Bayley, Barrington J - Novel 10 (5 page)

 
          
The
barrel, or shaft, was studded with buttons and was rectangular in shape. The
stock was raked just a little, and lacked either sight or range-finder. Pout
would have passed on, but some indefinable quality in the gun made him pause
again. He pressed the side of the cabinet.

 
          
"Electric gun, date unknown.
Connection with Bushido.
Has sympathetic
circuits
.
Projects electricity."

 
          
That
was all.
None of the lengthy details on performance,
construction and history that accompanied the other exhibits.
For some
reason this absence of information made Pout want to see the gun work. He
searched for some means of switching off the screen separating him from the
exhibit, and finding none, put his hand directly into the case.

 
          
He
felt the pressure of the force-field resisting his hand. His fingers closed
over the stock. As he had guessed, it was wood, a friendly-feeling substance.
As he lifted it, this feeling seemed to transmit itself to him through his
skin, and quiet words spoke in his mind.

 
          
"I am yours."

 
          
But
as soon as he had taken the gun from its case another quiet voice spoke, not in
his mind but in the air.
"You have
removed an exhibit from its case. Please replace the exhibit at once. An
attendant has been summoned."

 
          
Pout
whirled about, looking for the source of the voice, his mouth open with alarm.

 
          
Instinctively
his forefinger pushed the long trigger-stud obtruding from the stock just
beneath the shaft.

           
The result was unexpected. A row of
short pale glowing lines, pink in colour, appeared in the air, stitching
through space. The row had emanated from the end of the gun's shaft. Looking
afresh at his new acquisition, Pout grinned and felt pleased. Perhaps it wasn't
a scangun (he couldn't see any control to make it scan) but it worked!

 
          
"/
note you have not yet replaced the
exhibit,"
the soft voice said after a pause.
"Please do so, as the attendant is about to arrive."
Pout's
grin turned to a snarl, lips pulled back over the yellow teeth in his
protruding jaw. He heard a near-silent purring behind him, and looked round to
see a small robot wheeling towards him along the aisle.

 
          
Where
had it come from? Pout hadn't heard the door open. Pout didn't know it, but
this was no more than an idler robot, such as stood in a recess in every department
of the museum and wheeled out only to deliver guided tours, lectures, or to
caution visitors. It could not have done him any harm. But to
Pout
it represented the power of Torth Nascimento and he was
terrified of it.

 
          
His
whole body shook as he pointed his new gun in front of him and pressed 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,
"/
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 a table.

 
          
"I
see," he said slowly, his voice suddenly weak. "Well, I 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.

 
          
As
Pout crept from behind the screen, a refrain sounded in his mind:

           
I
can maim and 1 can kill
With
my zen gun.