Man of Two Worlds by Frank Herbert
An imaginary impish Irishman. That’s quite amusing.
But Murphy’s like a germ developing immunity to antibiotics. He rarely strikes the same way twice.
Why didn’t you curse this Murphy figment after our collision?
It just didn’t occur to me.
Dreens never blame their mistakes on external entities. All errors are of our own making. They originate from subconscious impetus. Your Doctor Freud touched on this.
The Murphy School of Psychology serves me better. Never make the same mistake twice.
Unless your mistake kills you.
So I hope Murphy won’t ambush us. I’m going to make our first transmission from one of the military command centers.
First, hadn’t we better test our inceram suits at those temperatures?
You’re damn right! The way you beat Murphy is to anticipate his next move.
“Christ! Would you look at that?” one of the passengers said.
Lutt returned his attention to the screen. Definite streaks could be discerned in the acid clouds—patches of dark and light yellow punctuated by flaring balls of orange.
Passengers talked about the surface heat, the war, how long they expected to stay. Some who had been on Venus before told newcomers what to expect. Most offerings came out of the pamphlets Lutt had read.
One Venus veteran had comments about hotels.
“The two ITC hotels at the spaceport are best. You can get cheaper accommodations, but they’re likely to have hairline leaks. Inside temperatures are bearable only if you’re low on funds. Have to wear your armor even in bed.”
“You’ll get sick of living in your suit,” another offered.
“Venus doesn’t sound like a place to run out of money,” the dark woman said.
The man who had spoken of hotels said: “Get your return ticket in advance and post it at the ITC computer bank.”
“That’s safest,” another agreed. “No one can steal your ticket unless they can copy your retina print.”
Hearing this, Lutt dwelled on another worry. He carried his return ticket in the form of a thin, hardened inceram chip in an inceram wallet. Although he had been warned about the dangers, he had chosen this because of the assumed identity. His retina prints were on file with the military for sure. But he would have to guard the ticket against thieves and murderers. A return ticket to Earth meant survival to disillusioned adventurers stranded on Venus—mercenaries, for the most part, who could not make it in either the French or Chinese armies. Mostly, they waited on Venus to die when government aid ran out.
None of the others admitted carrying inceram-chip tickets but Lutt’s Dreen-amplified senses detected new signs of worry in some of the faces around him and there was definite stress in a few voices.
Lutt patted his wallet pocket and made sure the flap was double-sealed.
I probably could idmage a new ticket if we lost that one, Ryll offered.
I don’t like that word “probably.”
I’ll practice in our room. Look! We’re about to land!
Safety cocoons automatically snapped into place around the lounge passengers. Its velocity reduced, the Amita-Oho submerged in the acid clouds, emerging presently above the plateau called the Plain of Yornell and the massive insul-plat slab that formed the foundation of Gorontium, the sixth-largest city on Venus and stronghold of the French Foreign Legion.
Lutt recalled the pamphlet description: “The inceram slab is two hundred meters thick and cooled by freon-exchange water.”
The screen displayed a murky scene of mounds and curved surfaces—the city itself rising above its slab on the haze-obscured Plain of Yornell.
Old L.H.’s insurance underwriters had briefed him on this place but none of their words had prepared him for the actuality. Their concerns had been with the statistical odds.
“No policy issued for Venus will insure against failure of the insul-plat. Such catastrophes occur.”
One of Lutt’s seatmates chattered on about Venusian conditions as they settled to the surface with a slight bump and waited for debarkation orders.
“Most of the water comes from offworld,” the man said. “They treat it with anti-evaporation chemicals. It looks like brownish-pink piss.”
The hotel expert was not to be outdone. “Wait until you see that water all around you in the canalways. Personally, I prefer moving around by skytram or, if it’s only a short distance, I walk.”
The dark woman wanted to know if it was safe to just walk around.
“On the public constone docks beside the canals or on the walking bridges, yes,” the hotel expert said. “Stay out of the side streets and alleys unless you have an escort.”
A flight attendant entered and interrupted this exchange.
“Your debarkation suits are being brought up. Get into them immediately. Help will be provided in this if you ask. You can collect the rest of your luggage in the terminal. The area down the walkway from ship to terminal is inceram-shielded. Follow the signs. Legion-censored maps of Gorontium will be issued in the luggage area. Do not attempt to enter a restricted area. Those of you being met by someone must go to the nonpassenger security area after collecting your luggage. Welcome to Venus.”
Ryll, aware that he was being carried willy-nilly into extreme danger, felt an odd tug of almost pleasurable excitement. The pleasure astonished him and he realized at last some of what Lutt must feel when flirting with disaster.
Let’s go look for Murphy, Lutt thought.
***
Our first hint that something was amiss came with a slight trembling of the insul-plat. This was followed immediately by two sharp quakes and the eruption, which, luckily, occurred about ten klicks distant. From our relatively elevated vantage, we saw everything in the red light of the lava plume. The insul-plat split and buildings, people, everything, dropped into the inferno. Steam from the broken canals quickly hid the catastrophe but we had seen enough. It was hideous.
—Eyewitness account, the Ragol catastrophe, Venus
The room reserved for Peter Andriessen in ITC Hotel Number One (known locally by the Latin, “Uno”) was designed for safety first and comfort second. There were no rugs. The low double bed carried a notice on the headboard that an inceram cocoon would enclose it in an emergency. Floor, walls and ceiling were inceram tile, furniture inceram-formed: toilet, washbasin, bedstands, chests of drawers, two chairs—all inceram. A hanger shaped like a praying mantis was provided for taking off and donning inceram body armor.
One of his father’s devices told Lutt the room was dotted with spy eyes. When he called to complain, he was told with a definite note of glee the devices were mandatory, ordered by the Legion to expose Chinese agents.
Once he was out of the armor, Lutt sat on the edge of the bed to take stock of his situation.
The spare armor stood in its packing cases against one wall. His inceram luggage with its supposedly tamper-proof locks lay on the lower of two chests. The vorcameras in their inceram shipping cases formed an untidy stack in the middle of the room.
He thought the room uncomfortably warm but the desk clerk had warned him about “slightly increased temperatures—part of the current energy conservation program.”
Lutt felt certain a report on him already lay on the desk of a Legion functionary, but Woon had assured him the Legion would know his true identity and media entree to press liaison would come.
Call the Enquirer’s Gorontium bureau? he wondered. No, best wait for the Legion contact.
It was midafternoon at Gorontium, only an hour after the Amita-Oho’s touchdown. A jitney boat had taken them from the terminal, plowing misty canal water that was vaguely pink under an orange sky. Their escort, a large Gorontian in glistening but pitted armor, introduced himself as “Mr. Toka.”
Through the visor of his armor, Lutt looked on a scene tinged gray by the smoke shading of inceram glass. Mr. Toka and the other passengers seated under the curved armor glass in the boat were giant doll
Mr. Toka was immediately occupied at the front of the low jitney helping Lorna Subiyama adjust her suit’s thermal controls. The AU-Tex columnist was red-faced, panting and asking for a medic before Mr. Toka calmed her.
“Your problem is the spin valve,” Mr. Toka said. He indicated the offending valve on the side of her armor. “You have left it open.”
Turning to the others ranged along both sides of the boat to the rear, Mr. Toka took the opportunity for a lecture.
“The spin valves are manual regulators.” Speaking loudly, his voice clipped by his suit’s speaker, he pointed to the valves. “You can cool yourself to the point of hypothermia in a good suit. These valves set the desired temperature range. Note the eye-level thermal meter just inside your visor. Most of us like to stay between eighteen and twenty-three degrees Centigrade. Now, do you all know about your K-Dial?”
From briefings and lectures, Lutt knew this referred to the Karson Kooler in the flexible lining of his armor, a body comfort regulator that pushed cooler air toward the wearer’s skin through thousands of tiny holes. Lutt located his K-Dial on the control panel box under his suit’s chin locks. He touched the dial as he saw some of the others doing.
“Good,” Mr. Toka said. “Now, every thirty days when you change your Ungian batteries, have your Atmospheric Modulator checked. The pump motors are silent so don’t count on hearing them. If you have an AM failure Venus will give you a fatal hug.”
When no one responded, he explained: “Atmospheric pressure will crush you.” He touched the jitney’s homing controls. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Through the entire run to the hotel, Mr. Toka kept up a tour-guide chatter.
“You see few sharp corners on the buildings. Curved surfaces are stronger. Here on Venus, a hotel may occupy the same building with a weapons factory. There are no zoning laws and there is very little city planning. Keep your maps with you at all times when you go out. If you can’t read French, learn the basics immediately. Most of the signs are in French.”
Lutt felt himself getting drowsy from Mr. Toka’s flat voice and the incessant droning whine of the jitney’s engines. He longed for his room and a bed.
Through the armor windows, he saw a city vaguely familiar from news accounts but much more immediate and reflecting the sky colors. It was “right there”—very tall buildings by Earth standards but built in stacks of large balls and wildly curving extensions. The building on his right at this moment was an inverted pyramid of silvery balls, each progressively larger as the structure climbed into the orange sky. Each ball displayed a black diamond marking. Just beyond this structure was a bright blue Mobius strip carrying a bold yellow-on-red sign: D’ASSAS ANON. The strip stood on one sharp curve and reached upward, encircling other buildings like a flat serpent.
The canal curved left and brought into view another building with no visible foundation. The structure hovered over the water in defiance of gravity.
Everyone in the jitney stared at it.
“Transparent supports,” Mr. Toka explained.
Lutt looked back at the building as they passed it, seeing the faint distortions of the supports.
Beyond the building, the top of the ITC spaceport was still visible against the orange sky. A glowing patch of brightness indicated the sun’s location. Abruptly, a yellow bolt of lightning flashed across the sky followed by a rolling drumbeat of thunder.
“Don’t worry about a rainstorm,” Mr. Toka reassured them. “Any sulfuric acid that forms in the clouds evaporates before it can fall.”
The jitney’s engines changed cadence and then roared into reverse as it came up to a flat pier beside a geodesic dome that earned an illuminated sign: ITC X-ONE.
“Here we are,” Mr. Toka announced. “Once you’re through the lock and in the lobby you can unsnap your helmets. I advise you to replace body liquids as soon as possible. There’s a self-service bar just inside where you can get glucose, root beer and Croc-ades.
Ryll, who had remained silently observant through the passage to the hotel, now intruded: I would enjoy a chocolate sundae.
Why not?
But the first thing to greet them in the lobby was a red-haired woman with leathery skin who went from passenger to passenger asking them to sign organ-donor cards. She had a dry, matter-of-fact voice that went with her creased skin.
“Death is rather common here,” she told Lutt. “My group is nonprofit. We will see to it that your organs go to truly needy individuals.”
They’re mostly my organs! Ryll intruded.
“I’ll pass for now,” Lutt told the woman.
She pressed a card on him. “Please call us if you change your mind. Be very careful. Some groups will murder you once they have your signature. They will even forge donor cards, copying the signature from your wallet or other documents.”
Lutt began to wish he had brought a contingent of Hanson Guards despite the added cost. He felt defenseless, denied weapons by Legion rules that said any visitor caught with a weapon would be considered an enemy—potential saboteur and assassin.
This was a frontier, Lutt reminded himself. And the French were tough, made extremely touchy by recent Chinese victories. The latest reports said the Mao Guard was throwing more troops into the conflict and introducing new weapons, including something identified only as a “scatter rocket.”
The hotel lobby attempted a garish Louis XIV decor but there were no carpets and everything in sight displayed its inceram base. A sign above the reception desk announced that this was the HOTEL LES MARRONNIERS, but Mr. Toka had warned them to call it “Uno. That’s the only name anyone will recognize.”
Still, the place smelled clean after he dropped his helmet onto its neck hinges. Lutt’s agents had assured him it was the best available. Legion officers had long before commandeered the premier lodgings. Reports said they brought with them the finest foods, wines and harlots in the solar system.
Lutt signed in as “Peter Andriessen, Tacoma, Washington, U.S.A., Earth,” and noted the sudden interest of the clerk.
An oily little man with bloodshot eyes, the clerk looked at him like a spider assessing a fly and said: “The Legion has asked that you remain in the hotel until they contact you, sir.”
“Senator Woon briefed me on what to expect,” Lutt said. “I’ll dine in my room.”
The clerk was amused. “Dine, sir?”
Thinking he could rely on Ryll to provide them with a special menu, Lutt grinned back. “That’s right. Let me know when my Legion liaison arrives.”
There was no amusement in Lutt as he sat on the edge of his bed now and reviewed his situation. Confined to the hotel. He thought suddenly of how easy it would be for Woon to arrange the death of an inconvenient newsman.
Woon or anyone else, Ryll interposed. And we’ve made an enemy of that Subiyama female. What if she has powerful friends here?
You and your damned lumpy!
It was amusing at the time. You must admit that.
Tell me about it when we’re being cooked in some convenient accident!
Should I try to create some inceram now?
With Legion agents watching? You nuts?
Then I dare not even idmage a banquet.
You got it, Ryll baby. Low profile is what we show for now.
Very well. I see the need for caution. You know, Lutt. I may be the very first Dreen to visit this planet.
***
Life, once freed of its creator’s touch, may achieve its own destiny.
—Dreen aphorism
The first morning on Venus, no word yet from the Legion, Ryll insisted they eat breakfast in the hotel dining room.
In the confusion of many diners, I might be able to make some changes in the contents of the dishes.
Anything would be better than that swill they served us last night.
Uno’s dining room turned out to be a heat-sheltered garden court with spindly inceram furniture made to look like metal.
Lutt, prepared for a more appetizing meal, was dismayed when Lorna Subiyama, oozing sweet forgiveness, sat down opposite him without invitation.
“No more of your tricks, you funny man,” she greeted him. “May I call you Peter? Isn’t the food here awful?”
Seeing a waiter hovering over her, Lutt decided on tact. “I’ve had worse.”
She noticed the waiter. “Oh, there you are. Bring me another of those sweet roll things and a pot of coffee.” To Lutt, she said: “The breads here are acceptable and the coffee’s not bad, although the French tend to make it too bitter.”
“I’ll have the same,” Lutt told the waiter.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m on Venus,” Subiyama said. “I know everyone’s curious about it.”
“I can hardly wait for you to tell me,” Lutt said.
She leaned across the table confidentially. “I’m here to do a story about Captain Danjou’s hand. We think it’s a fake, a skillful copy.”
Lutt stared at her. Danjou’s hand? What the hell was she talking about? He managed a fairly noncommital “Oh?”
“You know he died heroically in Mexico in 1863,” she said. “He had a wooden hand, which, since his death, has been kept in an atmospherically controlled box and brought out only for ceremonies.”
“That would’ve been during the reign of Emperor Maximilian,” Lutt offered, recalling his Mexican history.
“The year before, I believe,” she corrected him. “Anyway, it’s a very important Legion relic. But we think the Danjou hand here on Venus isn’t the original.”
“Wouldn’t that be bad for Legion morale if you revealed it?” Lutt asked. “I mean—”
He broke off as their waiter returned and served them. When he left, Lutt resumed: “I mean you could get yourself in real hot water with the Legion.”
“I wouldn’t repeat this around a legionnaire, but word has it there are many wooden hands all over the solar system, all used to inspire the troops.”