primordial organisms. But the stupid things must draw their sustenance from the ambient air.
Why’s it going for Subiyama?
I analyzed the substance of her garb, which gives off barely discernible gassy effusions. Those effusions are now the food of my lumpy.
But what do we do now? How do we explain it?
Pick it up and put it in your pocket. Say it was a joke.
The lumpy had almost reached Subiyama’s feet. She stood on tiptoe, moaning and shuddering as she stared down at it.
A small crowd gathered to look on but no one touched the blob.
“Where’d it come from?” someone asked.
“It fell on that guy’s lap,” another said, pointing at Lutt.
Lutt stood and forced his way through the onlookers. He bent and scooped the blob into both hands. It felt like a mound of animated gelatin. He slipped it into a pocket and grinned at Subiyama.
“Gotcha!” he said. “You should see some of the other things I brought. It gets dull as hell on Venus, they told .me.”
“A practical joke!” someone said.
Subiyama glared at him. “Jokesters should be consigned to the nethermost hell!” she said.
Lutt shrugged and returned to his seat.
Subiyama stalked out of the lounge.
The bony dark woman Subiyama had been talking to when Lutt entered turned and smiled at Lutt, who winked.
“I could’ve used that thing an hour ago,” the woman said. “I thought she’d never stop talking about Texas.”
That sent chuckles through the lounge but no other passengers joined Lutt. He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping this would be another signal to leave him undisturbed.
Why must you swivel our eyes to idmage? Lutt asked.
It’s not absolutely necessary for all forms of idmaging but it does help concentration.
It feels weird in my brain.
Our brain, Ryll corrected him. Would you like me to do it again while you participate? We could reconstitute our lumpy on that dark lady’s head.
Let’s just eliminate the thing. It’s making my pocket wet.
Oh, all right. Go ahead and swivel our eyeballs inward.
Lutt attempted to do as instructed but could not feel movement.
Here, I’ll do it, Ryll interrupted.
Lutt felt his eyes turn slowly counterclockwise. The faint glowing visible through his eyelids vanished in blackness and a tiny pinpoint of light replaced it.
Concentrate on the little light, Ryll instructed.
Lutt suddenly felt all of his brain’s energy focused within the pinpoint of light, which expanded in flowing waves like the ripples from a rock dropped into a pond.
The wet blob vanished from his pocket.
Does it always take that long? Lutt asked.
I did it slowly to let you share in it. An accomplished journeyman Storyteller can do it in an eyeblink. Would you like to try it on your own? See if you can make a small inanimate object?
You think I could do it alone?
Only if I facilitate it, but this does help while away the boring trip. Now concentrate.
What’ll I make?
Try for a grain of sand. Remember to concentrate on how a grain of sand looks and feels.
Again, Lutt felt his eyes swivel inward and the pinpoint of light appeared. He concentrated the way he had as a small boy whenever his governess told him to pray for something. Lutt had always prayed for things he wanted—electronic gadgets, as a rule. Once, he had prayed for the death of Henry Ivory, a twelve-year-old classmate. Both of them had been seeking the attentions of Mareeka Perino, another classmate who had matured early—a young beauty whose body had expanded into repellent fat when she reached her teens.
Lucky thing Henry didn’t die or I’d have been stuck with Mareeka, Lutt thought. Mareeka Freeka we called her.
Stop daydreaming and concentrate!
Lutt returned his attention to the task. It seems stupid just to make a grain of sand.
Later, you might try forming the silica of the sand into glass, then ultimately convert it to a fiber optic strand. That is known as superimposed idmaging and possibly you can learn it.
For the better part of an hour, Lutt tried to no avail.
Ryll finally stopped the effort. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to do it alone.
Are Dreens the only ones who can idmage?
There are no reported examples of others doing it. That does
That doesn’t sound logical.
Habiba, our Supreme Tax Collector, says, in theory, a non-Dreen may idmage under certain circumstances, a precise set of conditions apparently unknown in our universe.
Lutt felt his eyes swivel outward. He opened them and stared at the forward viewscreen. Venus was a much larger pearl. Sunlight reflected creamy yellow from its sulfuric acid clouds. One spot of orange in the cloud cover indicated a volcanic eruption.
A female flight attendant came up beside Lutt’s seat to share his view of the screen.
“Mount Maxwell is erupting,” she said. “Not to worry. Well touch down on a plateau at least ten thousand klicks southeast of the volcano.”
Conversation around Lutt rose to a new pitch as others looked at the screen and began to question the attendant. Lutt listened with only half his attention.
So what if Maxwell was more than fifteen kilometers high, nearly twice the height of Earth’s Mount Everest?
“Just one of the many Venusian volcanoes,” the attendant said. “They spew out sulfur and searing heat.”
“Maybe this is what Hell’s supposed to be,” someone said.
“I wish France and China would settle their differences and let us get on with developing the place,” another offered.
“You hear how hot it is in some of the military command centers under the surface?” someone asked, and answered his own question: “Six hundred Centigrade at least.”
Hearing this, Lutt thought about the three inceram suits he had brought for himself.
“Guaranteed no more than a one-degree-Centigrade rise in skin temperature even at depth,” the salesman had promised. “The best you can get. As good as the best used by the military.”
Lutt wondered if he should have done some comparison shopping . . . but the salesman worked for one of old L.H.’s companies and preparing for the sales party and this trip had made urgent time demands.
I should’ve talked to Murphy.
Who’s Murphy? Ryll asked.
Lutt paraded the story of Murphy’s Law for Ryll to study, adding: Every time I learn a lesson the hard way I say, “Well, Murphy got me again.”