Endeavors of Will Page 4

  She stopped and regarded me -- whatever was my seeming -- her eyes a depthless and shimmering green.

  "My Lady --" voiceless, I spoke to her. She did not seem to hear. She only stood and looked at me, the line of a frown between her brows.

  She moved, in that effortless gliding, and walked around me, studying.

  One circuit she made, leisurely. Then she stopped and addressed me in a manner that my earless self could hear. "Whence come you? Why come here? Speak, and tell me truth."

  So compelled, I spoke to her, my soundless voice filling the marble hall. I spoke of the War and the horror of it, the lives blown away and wasted years out from their homes and their loves. Of myself and my mates, bodies frozen, minds alive and knowing, prisoned in our separate metal cans. And how we endured all this for dominion among the stars. I spoke and she listened -- to more than my words -- and when my words finally ran to nothing, she closed her shining green eyes and left me.

  Within my metal skin, in the safety of her hallway, I waited.

  She returned after a time that my computer measured in days, the flowers in her hair unwilted, her dress a smooth fall of green from her shoulders to the bright tiled floor.

  She stood before me as she had before; and behind me I heard the outer door unlatch itself.

  "You will go now," she said to me. "It has been undone. You will return to your living body, forsaking this shell forever."

  And she turned to go.

  "Lady --"

  Frowning, she turned back. Waiting.

  "Lady, what has happened? The War has been years in the making and in the fighting -- how is it ended?"

  She shrugged; gestured with one silver-circled arm. "Each army is safe, one from the other. They can see no more cause for warring." She gestured again, turning away. "Go home. And kill no more."

  The next instant -- howling winds, icy blackness -- flashes of blue, flares of orange -- and. . .breath. My breath. My body's breath, sleep-gentle. Startled, gladdened, I opened my eyes, perceived the room, leapt form the bed, rushed to the window. Warm night air to breathe as I pushed the window wide; a sheen of silver light without, too bright to be moon -- sourceless.

  Puzzled, I looked skyward, to the dome of dull silver, glowing, unrelieved, with its own inner radiance, serene and impenetrable.

  First published in Worlds Lost, Time Forgotten March 1981

  The Girl, The Cat, and Deviant

  HE THING HE noticed first about the girl upstairs was her cat. Mostly because he always noticed cats, but also because the cat was very much in evidence that morning, and the girl was not.

  The day was fine and unusual for August--cool and blue-skied, cinnamon-tinged with autumn--and his spirits were high, because this was "his" kind of weather, though it came along so rarely. On such a day it hardly mattered that he lived in the city and walked six filthy blocks to work every day with his loaded briefcase pulling his left arm so far down that he walked with a distinctly Quasimodic gait. As he came down the front steps of his apartment building and paused on the sidewalk to look at the sky and take deep appreciative breaths--there was the cat, reclining on the outside ledge of the upstairs apartment window, looking as pleased as Satch felt. So, partly because he always did and partly in celebration of the day, he nodded to the cat and said, "Good day!"

  "Well, thank you," said the cat, with just a bare trace of smugness. "It is, rather."

  Satch stopped and stared at the cat, because in his many years of greeting all sorts of cats in all kinds of places--in perhaps 20 years of such behavior--not one had ever answered.

  Of course, he was perfectly aware that they may have simply been disinclined to enter into conversation with a man deviant enough to talk to cats, whereas this one was new in the neighborhood and wouldn’t have heard all the gossip yet, and, anyway, would be feeling the need for some kind of companionship...

  Satch let go of that train of thought, remembering his Deviance Rating last quarter, realized that he was gaping and stammered, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Oh, no need," said the cat, blinking green eyes with perfect good humor. "I’m flattered that you noticed, of course; though I hardly expected to find a connoisseur in this Possibility. I do hope that I haven’t taken someone else’s turn, though--that would be a bit much, since I’m the new one... Though we shan’t be staying long. Never do. Once Millicent finds it--but here I keep you with idle chit-chat and you must be getting to work! Do stop again when you have a few moments. It has been a pleasure. Good day!" And the cat executed a smooth roll and reversal of position on the sill and disappeared into the room beyond the window.

  Satch waited a moment more, eyes on the now-empty window, but the cat did not reappear. He wasn’t sure that he was disappointed.

  The discussion with the cat had put him further behind in his day than he had realized. He was five minutes late for work--more points on the wrong side of the Deviance Card--and had to play catch-up all day with his calls, plus try to deal responsibly with the usual influx of day-before-Restday paperwork... He wondered briefly if there was a government agency specifically set to regulate the flow of work, so that the most hectic workday was always the one before the day off. That would make sure workers were too exhausted to do anything on Restday but rest, certainly; thus saving the cost of building and maintaining recreational facilities...

  Yes, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Six days of work, each more frenetic than the last, 24 hours of sleep and there you are, set for another cycle of productive, grinding, unappreciated, unnecessary--Satch swallowed hard and turned all his attention to the pile of papers on his desk.

  Fifteen minutes before shift-end his Supervisor strolled over to Satch’s desk. Satch studied the shadow darkening the papers on which he was working for a full minute before he raised his eyes.

  "Yes, ma’am?" he murmured respectfully, knowing what was coming, wishing with desperate urgency that he could be someplace, anyplace, else, now. So he would not have to hear:

  "Your pace has been a little off lately, Rodfern, and you were five minutes late today. I think that, in view of your most recent Rating, I would be remiss in my duty as Supervisor if I did not assign you to work tomorrow."

  She bared her teeth at him, turned sharply on her heel and marched back to her own desk, leaving Satch to mumble servilely into the space she had occupied, "Thank you, ma’am."

  He let his head slump back toward the desk, forced his fingers to find and grasp his pen, forced his other hand to draw the next page on the stack toward him, and took up the rhythm of his work once more. When the dismissal bell rang, he stuffed his briefcase full of today’s unfinished papers, dumped in a few more red pens, just to be safe, and walked down the stairs--deviant, Deviant, DEVIANT behavior. Everyone else uses the elevator, his common sense argued, despairingly, but Satch didn’t care--and across the lobby and out into the late evening, beginning his walk home.

  It rained.

  He let himself in through the street door and walked up the short hallway to his apartment. Inside, he dropped the briefcase with a contemptuous thump and walked back through the kitchen/office area--stopped briefly by the stove to remove wet shoes and socks--down the hallway toward his bedroom, stripping off his sodden, regulation white cotton shirt as he went. As he passed the bathroom, he threw it in the general direction of the old lion-footed tub--it fell short, but he didn’t go in to pick it up. He peeled off his denim slacks as he entered the bedroom, kicked them into a corner and yanked open a drawer for a dry pair. He seemed much drier, somehow, than his clothes, and he simply dragged the new denims on without bothering to towel himself off and pulled on a fresh white shirt, disregarding the water that dripped from his overlong--deviant!--hair onto his collar.

  Barefoot, he started his walk back down the hallway, trying to force his mind to the mountain of paperwork in his briefcase.

  It has to be done by tomorrow, Satchel, he told himself apologetically. Old lady Blonsky was ri
ght, your work’s been slacking off--and you with a .43 Deviance Rating last quarter! Eight more points and it’s off to the Farm for you, my lad!

  Just before the hallway reached and emptied into the kitchen, there was an alcove formed by a large and probably deviant bay window for which Satch paid a premium every month in his rent; he turned in there and flipped the light switch.

  The canvas was nowhere near finished, but it shamed the dingy bulb in the light it gave out, all rich yellows and stately reds. There had been too much work--real work; the honest and responsible work of providing for one’s needs and paying one’s debt to the society in which one lived. Satch had learned, bitterly and at high cost in Points, never to refer to the nonsense he indulged in with oils and canvas as work.

  She reported it.

  He clamped down on that thought. It could have been worse. They could have made him stop; taken his tools and his paints away. His wages would never have stretched to cover the Separation Tax and more paint, too.

  But he knew that he would have bought the paints and let the Taxmaster go to hell.

  The canvas was not nearly done. It begged to be finished. It begged for reality, this lofty autumnal glade, stretching up to an as yet colorless sky. He had never seen a place like one--there was no place like this one. But Satch loved the painted glade as if it were his homeland, and longed for it to be real.

  He could make it real, he thought, taking another step into the alcove. He could make it--his hand moved, fingered a brush loose from the jar on the shelf as he moved another step closer to the glade.

  Satch! his common sense screamed. All that work! It has to be done tomorrow. HAS to be! If it’s not, they won’t even wait ’til next quarter to Rate you...

  But his other hand had found the tubes of colors and he slipped the brush behind an ear and began to mix the reds.

  * * *

  THE SUN CAME up--a huge orange ball that predicted an airless scorcher of a day--as he was cleaning the last brush. He slid it into the jar with the others, used the turpentined rag sketchily on his hands and turned back to look at the painting.

  Not bad at all.

  He grinned suddenly and shrugged. Bad as that cat yesterday, all smug about his morning--and the grin faded.

  "Cats don’t talk. Satchel," he said aloud. He stared at the painting for a time, then turned and headed out of the room.

  "Yeah, well, this one did." He snicked off the light on the way past and went down the hall to his bedroom.

  The brassy sun was on its way down when he woke and wandered into the bathroom to start the warm water running into the ancient tub. He went to the kitchen, intent on rummaging a few cookies to hold him ’til his bath was over and he could seriously contemplate a meal. A big meal, his stomach requested, not too subtly.

  He didn’t notice the briefcase until he was on his way back toward the bathroom.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry and the cookie he was munching tasted rather stale. He walked over the briefcase, lying on its side in front of the desk like some beached, bloated monster, and stood staring down at it.

  You’ve done it this time, Satch, old deviant, he told himself. They’re gonna throw away the key.

  "They have to catch me first," he whispered, and started back toward the bathroom, forcing himself to walk cleanly.

  Half an hour to bathe, dress and gather together such items of absolute necessity as could be crammed into the briefcase. His rent was due tomorrow, so there was more cash on hand than usual. He crammed it into a pocket and lugged his armload of necessities into the office, dumped them on the floor and bent to open the briefcase.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Satch froze. No! he thought desperately. They can’t be here this soon! I have time--must have time. A few minutes more...

  Again, the knock, Satch straightened, walked deliberately to the door and unlatched it with hands that barely shook. Eyes straight ahead and--he hoped--inscrutable, he pulled the door open.

  "Yes?"

  The hall was empty. Startled, he looked down--quite a way down, actually--and found a face framed in vari-shaded blonde curls tipped up to his. The eyes were large, honey brown and widely spaced. There was a frown crease between them, and the mouth, just below the short nose, was frowning as well. It was an extremely young face, and it was extremely worried.

  "Mr. Rodfern?" She glanced beyond him, spied the beached briefcase and the tumbled necessities. The crease between her eyes deepened. "Oh, dear, I was afraid you would take it this way--" She pushed forward, startling Satch into giving ground.

  "May I come in?"

  "It seems you have," he told her drily, finding his voice as she closed the door.

  The girl’s mouth quirked toward a smile. "So it does."

  Then she spun, flinging a hand out to indicate the signs of imminent escape. "Did you really mean to run from them?" She was facing him again--"Like this? To what end? The most important thing is here, is it not? And unfinished? Is your existence on their terms so happy, then?"

  "I was going to take my paints...sketchpad." Satch felt odd, disoriented, snatched at an obscure flicker of anger and lashed at her, "What business is it of yours, anyway? Why don’t you-- "

  She sighed, reached out and captured one of his hands, looked up into his face again, contrite.

  "Oh, I am sorry, my manners are so bad...Axel always complains. Mr. Rodfern, I am Millicent Emrys, your upstairs neighbor. And what I know about your business is only what I can guess from watching people here and talking to a few of them and listening to what Axel has to say about you. I am here to invite you to dinner. Axel has taken a strong liking to you and--" she interrupted herself with a headshake, curls tumbling everyway. "No matter what your trouble, you surely must have something to eat, is that so? Come."

  Still firmly gripping his hand she moved to the door.

  "Miss Emrys," Satch started; "I cannot--"

  She held up a tiny, perfect hand, and Satch found his protest stilled.

  "You must eat. Besides, Axel will want to say good-bye."

  "But I don’t know anyone named Axel," Satch wailed desperately as Millicent Emrys opened the door and pulled him after her into the hall.

  "Certainly you do," she said. "Axel is my cat."

  * * *

  THE ROOM WAS lit with the light of many candles, the table was small enough to seem crowded by a loaf of bread, a pottery casserole, two ethereal wine glasses half full of amber liquid and two bowls filled with the steaming contents of the casserole.

  Satch’s napkin was in his lap. The girl, seated across the table in a deep blue velvet chair, broke a wedge of bread from the loaf and began to eat her stew, using the bread as a spoon. The orange-and-brown cat watched everything from his curl on the high back of her chair.

  Still caught in the dream that had begun when he had answered her knock, Satch tore a chunk of bread for himself and tried to follow his hostess’ example. The stew was good, the bread excellent, the wine--he looked up as his finger curled around the stem of his glass. She was watching him with a small, quizzical smile on her face, already holding her own glass, waiting. He picked his up, but did not drink.

  "A toast," she said in her light-taffy voice as she raised her goblet slightly. "To the myriad avenues of escape."

  "To the ever-present possibility of escape," the cat chimed in.

  Millicent inclined her head. "If you like." She drank. Satch, still bewildered--bespelled--did the same.

  Warmth spread through him at an alarming rate; his head felt light, but clear; he was confident. Reluctantly, he set the wine aside after that bare sip and turned once again to his meal.

  The food was more delicious now than before that faery draught of wine, and Satch ate slowly, not gulping, which was his usual way with food; gaining skill with his bread-spoon. When his bowl was wiped clean, the last bit of bread popped into his mouth, he sighed with real regret, leaned back in his chair--and looked again at the girl.

>   She was sitting deep in her chair, toying with her glass, watching him with a shadow smile around her mouth and deep in her eyes. The cat curled in her lap was watching him, as well.

  Satch picked up his own glass and settled further back into his chair, crossing his legs and feeling an utter fool.

  The girl’s smiled deepened. Somehow, he noticed, here in her own place, the absurd mass of curls above her child-face, the--peculiar--set of her features and her general, perfect tininess seemed not at all unusual or--deviant.

  There is Power here, Satch thought; and then wondered what that meant.

  Millicent laughed then, as though reading his mind and his confusion.

  The cat stirred in her lap. "Millicent," he said reproachfully. "He is concerned."

  She dropped a hand to his fur, smoothing it, and offered Satch a half-apologetic smile. "Rude Millicent," she murmured. "Always to inconvenience others, always to cause undue worry..." She shook her head and curls danced. "Of course he is concerned, Axel. He has good cause."

  She sipped her wine and returned a gaze suddenly quite serious to Satch. "Mr. Rodfern, you are in grave trouble, as you do know. What you do not know is that the D-Patrol was here early this noon--"

  "What?’ Satch stared. "That’s--It would have been hours too soon! The law requires--"

  "It does not." Her voice was too low, too even for him to have heard through his growing panic. But hear it he did--and it stopped him.

  He leaned back, tense with watching, and when she said nothing more, asked, dead-voiced. "Why did they leave?"

  Her hand moved on the cat’s fur. "Oh, we spoke to them, Axel and I. They went quietly enough. But I think that if you left this building--ran, as you planned to do--they would be on you. Quickly. You would be dead, my friend, long before tomorrow morning." She raised a hand to still his protest.

  "And what sense is there in running? When you must leave behind that which is more important to you than the laws? Is this sense? To transgress for that which you believe and then to leave it defenseless? To save your then-worthless life?" She shook her head and there was nothing at all ridiculous in the dancing of her hair.