Contents

WARRIORS, LOVERS, THEY DEFIED THE ULTIMATE TABOO

FOR MARK LINCOLN MILLER

Part One:  CABIN

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Part Two:  LIMBO

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

Part Three:  EXILE

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

WARRIORS, LOVERS, THEY DEFIED THE ULTIMATE TABOO

“Circumstances of gravest importance make it mandatory the subject Cadet be returned at once to maximum security conditions.”

Before Chrome could react, an override cut in and a harsh voice blared throughout the amphitheater.

“Attention all personnel! A royal visitor is on his way to level five. He has ultimate clearance.”

As an uneasy stirring began, Vortex, silver-clad, burst through an upper doorway. He streaked down, pausing only to deal a chopping blow to an orderly stupid enough to step in the way. Leaping atop a table at the far end of the arena, he flung out an arm.

‘The Cadet is mine!” he shouted. And a battle for love and death was on...

J

A JOVE BOOK

Copyright © 1978 by George Nader

Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam’s Sons

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-17370

First Jove edition published July 1979

Jove books are published by Jove Publications, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10016

FOR MARK LINCOLN MILLER

The time is two centuries from now. Ravaged by the Last Earthly War, with two thirds of its population destroyed, our planet still manages to spin on schedule.

Peace reigns. In the Western Hemisphere credit for this condition is taken by all-powerful S.O.R.A., the Society of Restructured Americas. Created to pull order out of war’s chaotic aftermath, S.O.R.A. now governs its conglomerate of the former nations and states of this hemisphere with an absolute and iron control.

In an area of North America once called the Sonora Desert sprawls S.O.R.A.’s vast Desert Academy Training Facility. What is to come we view through the eyes of one of its supposedly more enlightened young Cadets.

Part One:  CABIN

I

My new Hover-Jag streaked effortlessly over the laser-fused sand which served as the roadway in a remote section of our Space Administration’s mighty Desert Academy installation.

‘Our?’

Alone in the vehicle, I silently questioned my glib use of that possessive “our.” So S.O.R.A.’s Space Administration and its awesome powers were partially mine now. Now? So easily?

No. Not quite yet. And, for sure, not without some subtly hidden secret suddenly being sprung. Every one of the Cadets agreed on that; everything pointed to it.

The activity patterns for generations had been covertly plotted, graphed and pored over; we all knew from rumor plus our own sometimes painful experience. From the time we in the Society of Restructured Americas were chosen to be Cadets (some said it was before birth), and on through the skillfully regulated regimentation, which in the end left us completely unique individuals, with absolute control over ourselves, our bodies, minds and spirits—

I broke off my train of thought and smiled as I coupled these lofty sentiments with the images of the passing countryside.

A drenching storm the night before had washed the desert sparkling clean; now the late afternoon sun slanted down from a cloudless sky onto wild-flower strewn dunes. And here I was, whizzing along through it all, immaculate in the flawlessly tailored uniform of an about-to-be-graduated Space Cadet—one of the fortunate few harvested and trained by our beneficent government, S.O.R.A., destined to represent it in our planet’s farflung progress through the universe.

At about this time, though, I noticed something and rev-thrusted the Jag to a halt.

From somewhere a small puff had formed in that cloudless sky of a moment ago. Now, through a trick of the desert air, the cloud seemed poised directly above the quartz road leading to my destination.

This annoyingly convenient symbol jarred my memory back to the training period we had gone through, like all the thousands of others before us. Gone through and gone on, they had. Almost all of them.

And those who hadn’t made it?

Well, they were unable to remember why. A small portion had been lifted from their memories. One final, tiny, important Secret, too fragile for indiscriminate sharing. But it obviously didn’t bother them in view of the positions they received. Power, importance, great wealth—heaped at the feet of these Cadets who in other ages would have been said to have “failed”!

But failed how? The final test, so simple, was known to every schoolboy. Or was that the trick? The simplicity of humbling us, the elite Cadet Corps, symbols of Man’s perfection, by suddenly turning us into servants?

On the face of it that was all there was to be seen. For a comparatively short period of time (precisely how long no one could deduce with certainty) all Cadets were required to be attendants, aides, or helpers—to serve a particular individual.

There was nothing, could be nothing demeaning or degrading about it. The established rules, regulations, and formalities had long ago been codified, set down for all to examine freely. And in the end, what could possibly be wrong in the idea of service? Since life began, any system of thought worth retaining has carried with it some variation of the notion “Every man serves a Master.”

Whistling tunelessly, I shrugged and continued on my way. I was almost twenty, and when you’re almost twenty you always know everything. You think.

Although the roadway was in good condition, it was well I spent no more time on the portent of cloud formations—the sun had already set when I arrived. With a gentle wheeze my Hover-Jag relaxed into its protective skirting, as the on-board computer speaker announced: “1730 exactly. Per schedule you are one half-hour early and may proceed as instructed.”

Just then the exterior lighting of the Guest Cabin in front of me came on. I realized what fools we’d been trying to figure what the Cabins would be like; that term could not in any way be applied to this structure.

Low-slung and sleekly cantilevered from central supports, it seemed to float calmly several feet above the desert sand. Huge flat slabs of weather-worn rock formed a path leading up an easy slope to the deep-set entrance arch. The cleverly concealed illumination system served to highlight the walkway and silhouette the surroundings.

Reaching a series of metal bars set into heavy planking as a sand trap, I scraped my boots clean and started across the wide bridge of polished wooden beams to the simple grill of the front door. After a few steps, I turned back to take one last look across the vast tableland, now smudged into velvet black.

Clearly, but from very far away, came a sound: A single silvery trumpet note. Like Destiny’s call from some still-distant Time-to-be—lingering, hanging suspended in the air. As was now the Evening Star.

Why had I thought “one last look.” The hairs on my forearms stirred. The back of my neck prickled.

Feeling like an idiot schoolboy for letting my imagination get the better of me, I smoothed my close-cropped hair and cleared my throat. In the prescribed sequence I pulled the leather thong of the bell beside the door. One ring; three rings closely spaced; a pause, then a final ring.

Upon my first pull, the protective grill floated noiselessly upward. The door swung open to reveal an entrance hall of polished marble. Rows of small transparent stones set into the edges of the floor next to the walls sprang to life with a soft milky glow. The rest of the sequence seemed silly, but there was a feeling of being inspected from somewhere by something. I completed the ritual.

The short hall took a sudden jog to the right, another to the left, a third to the right, and a final fourth to the left again. While the turns were quite sharp, they still left ample room for navigating a hospital-sized bed in or out.

I rounded the last jog and found myself in a long dimly lit room. Close by, a large, beaten metal-work brazier glowed on a tripod. Moving toward it, accustoming myself to the darkness, I froze as a slight sound came from another direction.

My eyes swept the room. Some fifteen paces away, silhouetted against the lighted outdoor swimming pool, was a man. He turned to step forward into the beam of an overhead light source. My first impression was correct, he was nude and—

“And you are thinking of either one or, perhaps, two things.”

The voice was low, but carried as if it had been trained. Well-modulated, without accent, pleasing except for its disinterest, its tinge of clinical detachment Subtleties skimmed past me unnoticed at that particular moment. I was too occupied with the feeling this man was reading my mind.

“You are thinking,” he said, “either a) ‘By the Gods, those fools have sent me out to wait upon a Robot’—”

Which I was. He was unclothed, but both arms were encased in shiny black cylinders which began below the elbows and extended to completely cover the hands (if there were hands). And so, or course, the first impression was of something mechanical.

“—or b) that I am the handsomest man you’ve ever seen.”

Which I was, since he was.

“Which I am,” he added eerily.

No argument. He was fully a head taller than I, and his appearance was like a physical assault. A force without movement; some sudden rippling crosscurrent in Time’s tide. Nothing soft or gentle in this beauty, only hard, lean, animal magnetism held in careful check by—by what? The face gave no clue. Its chiseled, perfectly proportioned features were expressionless, except for that generous mouth with its curving lips, almost about to smile. The eyes were hidden in the shadow cast by the smooth brow and its thick, silken, caplike mass of wheat-colored hair.

If he wasn’t something mechanical... But he couldn’t be real, I was sure of that. Although...

I regrouped my forces. All right, let’s say he’s real. But then, how have they kept those upper arm muscles, the shoulders, the neck in such perfect condition? With no signs of atrophy or wasting of tissue?

“That was to have been one of your functions, Cadet—ah—Chrome, isn’t that your name?” For several moments he consulted a sheet of paper on a stand next to him. “Yes,” he continued, “Chrome. Reference is made here to your considerable ability as a physical therapist. That would have been most helpful.”

With an impatient head movement, he flicked that shining shock of hair to one side and paused to study me. I was bewildered, caught so off-balance his next move almost ended my career then and there.

“However, you’re out of the same mold as the last Cadet. That’s obvious. So you’d make the same mistake he made, of loving me. Understandable, perhaps, but fatal. And I mean that literally. Fatal. For I have no interest in men—or boys, or youths, or whatever term for male you may find fitting.”

A quick stride toward me, and the light hit his eyes for the first time. Iced steel gray, surrounded by brilliant white. I could feel the animal heat of his body. Or perhaps it was the rage rising within me.

“So if it is agreeable to you, why not take the courteous course? Spare us both any further boredom or waste of energy. Just leave. Quickly.”

Within touching distance now. An impossible embodiment of everything heroic. And out of the magnificence came cutting words I could not believe, nor clearly hear through the roaring in my ears.

“...ah, yes, and disappointment. How sad to see. A tender spot has been touched, perhaps so roughly as to bruise it. Truly no better time to go, no better moment to choose.”

The face maintained its perfection, but now behind the gray eyes were glints of gold. As if some internal furnace burned there. Madness. I had to leave or I would kill this man-thing, whatever it was. Barely in control, I bowed stiffly and turned away. At that split-second every alarm bell in my universe went off.

‘Stop. Wait, fool! Think. Think!’ my interior voices shouted frantically.

‘Think of what? Of how to kill?’ I silently questioned.

‘Of your training. Of what must be done; the sequence of things as they must happen!’

The sequence—of course!

Even now I was being tricked. Breaking the rigid ritual, about to go back because he had ordered me to. But he had not ordered me, not at all. He had said if it was agreeable to me. And that demanded a reply, for the rules stated: “No matter what the circumstances, the Cadet shall be bound to answer the First Question.”

And the First Question hadn’t even been concerned with coming or going; he had simply and cunningly asked me if my name was Chrome. He’d gone on to confuse me with his mindreading act, but that didn’t change a thing; The First Question had been left unanswered.

I must find out how much of a telepath he was. Without movement or sound, I concentrated every particle of my mental strength and directed it toward him.

‘Defiler of every universe, hear me. You’ll pay for this with your worthless festering soul!’

I remember being surprised by the vehemence of that florid oath and wondering where it came from. At the same time I realized from his silence my enemy must not have received my message. So now to get things back on stable ground. Balanced and into sequence again.

Simple enough; the unanswered questions must be answered. First, however, the Guest must be allowed to finish the opening he had begun. But had I interrupted him by turning away? Not if I could fool him,

I took two sharp inhalations and gave a loud sneeze. Composing myself into a perfect picture, I hoped, of a Cadet annoyed at having been so overcome, I resumed my original place.

The Guest had taken a wider stance. Those fires still glinted amid the iced steel, but his biceps weren’t as bunched, and his arms with their enigmatic black coverings hung loosely at his sides.

“Well?” he questioned.

I waited, maintaining an attitude of polite interest. It would have to be the correct way now. Exact.

His eyes tried to lock with mine. Not about to risk that, I lowered my gaze and began a silent case-record:

Subject: male, about thirty-five, fair skin, slightly tanned, hair blond, eyes . . .

Hmmm. Even in a mental report, one couldn’t very well put down “fire-and-ice.” I skipped on:

Physically seems in magnificent condition, tall, excellent skeletal structure of the classic mesomorphic wide-shoulder-narrow-hip type, heavily and precisely muscled in every visible area. (NOTE: a compensation for some inner lack, some weakness? Or perhaps related to the following.) Only noticeable anomaly: both forearms and hands hidden, completely covered by smooth black plastic containers from one inch below the elbows giving no hint of shape beneath.

Glancing up, I found him still following my eyes. Partly to bait him and partly in retaliation for his crude remarks about the preceding Cadet, I let my gaze drift down to his loins and linger there with barely veiled insolence. He was circumcised. The genitals were heavy and well-formed. His position of forward-thrust-display attested to the pride he took in these endowments—his only physical features which he’d had no part in either building or developing. I permitted myself the beginning a smile, then let my gaze wander over to the brazier’s glow.

“Cadet!” he snapped.

Instantly my eyes were back to him. No words yet, but absolute immediate attention.

“Well, have you a question?”

Still incorrect. And the insistent pushing for an answer gave his ploy away. Something in my face must have told him as much, for, shifting to a more relaxed stance, he favored me with a blinding smile.

About to blink anyway, I squeezed my lids together to hide the re-wrecking of my barely regained composure.

“Cadet, you seem about to sneeze again. Are you allergic to certain substances? The resume they sent said nothing of this.”

I opened my eyes to slits and sniffed. A pretense at testing for possible nasal irritants, but in truth to see if his teeth and lips had assumed any less lethal arrangement. Fortunately they had. Only I wasn’t moving. Not for anything but one particular sentence giving me the correct order. Nothing else would do it, and the Guest was accepting the fact.

“Yes, Cadet, I understand; it isn’t a question yon have, but an answer you wish to give. If I’m right, you have my permission to speak, to begin the sequence once more.”

The correct order at last!

“Honored Guest...” My voice cracked, which helped to give a sincere quality. “In answer to the First Question, yes, my name is Chrome—”

I gazed earnestly at him.

“You have more?”

He regarded me blandly. I remained frozen.

“All right, Chrome,” he snapped, “we’ll dispense once and for all with the question-and-answer protocol. You may speak as you wish.”

“Thank you, Oh, Guest!” I said and let the carefully planned words babble forth as if unexpectedly released. “To answer the third question next, about possible allergies: I say ‘no.’ There’s no trace of an allergic reaction in my medical history to any known material or substance, either inert or living. That is, up until now and this meeting with you, Oh, Guest!”

No sign of whether or not my wide-eyed confiding of this hit anything behind that calm countenance.

“And concerning my leaving, Oh, Guest, my reply is a long one. Which,” I hurriedly added lest he cut me off, “I will condense to its very bone, for I know how tired your back must be by now.”

What form would his reaction to this take, if any? From training and experience, I knew he had discomfort in his back. Working with weights and pressure apparatus to amass a wealth of muscles such as he possessed almost always results in pain in some area of the lower pelvic region. Avoidable, of course, but so few know to take the time any more. At any rate, yes, there it was: A flare-up of that searing orange amidst the cold steel gray of his eyes.

“My second answer is, no, Oh, Guest, it would not be agreeable for me to leave here, whatever the circumstances. I need to have you understand me truly, as an individual and as a Cadet, speaking only of and for myself. May I?”

“But briefly,” he nodded, shifting his weight.

“You spoke of therapy. It is true; I have the power in my hands to help and to heal. I say that not in a boastful way, for I was born with it; some form of this art runs throughout our heritage. Well-understood in ages long gone, now little if anything is known about it, but the reality remains. The ability is there.”

I raised my gloved hands and looked at them for a moment.

“I have worked with these hands long and hard ever since first coming to understand them. I honor them for what they have done, for what they can and will do. Outside of the required Cadet assignments, most of my Academy life has been spent in training myself to use them. May I have permission to touch the Guest lightly in illustration?”

I waited, projecting hopeful expectancy.

“If you wish.”

“Thank you,” I said, stripping off my gloves even as he spoke. “Now if you will bend your knees— Ah, no, that would be awkward. One moment.” I stepped clear of him. “Be so kind as to raise your arms to the front.”

A glance at me and he did. With those black ungainly looking tubes out of my way, I ran my right hand lightly down the hollow of his spinal column. Finding the two small well-defined declivities just above the buttocks, I placed my thumb on one and my third and fourth fingers on the other. Then I flattened my other hand close to his abdomen on the other side. No touching yet; only a gentle brushing of the hairs which led down to the beginning of the pubic area. His slight involuntary flinch told me of a sensitivity factor much more highly calibrated than I would have wagered. Interesting. A moment of waiting for him to settle. When I felt the warm outgoing flow from his skin begin again, I put my palm squarely against him and pushed firmly with the fingers of my other hand.

“So now,” I said, “the bending of your knees, slowly, to a count of three as I follow you down. Then back up on the second count of three.”

I gave him a moment and began.

“One...” I guided him downward. “Two... At the same time I was pressing and tilting the pelvis backwards. “... and three.”

Pausing in the squat position, I said, “Please push against my hand in back, as hard as you wish, and keep doing so as we go up.”

He drew himself in and upward with the effort of pushing against my fingers.

“Good. Now one...” I aided his thrust by cupping my front hand more firmly against him. “Two... Keep the tension—but more, if you will, please, more.”

We were rising slowly, and a shadow of surprise crossed his face at the unexpected effort this required.

“And... three. Wait! Hold the tension, the pressure back. Thrusting back, please. Holding it as you raise your arms overhead. Now, up! All the way, and a deep intake of breath! Deeper now, and...” I stepped away. “Finish. Exhale!”

He brought his arms down and let his breath out. Arching his back, he twisted first one side, then the other. A half knee bend to each side and he gave a nod of noncommittal satisfaction.

I knew it would relieve the tension, at least momentarily, bringing a flush of fresh blood and energy to the whole area. A quick clinical glance checking his pelvic region proved it. There was a definite added genital heaviness, the beginning of engorgement.

Within myself I smiled. The Guest was a magnificent specimen, and I, of course, was here to help him. However, there would also be time to teach and instruct him—the specific subject of this training: Cadets. I hope the lessons I had in mind would not prove to be too bitter for his ego.

Now, something said, now was the exact time to begin. Putting my gloves back on, I bowed from the neck.

“There is only one last thing I wish permission to speak of tonight.”

“The very last?”

Again the blinding radiance of that smile! I closed my eyes wearily; would it never stop?

“It’s been an interesting day, Oh, Guest, but it’s late. I merely wished to explain: I must speak only the truth to you.”

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. It had been a relief to have them shut, but I must get on with this.

“Not just because it is prescribed during this period. No, it goes to the heart of the matter; the success of my working with you. In order for the power to flow, for me to be able to help or heal, I must always be honest with you in word and deed.”

He looked restive so I quickly reassured him.

“This does not bind you in any way, so feel and say whatever is your wish or need. It will have no effect on my hands and their workings. The demand for truth involves only me. Therefore I must touch on one thing so you will perhaps truly understand me.

“I am rot as you. I love men. I love mankind, Man, and all that is good and human in him. To a degree I worship him—in body, in mind, and in spirit. For me, Man is the most wondrous creation in the universe. It is my nature to love him and I do so, freely.”

I regarded his marvelous face. His lips half parted, but he did not speak.

“Also, as they may have told you, I have a cheerful disposition,” I said. “Perhaps too much at times, for, in truth, my good humor and high spirits are not always appreciated. They have been mistaken for boldness, over-friendliness, intrusion into privacy, even trespass of a nature completely unthought of on my part.”

I was now able to look at him quite levelly.

“While serving you, I cannot change my nature. I’ll do my best, however, to curb it and make it acceptable to your needs and standards, to be as quiet and reserved as is possible for me.

“One last thing. That—love, was it you spoke of in the beginning?” I searched for the most direct wording. “We worked all that sort of thing out during First Schooling, even before our second year’s quarter ended. So, frankly, it was strange to hear you say you found—well, whatever it may have been you spoke of. From my point of view, further talk of it would be speculating upon childish confusion. Time truly wasted!”

In the silence the brazier made a small crackling sound. A trickle of perspiration from the Guest’s right temple ran down the smooth skin and formed a droplet on his jaw. I whipped out my handkerchief and stepped closer.

“With your permission...”

Quickly I mopped away the drop, then dried its pathway upward to the heavy silken hair which swung down across his brow. It was over and done with before he could protest, and certainly there could be no offense taken. For no offense had been meant.

None at all.

II

The next morning I awakened and lay staring at the brilliant blue sky which seemed to form the roof over me. Events of the night before were vague.

I remembered being told to bring in my things, getting the traveling case containing my belongings from the Hover-Jag, and coming back completely drained of energy. Something of stumbling after the Guest through hallways and falling face down across a bed he had indicated, immediately, dead to all else.

An inauspicious way to begin anything. Even a failure. Then I firmly reversed myself: it was a good beginning and I would, starting with that very moment, carry through and triumph. And soon I’d be on my way to chart the stars, part of the elite Space Corps chosen to carry on S.O.R.A.’s plan for its peaceful conquest of the Universe.

“Whenever you’re ready, Cadet.”

I raised up on my elbows. The Guest was standing at the foot of the bed. As I closed my eyes against the splendor of this too-early and unexpected attack, I must have uttered some small sound of complaint.

“Very well.” He gave a quiet chuckle. “This first morning we’ll let the time schedule be yours.”

I had a sense of unusual freedom and glanced downward to find myself totally naked.

“Your uniform was soiled and is being cleaned,” he said. “It’s unnecessary to dress; there’s no one here to see you. However, if you’re concerned with covering yourself, wear whatever you have that’s to your liking. The door over there,” with black-encased forearm he gestured across the room, “is to your bath and grooming room. Also in there are your belongings. This one,” he indicated the open one behind him, “leads to the central living space where I will be waiting for you.’’

His manner was pleasant but crisp, and he turned and left before I could thank him for his courtesy.

My “grooming room,” had he called it? A completely equipped gymnasium with a small heated-vapor room and a deep pool of icy water for use after it—in addition to all the usual toilet facilities. And there were my shaving things neatly laid out on a snowy white towel next to the lavatory!

So impressed was I by this unexpected luxury—especially when contrasted to the rigid austerity of our Cadet barracks—I quite ignored several questions fluttering at the fringes of my consciousness. Questions of who, or what, had undressed me and put away my belongings and laid out my grooming articles. Rebuffed, my subconscious did not bring them up again.

Rather than indulge in any such constructive mentation as I shaved, I chose rather to narrow my eyes and smile at my mirrored image in what I felt was a devil-may-care manner. So the Guest thought I would be shamed by his magnificence into covering or hiding myself? Ridiculous. This wasn’t a male beauty contest; I was here to serve and help him. Competition was a false concept which had no place in the art of healing. I would put aside all such suggestions.

I showered quickly, dried myself, slung a fresh towel around my shoulders at the remembrance of an outdoor pool from the night before, and strode off confidently down the corridor.

The house was built in a “U” shape around the central courtyard and its swimming pool. The closed end of the “U” contained the entrance hall, giving, as it did, into the huge, low-ceilinged living space. Off to either side of this, forming the arms of the “U”, were two wings housing private sleeping quarters and bath areas.

To the right of the main entrance hall, and actually a part of the central space, was a large and complete kitchen area; its counterpart, to the left of the hall, was a library-study arrangement.

I learned later the house was designed and constructed by a Cadet, an Oriental. The shaping and use of space had been his avocation, an expression of his Gift. His name for the dwelling translated into “Pool of Tranquility.” If it was not often so during my stay there, the fault was certainly not with him or his design. For wherever one looked there was simplicity and strength, a calm flow of horizontal line seeming to stem from the earth itself; a balance of light against dark, coolness and warmth, rough against smooth, and always the sense of repose filled with inner movement.

I have many memories of the dwelling, and none is more vivid than of entering the main living area that first morning.

Beyond plate glass walls lay the outside courtyard, where a small fountain sparkled in the sunlight as it splashed down to feed the azure swimming pool. In the violet shade of an archway was a large cage with two white-plumed birds. An ornamental urn nearby held a citrus tree in bloom.

Inside, immediately cooler in mood, was the spacious central area made of that beautifully polished marble. Matching couches of soft cream-colored leather faced each other across an expanse of crystal-topped table. Generous cushions were scattered around, and there was a marvelous hand-loomed rug, rough-textured and vividly patterned.

And, lounging on the couch which faced me on the far side of the table, there was the Guest.

Even at that distance the power of the man projected itself. His arms were crossed behind him, and he was resting his head against the black cylinders which encased their lower parts. In the daylight, his coloring was more vivid—the heavy, shining, straight hair had more gold to it, and the fair skin was suntanned a warm bronze.

As I entered he was talking animatedly to someone opposite him who was hidden by the back of the couch. He broke off when he saw me standing there.

“Don’t move, please,” he called. “Stay where you are. Perfectly still.”

A blur of motion as something rose from the nearer couch and leaped over to face me. It was a large animal—a feline of a species unknown to me, the size of a hunting dog—lean, powerful, with short cream-color fur which almost matched the leather couches. It hesitated, swinging its head slightly from side to side.

“She will do you no harm. Only stay still so as not to alarm her; she’s blind.”

He got up in one fluid motion and stood, relaxed, watching. The animal’s ears twitched back to check this movement, then centered in my direction again. With an almost imperceptible sniffing of the air, she padded toward me. Her progress was hypnotic. The ears and unseeing eyes (their color, by the Gods, his icy gray!) locked firmly onto my position; the head swinging gently to and fro; the body, all mercury bound in velvet wheat.

For reasons then unknown, my heart had begun to beat as though it would leap from my chest. Perhaps, I thought, from my being still too long. It couldn’t have been fear; I love all animals and have never found worry from any of them. At any rate, she was within reaching distance when she took note of the pounding within me; I could see her hear it. After hesitating, she sat back on her haunches and regarded me with an attitude of such knowledge and understanding that I was overcome.

I put my right hand out palm up, with wrist, tendons, and veins all bare and vulnerable to her bite. Sensing the warmth, she sniffed delicately and touched her nose to my skin. A blind but intent look toward my face, then down to touch my hand again. This time she pushed gently against it. Unable to resist, I stroked her head and cupped it in my hands. She closed her eyes, and a soft deep purring began.

“Zin-tarn!” the Guest called out.

The animal slowly arose. She leaned in, licked my nose with unerring accuracy, then loped across the long room and through a matching archway opposite mine, leading to the Guest’s quarters.

“Cadet Chrome.”

She vanished down its hall, and I hastily crossed to him.

“Yes, Oh, Guest?”

He studied me as though weighing and balancing several factors. The expression was enigmatic, quite unreadable to me.

“She was saying a last good-bye,” he said. “That is why you have tears on your face. Dry them with your towel. Then go over to the galley—the kitchen area—and take your breakfast. I will be out by the pool.”

I do not know what I ate that first morning. I remember afterwards, though, in my quarters, as I scrubbed and rinsed my mouth, I shook my head in annoyance. A magic cat whose master was... what? Wizard, robot, madman—or perhaps all three? Absurd. But what had he done to the Cadet before me that the poor fool had fallen in love with him? Especially in view of the Guest’s open dislike of men. A fatal mistake, he had said, and had stressed it that way. Some trap, some trick or spell? An unknown and terrible power?

Idiot schoolboy, again! Cuffing my skull lightly with the back of my hair brush, I then used its bristle side to subdue the wayward curl of my black close-cropped hair. Well, whatever had happened, it wouldn’t work with me. I need only speak the truth and use my gift of healing to serve and help him, and that would be armor enough against anything.

I hurried out to the pool and found the Guest leaning against a large massage table of sturdy construction.

“There are oils and other materials in the cabinet against the wall there, Cadet. Best to begin with an ordinary massage, during which I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

He must not begin by thinking to dominate these sessions, so I countered slightly.

“Very good. With your permission, though, the table should be out in full sunlight. It’s most beneficial.”

He eyed me as if searching for some line differentiating my tan from the portion normally covered by swimming gear.

“Your color is dark and very even,” he said.

“I enjoy the sun. Whenever I work in it, I do so as Nature intended.”

His eyes went to my grin. There was a moment’s mischief as I thought he was about to ask if my teeth were real. I cleared my throat.

“Ahem, Oh, Guest—the table... ?”

He took his weight off it.

“Very well, if you wish.”

It was heavier than it appeared, but I jockeyed it about, aligning it correctly with the sun. In the cabinet were orderly stacks of different sized towels. I seized those I wanted, piled them on a small nearby stand, and snapped the largest one open, letting it drift down to cover the table.

“Face upward first, please, arms at your sides.”

Draping a towel across his loins, I folded another smaller one into a fairly narrow band for his eyes, and dampened it in the cold water of the pool.

“Eves closed, please, gently.”

I contoured the towel over his lids as a shield to shut out the sun’s glare.

“If you will raise your knees.”

Anchoring one end of the dry towel with a hand pressed to his pelvic region, I repositioned it and the genitals beneath, tucking everything downward between his legs.

“You may lower them. And now, a moment for the oil.”

Grinning, I got a bottle out of the cabinet. This Gladiator-God-come-to-life, who found nothing of interest in men, was about to receive his first lesson: a massage the likes of which he had never even dreamed about. There could be no complaints; the towel was as binding and protective as any chastity belt ever was. Never would he be touched there, but I was competent to guarantee he would end up more than longing to be.

I sniffed at the oil; an ordinary medium-grade synthetic. I’d brought better but it would do for now. Pouring a heavy stream along the length of the Guest’s leg nearest me, I used both hands to spread the oil evenly and then began several moments of slow circular motions, cupping the knee front and back. Suddenly, with a softer near-caress, I reached swiftly downward, my inside hand going deep along the groin muscles. The fingers swirled around twice, as if about to grasp beneath the towel, then slowly withdrew to the knee. Such unexpected entree into a well-protected area usually produces an erotic effect. It was palpably true this time; the Guest’s lips parted with an audible intake of breath.

I waited a moment and repeated the move. This time, though, I cut the downward caressing stroke off mid-thigh, letting him think—and wait. After twice more stopping tauntingly short, I began working down’ the inside of his thigh again with purposeful, insistent movements.

Caught up in my plan, I was slow to become aware of the emotion within me. Not recognizing it, I silently questioned and the realization soon came. I had deliberately assaulted the Guest with this sensual beginning as he lay there trusting me and waiting for me to help him. He had put aside the armor of experience, voluntarily laying bare the vulnerable youth beneath, while I only worked to embarrass him and cause unrest.

I thought of my training ethics, the discipline and hard work, the silent, unseen reward of healing accomplished. What I was doing now was cheap and devious.

“Forgive me a moment, Oh, Guest.”

I walked quickly away, past the fountain splashing at the end of the pool, and stared unseeingly across the desert. After a time my eyes focused on a bit of movement; far away against the blue of the sky two dark birds drifted in slow circles.

When I came back the Guest was propped up on one elbow watching.

“What’s wrong, Cadet?”

His face was serious, made to seem even more so by the steel gray eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare. The note of concern in his voice sounded genuine. To give him a full report, beginning with “Interior Mischief Contemplated” and ending with “Healing Ethics Upheld” seemed unwise, though. So I condensed things a bit.

“I lost concentration and then patience with myself.”

Apparently satisfied, he lay down again. I dampened the eye-shield towel anew, replaced it, and began once more, concentrating on my fingers and the flesh beneath them, letting the body speak as it wished, encouraging, listening, aiding it when I could.

Finished with his powerful shoulders, I began on the upper arms. Half way down one bicep, awed at its girth and weight, I was startled at the order he suddenly barked.

“No further!”

I snatched my hands away.

“Yes, Oh, Guest, as you wish!”

“Let the arms go for today. Work on the back.”

He swung his legs over the side of the table, stood and allowed the towel girding his loins to fall loose. I helped him into position on his stomach and noted that he used the black cylinders to support his weight with no apparent discomfort.

“I will speak of my arms and hands now, telling as much as is permitted for you to know,” he said. “They’re confined, shielded like this, so healing can take place. It must take place, but it will not. Everything has been done that can be; the efforts of all concerned have been total and complete. Now, although the process must continue, it does not.”

“May I touch the coverings, the cylinders?”

“As you will, Chrome. They cannot be harmed by anything I know of.”

Sliding one hand underneath a cylinder at about where the middle of the forearm might be, I cupped my other hand above it, closed my eyes and waited. A disorganized impression came through, so masked and blocked as to be worthless. I breathed slowly and evenly for several moments, then intensified my asking. There was a rush of information, but again, screened and muffled. I took my hands away.

“Well?”

“There is healthy tissue. I sense it clearly. More I cannot tell; the covering distorts and filters too much. The flesh under there, is it yours?”

Resting on an elbow, the Guest stared at me.

“You could be very dangerous.”

“I—I don’t know how you mean that. I’m only here to help you.”

“You’re excused for today, Cadet. All you need for meals you’ll find in the galley, the kitchen area. The library opposite it is also well-stocked, if you are a reader.”

A final, cool appraisal and he was gone.

I tossed the used towels into a woven reed hamper next to the cabinet, put away the oil, and swam for a while. Drying off after tiring of the pool, I poked through the cabinets and storage bins of the kitchen—“galley,” had he said first? There was food enough to feed my whole platoon for months. Canned, dried, frozen; every form.

Next, aimlessly to the library-study. As I nosed about in there, the first clue presented itself to me, only to be promptly and thoroughly misinterpreted. And soon afterward, lost.

I was leafing through a book of poems I had noticed on the table, when a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. A bookmark, no doubt. I was about to replace it when the lettering on it caught my eye. In the neat precise script taught to and used by so many Cadets was written:

Now, Lost Love, once more

Your ghostly memory

Comes swiftly sweeping back.

Haunted thus I stay

And taste again in vain

Forbidden blinding tears.

I took it to my room to ponder over. When I looked for it the next day, it had vanished. I never saw it again.

III

The basic routine of the Cabin turned out to be simple enough. Mornings began with exercise in our separate quarters. I offered to work with the Guest but was told it wasn’t necessary. After breakfasting alone, I would meet him in the courtyard for his massage and therapy. Once the massage was completed I was again free. When I first asked if I might then be of any assistance to him, his retort had only a surface politeness.

“Cadet Chrome, my needs are simple. They’re taken care of by the machines and devices which fill my quarters. The mechanisms are voice-activated and function most efficiently in every way. Should you doubt that, I’ll permit you to inspect them at some later date. For now, please accept what I say and think no more of it.”

The rebuff I felt must have been obvious, for after studying me, the Guest in a more kindly manner went further with his explanation.

He was, he said, on a strictly regulated schedule using much borrowed from Space technology. Most of his time must be spent in his quarters, sealed and under higher-than-normal pressure, for the atmosphere there was higher in oxygen content, as well as certain other gases. Enriched and forced into his system, it became part of an overall healing regime: The consumption of enormous amounts of protein, massive dosages of vitamin and mineral concentrates, the routine care from his machines, and now me, another adjunct to the therapeutic process.

“Well, if you ever get tired of all those pills and want a peanut butter sandwich, let me know.”

“A what?”

“Only an example, a figure of speech. I meant, if you ever want something fresh, prepared by hand— Well, the place is full of things to eat—real things, that is—and I like to cook. So...”

He watched me run out of subject matter and end with an indecisive gesture toward the kitchen.

“I see,” he said dryly.

“Where is the cat?”

The question tumbled out before I knew it. She was on my mind for some reason, and there had been no sign of her since that first meeting.

“What do you mean, Cadet Chrome?”

“The cat. The animal you said was blind.”

“Yes, I understood that.”

“Well, I—I just wondered where she was. I haven’t seen her.”

“I told you, Chrome: She was saying good-bye. Something within you knew that or you wouldn’t have cried.” He continued to eye me for some moments; behind that icy gray was a warning flicker of flame. I could think of nothing safe to say. “If you wish another pet you might catch one for yourself. There are many things in the hills beyond us here.”

* * *

Evenings I spent listening to music. The sound system, set into the acoustical foam of the ceiling, was excellent and the tape library extensive. Usually I chose a symphony and curled up near the brazier’s warmth to listen with closed eyes.

(My only disappointment with the house was finding the brazier to be automatic. Its “coals,” realistic-looking ceramic chunks, were heated to glowing radiance by flames from jets of gas. They came on and were ignited along with the exterior lights, or whenever the temperature might drop abnormally low.)

Immersed one night in some newly discovered classical guitar music, I gradually became aware of the wave of soothing warmth coming from behind me. Most pleasant, indeed—until I realized the brazier was directly in front of me! With a leap, I landed feet first facing this new source of energy.

The Guest, of course. Laughing genuinely for the first time, the animal grace of him stretched out along the couch.

“Name of the Three-Eyed God! They said nothing about your being an acrobat, Chrome. Will you do another turn, a flip, perhaps?” His laughter was marvelous—complete and open, with no hint of derision or meanness. “Come, sit down here. We must be still now and hear the music.”

I sat where he had indicated, in front of him on the floor. Hunched forward with my arms clasped around my knees, I stared into the dancing flames.

“Chrome?”

“Uh—” My throat was dry; nothing further came out. I cleared it resolutely. “Ahem! Yes, Oh, Guest?”

“You can’t be comfortable sitting in such a position. Lean back against the edge of the couch here.”

I looked warily over my shoulder.

“I’m not commanding you, Cadet, but do as I say. Lean back and relax.” He smiled lazily at me. “Come. I won’t think ill of you for it.”

I slid back and put my shoulders against the soft leather of the couch. A smooth shifting of weight, and he brought his thigh to rest against my neck.

“A pillow, Chrome?”

I tried to match his jesting tone.

“You’re much too kind, Oh. Guest!”

“That may well be, but use it.”

Instead, I stubbornly dropped my head forward, only to realize as I did how childish the action was—why make myself more ridiculous? After several moments of continued resistance, I gave in and leaned back against him again.

“I don’t have your sunny disposition, Chrome, and many times I’m caught up in serious thoughts. I’m not a monster, though. And, for what it’s worth, I wish you well.” Perhaps to spare me a reply, he added, “Now let’s be silent. You’ve chosen well; I wish to listen.”

The guitar spoke of golden gossamer curtains billowing on a warm night wind, of water rippling in a moonlit garden pond, of a nightingale pierced upon the rose’s thorn, of lost love. Lost Love. The words from the Cadet’s poem echoed in my mind. I was conscious only of engulfing warmth now, from the Guest’s body behind me and from the brazier’s glow I faced.

At last the music ended. The massive glass doors to the courtyard were open; on the breeze now drifting through them came the faint cry of some night animal. It died away, only to be repeated—high, drawn out, infinitely mournful.

“Chrome?”

The Guest’s low voice barely reached me.

“Yes?”

“What do you think your mission will be upon graduation—that is, assuming you complete this present task?”

No clue from his tone as to what lay behind the question, but its wording brought unease. I answered as noncommittally as possible.

“To spread S.O.R.A.’s ideals of peace. To—to fight its enemies when necessary. Why do you ask?”

“I wondered how much you knew.” He arose with that muscular ease and stood looking down. “Tomorrow morning, Chrome. By the pool, as usual.”

An endless moment longer with me impaled by his gaze, then he was gone into the shadows. I turned back, unseeing, to the brazier. Shivering in spite of its warmth, I got up and padded down the corridor to my quarters. For a long time I lay awake watching through the transparent covering overhead as the stars wheeled slowly past.

Would I survive to thread a path amongst them?

* * *

The following morning the Guest did nothing to ease my mental state. No sooner had I started the massage than he made a sound of displeasure and raised up. He complimented me on my enthusiasm, but said he felt a little less energetic an attack would be preferable—especially since we were going to be working together throughout the summer.

My heart sank. A week, two weeks, even three I could manage, but a summer! I sought to formulate a proper question.

“How—how long does the Guest mean?”

“Unless the schedule is revised, until the end of September. It’s June now, therefore— What’s wrong, Chrome? Does the prospect displease you?”

“Forgive my bluntness, Oh, Guest, but I sense things. I know you’re accustomed to command, to a much richer sort of life than this, perhaps even to having the power of life-or-death over those who wait upon you. So I realize how difficult it must be to find yourself—” I indicated the black plastic coverings, “—in such a situation, deprived of the use of your hands and arms. Dependent upon—I mean, to have to wait for another, for me to accomplish what is necessary. Do you see what I’m trying to say? I’m not a fool, my King. I know how frustrating it must be... to...”

His expression stopped my babbling.

“What did you say, Chrome?”

“Pardon, Oh, Guest?”

“Not ‘Oh, Guest.’ What was it you said? Answer me!”

What had I said? Something to the effect of: “I’m not a fool. I know how frustr—” Oh, Gods, I couldn’t have, I hadn’t slipped and called him—!

“You warned me on that first night,” he smiled. “Oh, yes, Cadet. A warning, and well taken as such, both as to your humor and your devotion to speaking the truth. So I’m prepared for the worst. What is it?”

“What is what?”

“This name you’ve given me. Come, now, let’s have it.”

I moistened my lips and took a breath.

“Well, you didn’t volunteer your name, and we, of course, are forbidden to ask any questions, especially ones of such a directly personal nature. And so I think it was soon after our first meeting that one popped, uninvited, into my mind. It seemed to take instant root there and refused to be dislodged no matter what—”

“Chrome!”

“I’m coming to it, I’m coming to it! It’s—it’s not a bad name if you look at it in the right way. In fact, it’s really very flattering. I—I call you ‘King.’ “

His expression had a waiting quality to it, so I ventured the rest.

“ ‘King’ for short. The whole name is ‘Young King Vortex.’ ”

“Vortex?!” he echoed in disbelief.

“Vortex: something possessing an irresistible attraction,” I explained with forced cheerfulness. “I hope you are pleased, Oh, Guest.”

He shrugged.

“I was about to suggest you choose something on your own, for Fm bored beyond telling with this prescribed ‘Oh, Guest’ nonsense. Now I find you enterprising enough to have already done so.”

“Thank you—uh—Oh, Guest.”

“For what?”

“Being good tempered about it and not misunderstanding.”

“Why should I? Use it as you will from now on, especially since I have not told you what my true name is.”

Not wanting to betray my eagerness to know that name (I was sure it held a clue as to who or what he was), I pretended to find something of interest in the blossom-covered branches of the citrus tree.

“Although there certainly is no secret about it,” he continued. “Merely a matter of its being too difficult and clumsy for use under these circumstances... Chrome, are you still listening to me?”

“Always, my King!”

The answer tumbled out so easily he smiled in spite of himself.

“Good. My name is ...”

The rest was unintelligible to me. I tried to understand as he repeated it several times.

“Ah blokt mont soom,” I finally attempted.

That wasn’t right, but it was difficult; something was unclear, blurred, when he pronounced it.

“That’s not an Earth name, my King.”

“I’ve never heard anyone else called it here,” he said with an edge of irony. “It’s written out, if you wish to see how it can be spelled—over there in the cabinet drawer, I think.”

Intrigued, I opened the drawer. Scissors, a roll of adhesive tape, some prepackaged bandages, a tube of ointment, and a piece of paper. I picked it up. Blank on that side. I turned it over, and a chill shot through me as I saw the writing. ‘Put it down! Pretend it isn’t here!’ I thought. But I’d already turned with it to stare at the Guest.

“Well, Chrome? Look at it!”

He sounded impatient, so I forced my eyes down to the paper again, to the lettering it bore:

ABD H’LOKK-MOND H’ZUM

It was the same precise Cadet script as had been on the fragment I’d found in the library. That ode to a Lost Love; had it been from his last “love?” My brain seemed frozen, but I knew I had to make some comment—a noise, if nothing else—to fill that Arctic silence. I forced my lips to move.

“I see.” I pointed to the “H” symbol. “What does this stand for?”

“It’s only there to indicate a sound you do not have and cannot hear.”

Carefully I placed the paper beside him on the massage table.

“Then why bother with it? Why write it down in the first place?”

As if dismissed, I started to leave.

“One moment, Chrome! Look at me.”

Cursing inwardly because by then my eyes had begun to water, I did as I was told.

“You appear tired.” His voice was milder than it had been. “Lie down for a while in your room. If it seems more serious, use the monitoring equipment in my quarters. Perhaps your people at the Central Medical Facility can prescribe something.”

I nodded stiffly, leaving the second clue behind. It didn’t matter, though; I’d already misinterpreted it. Even more thoroughly than the first one, that Cadet’s ode to his lost love.

* * *

Having skipped that massage, I devoted extra time to the Guest the next day.

The fountain had turned itself down to a trickle, as it did when the pool was properly full, so the courtyard was silent enough for me to hear the bees buzzing in the pungent sweetness of the citrus tree blossoms From the shadowed arches, one of the caged birds burbled something to its mate. A drowsy reply, a settling of feathers, then all was still again.

“Tell me about your name.”

My hands jumped slightly at the Guest’s sudden request. I looked up to find him regarding me.

“Where did it come from?” he continued. “Did you choose it?”

“Uh—no, Oh, Guest. You might say it was chosen for me.”

Amused in spite of myself, I felt the blood coming to my cheeks. Vortex raised his head for a better look.

“You’re blushing like a virgin, Chrome. If it’s that upsetting, forget I spoke of it.”

“No, my King,” I smiled, urging him back down. “Please relax, and arms to the sides again.”

I placed two pillows, propping him up to where he evidently wished to be, then went down and resumed with the ankles.

“A doctor once explained the ‘virgin’s blush’ as a sign of excellent health, Oh, King, and it happens so rarely now, I’m no longer bothered by it. As for my name, if it would please you to hear...”

“Yes, it would.”

“Well, you see, it was summer. I was sixteen, and it was the custom then as now to take the young trainees to the islands of the Southern Coast. The climate there is mild, and its ocean is calm but filled with many tides and currents. An excellent ground on which to provide learnings in navigation, the movements of water, Time, and the stars.

“One day we were exploring the farther side of an uncharted island we’d come upon. Turning inland to follow a stream of clear water which flowed through a pleasant ravine, I became separated from my companions. When I realized this, I climbed up the bank to look for bearings or landmarks. The ground gave quickly into a grain-filled meadow, and I had gotten almost to the middle of it, when suddenly from nowhere there arose around me a swarm of young girls!

“They were unclothed and carried no weapons, but even while laughing and giggling, they were subduing me and tying me with grass thongs. I tried to fight. It was difficult though—they were young and soft, and I didn’t wish to harm them.

“What or who they were we never did find out. They spoke our language, but were shameless, without modesty in thought or deed. Oh, not that they did me harm. Quite to the contrary, I became the object of their worship and adoration. On a leash, well-guarded, mind you—but they’d been away from males for some time, I gathered, and were most demanding in their attentions. Thank the Gods I was young or I’d be dead!”

“Why, Cadet?”

“It was like running in a never-ending race. I’d find myself left lying, pleasure-racked, lifeless as a limp rag, and then some gorgeous young female would present herself before me and say and do such things as to raise the dead!”

“Such as what, Cadet?”

“Such—such as I cannot find words for. Such as I cannot, even now, give thought to without— Oh, Gods!”

Unwittingly, I had become enormously excited reliving, in memory, the erotic experiments of those girls.

“So I see, Cadet,” Vortex said dryly. “It’s become most apparent.”

“With your permission, Oh, Guest!”

I got down from the table, ran to the pool and dove in. The water was an icy balm; I swam beneath the surface through its soothing touch until I thought my lungs would burst. Then I surfaced long enough for a deep gulp of fresh air and began slow even laps back and forth.

Somewhat quieted, I got out and dried off with a fresh towel. Knotting it tight around my waist, I returned to the massage table. Vortex eyed me blandly.

“And...?”

At a loss, I stood rubbing the back of my neck.

“Cadet, you may skip whatever you wish, but I believe the point of your story is your name: Chrome.”

“Oh? Oh, yes, of course.” Gratefully I recalled the direction in which I’d been headed. “Well, my eyes, this one girl said, were like a certain blue she called ‘chrome.’ She was teasing, you understand. Then another girl—my hair had been uncut for some time and had gone into black curls—she pretended to find that color in it as she toyed with me. And yet another said, yes, but ‘chrome’ was also a kind of metal, very hard, a reference to the—uh—sexual experience.”

I grabbed a breath and raced on to get through with it.

“When I was rescued a few days later, well, the name was fixed. My companions had scouted me, watching and listening in silence for some little time before freeing me. They’d observed much and, naturally, passed their knowledge on most freely to all who would listen. So Chrome became my name from then on, though now there are few who remember its origin.”

“A good story, well told, Cadet.” Vortex glanced at the towel cinched around my waist. “I’m only surprised you kept on with your rigorous training. You could have chosen a far easier life and automatically been assured of great success!”

He chuckled to himself and checked the shadow line cast by the sun clock on the far wall.

“Enough of this. I’ll have a shower, then perhaps some heat and a swim.”

“If you wish my assistance, I—”

“No. You’re free to do as you please.”

The regal coldness of his dismissal made me even surer of my Tightness in naming him Young King Vortex. His attitude, all too plainly, was: “Go. You’ve amused me enough for now, Fool.”

I gave a polite bow and left him.

IV

My quarters were quite different from the central area’s polished marble. The floors were of heavy, earthen-colored tile which had been waxed and buffed to a warm gloss. Roughly textured whitewashed walls rose a lofty two stories and looked to end open to the sky. An illusion, of course; they were covered with a clear thick thermal glass which absorbed the sun’s heat and much of its glare.

Curtains could be pulled to cut the light completely, but the walls were high and the sun’s angle such that I never used them. What doorways there were had curved archlike tops, and the doors themselves—thick, hand carved wood panels—were hung on tracks to slide back into the walls.

Across the corridor from my sleeping and grooming quarters was another room furnished with a heavy wooden table-desk, its companion chair, and a matching sofa. The massive pewter reading lamp, with a shade of hand-loomed wool dyed red, gave it the pleasant feeling of a monastic study.

The room corresponding to this in the Guest’s wing had as its focal point a medical examination table. Around it were grouped banks of complicated equipment, the operation of which was simple. Each morning before his massage therapy, Vortex explained, he lay on the table. At his flick of a switch, contact discs, trailing their wires, positioned themselves on specific areas of his body. The touching of another switch set these devises to analyzing his condition. It was over with in less than three minutes, at least on the morning he let me watch. The machines then encoded their findings and sent them along to CenMed (the central complex of major medical facilities back at the Desert Academy) to be studied and filed.

Orders, information, recommendations for changes in diet and the like came back in the form of printouts on opaque, white plastic sheets. These communications were also displayed on a large-screen monitor set amongst the rest of the equipment. Below this display tube was a desklike indentation, housing a standard keyboard on which could be typed replies, requests for clarification, additional information and so forth. Looking back, I realize there also had to have been a standard videophonic communication system—probably in the Guest’s private quarters behind the air-lock—but I was never aware of it.

Augmenting this daily monitoring of the Guest’s progress was a weekly in-person inspection by a staff of CenMed personnel.

Barred from these proceedings—part of the discipline, I assumed, of this last phase—I was given a whistle on a stout cord (“Put this around your neck and signal if something happens where you need help”) and sent off on a hike, lunchpack slung over my shoulder, with strict instructions not to return until sundown.

On the same day the maintenance crew would arrive. Evidently a vigorous group, for everything would be flashing with cleanliness when I got back—fresh linens everywhere, the cabinets crammed with snowy towels, and my bedding would have that wonderful smell of ironed sunshine to it.

This weekly banishment didn’t bother me in the least. First, it gave me a recess from the interior battle which silently exploded anew each time I sought to heal Vortex. The man was impossible—to the point where I began to believe him something other than human. It was like trying to face the dazzling energy of another Sun. Fending off that radiation, protecting myself from capture by the magnetic field he seemed to generate took a heavy toll. So, as I say, it was a relief to escape for a while.

Then, too, there was the spot to which I journeyed. From the fountain at the end of the Cabin’s courtyard, flat roughly cut stones led off toward the low hills beyond. After a quarter of a mile, this path blended into the smoother stones of a dry riverbed, and these into a shallow gully which slowly deepened and turned. Soon all one could see were narrowing walls of arid reddish clay on either side and blue sky above. A mile of this, with the riverbed rising steadily and the stones turning into boulders, then, just as one was becoming tired, there was a dog-leg bend. The confining walls sloped dramatically away, and there in front of one was another wonderful expression of the Cabin’s designer. This time that unknown Oriental Cadet had used his Gift, his art, to create—an oasis!

A thick stand of palm trees shaded the spring which gushed forth to form a sunlit pool in the basinlike hollow of a huge outcropping of smooth flat granite. There were tablelike boulders, seats grouped about a small fire pit, and even toilet facilities, cleverly camouflaged behind a fall of stones.

My shout of surprise at first seeing the oasis startled a flock of game birds. They returned gradually to watch me bathe in the crystal pool. I ate my sandwiches, scattered leftover crumbs amongst the more knowing birds, stretched out on the warm flat rocks to rest, and was soon fast asleep.

As the sun slipped below the canyon wall, the chill desert air on my bare skin aroused me. To fully awaken, I dove into the pool again, dried off, dressed and headed back for the Cabin.

When I reached the courtyard, Vortex, inside the house, paced behind the expanse of glass like some rare jungle cat in a luxurious cage. Struck as always by the muscular coiled-spring grace of the man, I watched the proud arch of his neck, the impatient toss of that silken mane as it fell against his face.

A notion nagged at me, though. He was too un-flawed, too much a godlike masterwork come alive, too carefully calculated to catch and impress the eye of the beholder. Some quality, something either missing or extra in this being, warned one to beware. By the time one recognized and heeded that alarm, however, the spell of Young King Vortex was already cast and well at work. Far too late for his victim to do more than struggle, without avail.

As I began to explore the fleeting feeling which had expressed itself so oddly, that he had been calculated (but how? by what), the Guest spun and stared at me. Gods, could he catch vibrations from his prey even at this distance?!

I smoothed out my expression and my clothing at the same time and entered the house.

“Good evening, Oh, King!” I said with a polite smile.

Actuated by their timer, the lights came on at that moment and gave the effect of a cheery welcome. Vortex’s greeting was in marked contrast. He eyed me without expression for some seconds.

“There’s mail for you over there,” he said at last in a cool voice.

“Thank you!”

I picked up the two envelopes lying on the thick glass of the table top. Crested Academy seals told me they were mere routine official business. One was a receipt showing the automatic deposit into my Academy account of my weekly allowance; the other, a form having to do with my Hover-Jag, which had been removed to storage.

“Sorry,” I said, looking up to find him watching me, “I meant no rudeness by my inattention!”

“You seem to have been expecting something else, Chrome, something personal, perhaps? But your resume mentioned no parents still living, no family...”

He left the rest for me to take up. Surprised at such obvious probing into my personal life, I countered.

“Oh, I thought maybe some of my friends...” leaving the rest for him to deal with.” And now, with your permission, I’ll go to my quarters to relieve myself.”

The last was based on reality; if he interpreted it as a rebuke, or reminder of prescribed courtesies, why, let him. Whether what I felt coming from him was hostility I didn’t know, but his mood was obviously not a good one. The sooner gone from its negative aura the better.

In my room I initialed and signed the Hover-lag storage form at the spaces checked in red as the printed directions instructed. I was about to seal it, when something caught me up short. Those red-penciled check marks. Could they possibly be—stars?

There were five places to be initialed. Three of them were indicated by hastily made but straightforward check marks. The fourth was a mixture of an “X” and a check. The fifth, indicating the place for my full signature and Cadet number, was so scrambled (purposely?) that it did resemble a star. At least it had a starlike form. Or was I letting hopes guide my eyes into seeing a star where, in truth, only a harried clerk had rescribbled a check mark? That must be it, I concluded, for Jamison would never be that clumsy. If and when he sent me the star-sign (‘Oh, Gods, please let it be so—and soon!’ I silently prayed), it would be clear and unmistakable. Hidden, perhaps, to all other eyes, but like a beacon to mine.

I sealed the form, put it aside to be dropped later into the pickup slot by the Cabin’s entrance, and got into the welcome spray of a hot shower.

* * *

“Star-sign?” “Jamison?”

Your indulgence, please. There is much to tell and, not knowing how long is left me for the telling, I run ahead of myself. For a few moments let us leave young Cadet Chrome to wash himself before his evening meal, while I explain Jamison and the star-sign.

It was early in our schooling at the Academy, and our friendship began with me losing my temper and fighting. You see, Jamison was short and stocky, barely tall enough, and almost too blocklike to meet requirements for Cadet candidacy, and, unfortunately for him, he possessed a mass of curly, golden chest hair. Partially in rough good-humored play and partly out of secret jealousy, the Cadets took to sneaking up and pulling sharply at its tufts.

Jamison warded off the attacks as best he could, even, when pushed to the end of his temper’s tether, turning to counter with well-placed blows. It was to little avail, however. The torture soon commenced anew.

The sight of him motionless in silent tears of rage and frustration one particular day, as his classmates circled, sadistically plucking and then darting away—I think that moment did it. I had never seen a man reduced to tears, and from what others told me later, I exploded. For my part, I remember nothing past flinging myself at the group around my friend.

When the dust settled—literally, for we were out-of-doors in the sport area—none were permanently injured, the Gods be praised. All were keeping still, however, or else crawling away with great caution. Only Jamison and I were left upright, and he stood staring incredulously at me. I had blanched completely white, except for the thin, crimson trickle which ran from my bloodied nose down to stain my blue athletic trunks.

So ended his torment and began our friendship. A real pair of opposites we were; Tall and short, black hair and blond, a talker and a doer. And I suppose part of what drew us together was Jamison’s endless patience with my theorizing and questioning. He was silent and listened most of the time, never spoke of himself, of his beginnings or his family. When I prodded, he finally told me with a rueful smile that he’d been here before and was going through the schooling now for a second time.

“Gods! Did you fail?” I asked in awe.

“No,” he grinned, “sorry to say, I remember everything!”

He did seem a great deal older than the rest of us, and possessed by a certain melancholy. There were many times when he was absent from classes and our other activities, and I remember wondering if he had some lingering illness. He brushed aside my queries, but thanked me so warmly that I let matters go and centered my efforts on cheering him out of whatever gloom threatened to settle itself upon him.

You see, it never occurred to me in those days to look beyond appearances, to question motives, or suspect a surface or doubt the substance beneath it. And so I accepted Jamison as what he seemed. And S.O.R.A., too.

As the time for graduation drew nearer, Jamison and I within ourselves realized our closeness was soon to end. Being unable to acknowledge it, to speak of it openly and manfully— Love has many faces but so few names—we chose instead to make a secret pact. With it we decided to have a sign or symbol to be sent, one to the other, as a signal when we had reached whatever lay beyond our schooling’s end.

“It must be something simple,” I cautioned.

“A star,” suggested Jamison promptly.

And that was it, our signal of triumph: A star. Easy and direct. And we were sure no matter what, servants could be bribed, friends cajoled, even superiors duped to act as unwitting messengers for us.

But enough for now about friend Jamison and our pacts and symbols. Let us rejoin enterprising Chrome, still young and untested and full of high adventure, as he strides from his quarters for his evening meal.

* * *

Entering the central living area, I was surprised to see Vortex already there. He sat by the brazier, staring at its flames, lost in thought. Rather than disturb him, I went to the kitchen to forage for supper.

The quickest, easiest, and most nourishing thing would be a peanut butter sandwich. (Thank the Gods that peanut butter, singly my most serious weakness, is one food our technicians haven’t spoiled with their tamperings.) Yes, or better two, I decided, and made them; ample layers, thickly spread on fresh laser-thawed slices of white bread. I cut them into neat halves, was pouring a large glass of malt-o-milk, chocolate flavored—

“What’s that, Cadet?”

Gods above, the man moved without a sound! I gave a start, of course, and spilled some.

“Why are you nervous, Chrome?”

“You’re so quiet, Oh, King! Couldn’t we perhaps put a bell around your neck?”

Not too bad, I thought, on such short notice.

“I am not a cat. You are not a bird. And whatever else we may be doing, Cadet, I am not stalking you.” As I cursed myself for being fool enough to lock horns with him, he continued with a nod at my sandwiches. “What have you made?”

“My dinner, King Vortex. Sandwiches of peanut butter.”

“Oh, yes. You spoke of it before.”

“Nothing special. You seemed preoccupied over there, so I wanted to eat and be out of your way.”

He regarded my sandwiches with interest. To fill the gap, I ventured, “Would you like to try one?”

“Please.”

He bent close to the half I held up, sniffed, turned a glance at me, then swung back and took a large bite. First came a puzzled expression as he chewed, next one of scholarly thought and classification. More chewing, then a mumbled comment.

“Pardon, my King?”

With an effort, he swallowed and cleared his throat.

“Need drink!”

I raised the glass of malt-o-milk for him. As I tipped it further, he drained it and gave a satisfied sigh. Along the curve of his upper lip was a milk moustache. Seeing me eye it, he investigated with the tip of his tongue, found the residue, and lapped it off with a quick swipe.

“Another whole one for me? And more of—uh—that liquid?”

For a moment the vortex, with its dangerous dizzying spin, vanished, and in its place was a little boy eager for another piece of candy.

“Why the amusement, Chrome?”

“Nothing, only glad that you like it.”

I turned away to hide my idiot grin and got out more makings for the sandwiches.

“Very well, I’ll be at the table.”

The harder I try to keep from laughing, the more impossible it becomes; no matter what, the laughter will finally fight its way out. So why I struggled for silence in the kitchen, I don’t know. A price would be paid for that stillness which reigned as I made the sandwiches, poured two glasses of malt-o-milk, got napkins, and put everything on a tray.

Vortex was sitting on a floor cushion expectantly. I cleared my throat and forced a nervous chuckle, in hopes of getting rid of the laughter rising within me.

Not the slightest chance; the tension only continued to build.

I knelt, whipped open a napkin, and then wondered, ‘What do I do, tuck it in his navel?!’ With an apologetic smile, I tossed it in the general direction of his loins, grabbed half a sandwich and almost hit him in the mouth with it. He was startled, but took a bite, a more judicious one than his first in the kitchen. I got his glass of malt-o-milk ready. Munching away, he glanced appreciatively to me at this thoughtfulness and greedily drank.

“Mmmmm!”

He looked at the half a sandwich with the bite gone from it. I offered it, and he took another healthy chunk out of it. Another murmur of enjoyment and another gulp of malt-o-milk. He sighed and closed his eyes.

With determination I looked away to study the workmanship of the brazier. ‘If you laugh, Cadet, I silently threatened, ‘if you make one sound, you will sit on that blazing hot brazier till your backside burns off! Understand?’ And I honestly think I’d have been all right, except that my eyes came to rest on the Guest’s large well-shaped feet. The toes of both were moving back and forth ever so slightly with the inner ecstasy of this, his first experience with peanut butter. I was done for.

“Chrome...?”

I moaned and slapped the napkin hard against my mouth in the agony of trying not to laugh. No use at all. I fell back onto the floor, and a great gale of laughter came rolling up from my belly.

“Gods, Chrome, are you mad?” Vortex eyed me in disbelief. “Have you been into the liquor supply? Or the drug dispensary?!”

This set me off afresh, helplessly holding my sides as I howled in even more unseemly mirth. How long I would have continued I don’t know, but Vortex brought the seizure to a sudden halt with a sharp crack across my shins, dealt by the plastic-encased arm nearest me. It popped me up to sit there, rubbing my legs, groaning in pain, and sniffing away the tears of laughter.

“Ouch! The Guest has been unfair—uhhh, Gods, that hurts! It says specifically a Cadet shall not be struck ... unless ...”

I wiped my eyes with the napkin and then blew my nose into it.

“Unless what, Cadet?”

“I don’t remember.” I laughed and grimaced as I held my shins. “But you didn’t have to hit that hard!”

“ ‘Unless circumstances warrant it’ the wording goes, and this,” he waved towards me, “called for definite action. Why do you find me so amusing, Chrome? What makes you think you can express yourself so freely?”

The familiar King Vortex was beginning to return and spin once more, so I blurted it out.

“My King, I didn’t name you ‘Vortex’ in vain. I’m caught here in a maze I know nothing of. That’s obvious. So, when—” I grabbed a breath, “—over the prospect of my sandwiches, you became like a ten-year-old at his first parade—when the panther was replaced by a kitten intent upon its first ball of string—well, there was a tickling inside me, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried not to show it, but you saw what happened.”

I blew my nose again and shrugged.

“It’s the way I am. You should know better by how than to take offense at it.”

There was a crumb and a faint trace of malt-o-milk on his mouth. I wiped them away with his napkin, then pushed his hair to one side clear of his brow. During this he studied me with a guarded expression.

“I would like to finish this meal and then listen to some of the guitar music. Do you think it possible?”

“With pleasure, my King.”

I picked up his sandwich and we began again. Speaking so openly must have released something within me, for this time I had no difficulty in aiding him. He finished all the sandwiches and both glasses of malt-o-milk, as I regarded him with an almost parental smile. My admiration must have been misread as mischief.

“You’ll pay for this, Chrome,” he said. “Heed my warning.”

Oddly enough, I felt no alarm. Perhaps the look in his no-longer-icy eyes lulled me into false security. I cleared away the tray and headed for the tape machine.

“First I must excuse myself for a moment,” Vortex said, getting up. “While I’m gone, Chrome, please brine in the birds. They, too, will appreciate the music.”

I stared after him. The man was mad. Bring in the birds so they could listen, too?! I shook my head, but moved to do his bidding; mine not to reason why.

The cage, though large, was constructed of light metal and rolled easily on spongy casters. Its inmates fluttered at first, eyeing the pool’s water nervously as we passed, but once through the glass doors and inside they quieted.

I’d never paid much attention to the birds—some automatic mechanism fed and watered them, and the cleaning crew kept a carpet of fresh sand on the cage floor—so on this closer inspection I was surprised to find them very beautiful. Of the parrot family and large, they had pale blue bills and curving almond-shaped eyes of a brilliant ruby red. I had thought them to be white but now saw their feathers had an iridescent pinkish gleam.

The bigger of the two cocked his head to stare up at me, then sidled along the pole to present his head for scratching. I ruffled the soft topknot feathers with a forefinger and smiled at the muffled cooing sound he made.

“Open the cage. They’re tame and no trouble.”

Vortex’s silent reentry had caught my eye so I was spared my usual start of surprise. He stretched out on the couch next to the brazier.

After doing as he had asked, I dropped several reels of the guitar music into the machine and touched the “auto-play” indentation. The opening chords filled the room as I returned to the couch opposite the Guest.

The larger bird hopped onto the bottom rod of the cage’s opened doorway to peer about the room. Vortex made a coaxing noise.

“Come—it’s safe,” he added.

The bird gave a soft questioning caw.

“No,” Vortex shook his head, “she’s gone.”

It still hesitated, and Vortex spoke louder, as one would to a person troubled by bad hearing.

“Gone, I said—no longer here!”

Muttering doubtfully, the bird ruffled itself but then jumped onto the couch and approached, bobbing and weaving in a stylized greeting. Vortex made squeaking sounds at it by drawing air in through his teeth. It cooed and hopped up upon his shoulder to flick his hair aside with its bill and give his ear a delicate nip.

“Gently, please!” Vortex grimaced in mock discomfort.

The bird stretched its neck ceilingward, uttered a squawk, and repeated its nip. Its mate had been shifting from one claw to the other in the cage doorway, making small indecisive complaints. I whistled softly. It fluttered out to land on my outstretched hand, anchoring its claws with careful firmness around my fingers.

“You are,” I said with formality, “the most beautiful bird on our planet.”

It promptly offered its head for scratching and plumped itself into a nesting posture in my palm.

“Don’t be deceived,” Vortex laughed. “She bestows such affection on any moving object. That animal you called ‘cat’ nearly made a meal of her. When the bird first saw H’Zin-H’Tarn—” (Now I was able to recognize the unheard sound by its absence, the blanks in his pronunciation.) “—she flew to perch upon her tail. I was barely able to get the foolish bird away in time. Another second and she’d have been on her final journey to the Gods beyond the stars!”

“What are their names, Oh, King?”

Gathering up stray sandwich crumbs, I fed them to the birds.

“They’re not mine. I haven’t asked.”

He walked over to face the courtyard and lighted pool. A breeze rippled its waters causing refracted beams to undulate across the surrounding walls and arches. The guitar’s music told again of moonlight in a fabled Moorish garden, of warm night breezes heavy with the scent of night-blooming blossoms.

I sat listening, watching. Wondering why I hadn’t shown some cleverness in handling the situation here. Then realizing with a kind of sadness that I’d never been particularly clever in dealing with people and probably never would be. Far better now, Chrome, to concentrate on survival.

The birds fluttered to perch on either side of him as Vortex returned to the couch.

“Chrome, I...”

“The music, does it disturb your thought, my King? I’ll turn it off.”

“No. I’m having difficulty with words tonight, that’s all.”

His gaze went past me to rest on the flickering brazier. Desperation had begun to form behind the calm of those classic features. Or was it a trick of light? the music tugging at my imagination?

“This afternoon my questions upon your return angered you.” His look to me cut off my protest. “As well they should; they were personal beyond all tolerance.” The brief flicker of a smile. “In your astonishing way you once described the life, the power which is mine. Still I don’t have the right here to intrude upon your personal affairs, or those of your family and friends. And so I find myself unable...”

Again he looked to the brazier and its flames. The ache in my throat made it difficult to swallow. Best to face the issue directly.

“You asked about my family,” I said. “I’ll be honored to speak of it, though there’s truly little to tell. You see, there was a monorail accident when I was very young. A suspension arch collapsed during a thunderstorm—hit by a bolt of lightning, or maybe a wall of water from the sudden flooding rain—and my father and mother were both killed in the crash. I was too young actually to remember them or anything about it, and S.O.R.A. had me placed in a Children’s Retreat.”

People before had expressed sympathy at this point. Perhaps I now merely imagined emotion behind the Guest’s expression, but I sought to reassure him.

“Oh, it was a wonderful place; no unhappy orphanage feeling about it at all. I was well provided for in every way, and the insurance money took care of setting up an ample trust fund. Of course, S.O.R.A. knew enough of my family background ...”

The change in Vortex’s expression caused me wonder. His was not an Earth name; perhaps he was unfamiliar with our planet and its people.

“S.O.R.A., the initials stand for the Society of Restructured Americas, that’s our government here on the Continent of America. It cares for all our needs, guides and trains us, selects those of us lucky enough to be assigned to—”

“S.A.C.,” Vortex cut in, “the Scientific Advancement Committee, yes, I know—and your alphabetic politics bore me. It’s you, the individual, I asked about, Chrome—you and your family.”

His calm level tone, the handsome face with his gray eyes now half veiled by their thick lashes, lips parted on the verge of a smile—how could one take offense? Yet to refer to our government divisions as “alphabetic politics” was offensive, even if not meant to be.

“Our government is the most advanced, the most en- eyes now half veiled by their thick lashes, lips parted has reigned now amongst all Continents for nearly a century. I, personally, owe it all I have and am!”

“So you’ve been told by S.O.R.A. But can you really claim to know your planet? You’ve spent your life here in the Desert Academy installation, in this vast sprawling empire. A miniature world—isolated, self-contained, surrounded by wastelands.”

I stared at him, taken aback by this unexpected assault. In return, he regarded me with a teasing half-smile.

“And who are its villains, Chrome?”

“Villains?”

“Of course. Each world has its heroes and its villains; your world of the Desert Academy here is no exception. You elite Space Cadets are obviously heroes. So where do we look for the villains?”

“Perhaps in the outside world, the nature of which you seem to feel is unknown to me.” I sought to keep my temper. “But we have no villains here, Oh, Guest.”

Whatever mocking reply he’d been about to make was halted by his exclamation of annoyance as he blinked and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Chrome, would you mind?” He pushed at his forehead with an arm-cylinder. “Something’s in my eye.”

As I scrambled to his side the birds fluttered out of the way. Strands of his hair were caught in the thick lashes. I brushed them carefully back from his brow and forgot my ruffled feelings.

“Keep them closed for a few moments. Give the irritation time to pass.”

I wiped away the moisture from the corners of his eyes. Kneeling like this, thighs firmly touching and my hand on his broad shoulder, I became caught by his nearness. He rested an arm-cylinder unknowingly on my groin; the warmth of his hard-muscled body flowed in waves against my skin. The breath he took before speaking warned me so I didn’t jump.

“You’re right, Chrome: I am a guest here. I hope you’ll excuse my rudeness in talking of your land. Angering you was farthest from my thoughts.”

Silence.

His eyes opened too quickly for mine to escape, and something traveled along our gaze. Some self unknown to me spoke with him in the stillness. Of friendship between King and slave? I knew not. Pleasure was involved, though.

I could feel that.

Vortex began a smile—quiet, nothing lethal. He glanced down to his arm-cylinder cradled between my legs and raised an eyebrow as he moved the arm to rest against his own thighs.

“The birds, Chrome,” he commented dryly. “We know our innocence, but what of the impression on them!”

Said so casually, it was easy to laugh and resume my place on the floor. The birds sidled closer to Vortex once more.

“Before my rudeness and the questionable conduct which followed,” he said with a twinkle and an eye to the nearer bird, “you were about to say...?”

“I was speaking of my family and its background. The Scientific Advancement Committee here at the Desert Academy was given access to S.O.R.A.’s master computer file. Through those records, the Committee was able to trace our bloodline and discover the history of our healing art. That was undertaken only after I found the power for myself, though, and went to them for an explanation. By that time, the living relatives had gone so many different ways as to be untraceable.

And I didn’t actually care. Why should I when I’d never known them?”

A series of picture postcard memories slid across my mind’s eye in rapid succession.

“You frown, Chrome. May one ask why?”

“Only one other thing which persisted for some little time; a recurring dream, a pleasant one, of a girl with a lovely smile. It was always the same: I was little—by that I mean, a small child—and she and I were walking close to the waves of a sandy beach. After a while she would take my hand and place it in someone else’s. My look was to her and I didn’t see who I was being given over to, but it wasn’t bothering; they felt friendly. Then she would kiss me goodbye and continue down the beach into the late afternoon sun, turning back now and then to wave to me. At the end she disappeared in its glare.

“We worked hard on analyzing this, actually before formal schooling began, and attacked it from every angle. Nothing came of our efforts, though; even under deepest hypnotherapy I had only the vague feeling she was a member of my family. But I’m an only child, so that, too, was a dead end. And by now the dream has faded to a mere memory.”

Vortex nodded thoughtfully and murmured to the birds something which sounded made up mostly of those “H’s” of his. They stirred and cooed, then took off in unison to circle us before diving back into their cage. I closed the cage door and was about to put on more music when I remembered my manners and turned to ask the Guest’s wishes.

Arm-cylinders crossed behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. The desperation I had seen before was again written on his face—as if on my own “open-book,” so plain it was for any eye to see. My mind raced to find something to say.

“What is your real name again?” was the first thing that came to me.

“My real . . . ?” He looked at me as if trying to place who I was. “Oh. ‘Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum.’ Why?”

“Do you think it would help any if I learned to say it and called you by it? I mean, sometimes when one is in—uh—foreign surroundings, one misses familiar things. And maybe something as simple as the sound of one’s own name—although for me yours seems far from simple—but, at any rate, hearing a familiar sound might be a nice thing for you.”

There was a silence as he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read at all. It was akin to those “H’s”; something we didn’t have and so were unable to understand.

“Yes, well, it was only an idea, Oh, Guest. Uh—would you like more music, or is it perhaps too late?”

In a flash he was on his feet glaring down with eyes of live coals.

“Why did you say that?” he rasped. “Why?!”

If his hands had not been enclosed in those cylinders they would have been around my neck.

“Gods! S-say wh-wh-what?”

“That perhaps it is too late. Did you hear them? Were you listening, Chrome?”

“I don’t understand. Listening when? Today? I’ve been out at the oasis.”

He stepped back and the glare faded.

“Of course,” he muttered, “the tracer plainly showed you there. I must be...”

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.

“Come, sit down. I owe you an explanation.”

The news was not good. That morning, after the usual examination, the staff had been carefully correct and formal, but he could sense they were deeply disturbed. They told him there was not only a lack of progress in the healing process but also the hint of regression. The youngest of them even voiced the opinion, “Perhaps it is too late.” This brought an immediate sharp rebuke from his colleagues and an abrupt departure of the group. It also left Vortex in a state of depression he couldn’t shake off. He tried to recall anything which might be a factor in this change towards the worse but could come up with nothing. Until he thought of me.

“Me?!”

“Oh, not willingly, Chrome. You’ve been most attentive and thorough in your work; there’s never been any doubt of it. But I suddenly wondered if, unknown to you, a problem in your personal life was preoccupying your mind, robbing you of the energy needed for healing.”

“Now you know the truth; there’s nothing like that to occupy any level of my mind.”

He nodded glumly, desperation about to envelope him again.

“But, please, you must also know this: I’m a fighter when finally aroused. A good one!”

His slight smile came too quickly for my liking. It bespoke of the way one placates a child.

“No, by the Gods, Vortex, listen to me. I mean it with my heart!” I grabbed his knees hard. “I’m here to serve you, so you’ve never seen that side of me, but I fight to the finish. And I’ll fight this thing now, whatever it is, until I win. Nothing can make me give up.” I shook him. “Believe me, I will win!”

He winced, and I felt him try to tighten his thigh muscles against my insistent digging grip.

“Oh! Oh, pardon, my King!”

“Yes, Chrome, we’re having our share of trouble with the arms as it is. Let’s spare the legs if possible.”

He made it sound stern but broke into a smile which bounced me back to pound my knees in gladness.

“Vortex, we will win!”

He got up, and I arose as well, watching him study me the way he often did. Was I so peculiar a specimen to him?

“I once said you’re dangerous, Chrome, and you are, very. It’s good to find we’re on the same side at last; I wouldn’t want to fight you. Good night.”

I was about to clear the tray and glasses when he turned.

“And, Chrome ...”

“Yes, my King?”

“I’ve become accustomed to it, so use your name for me. My own is too difficult. Besides, if you knew its true meaning,” his eyes glittered in some stray beam of light, “you might never ask to hear it again.”

V

With the enthusiasm of youth I threw myself into the task of healing Vortex. Nothing would stand in my way. Every waking thought would be focused to restore and revitalize him. A single cause: Vortex, my King. If there was to be a battle, I was ready for it—and invincible!

Marching out that next morning, muscles still over-inflated with the flush of blood from my exercises, I greeted the Guest briskly and prepared him for the massage. Some of my excessive enthusiasm drained at his involuntary flinch as I slapped on the first oil; I looked down to discover bruises had begun just above each knee, the results of my gripping him there the night before. I muttered some ill-tempered oath.

“What did you say, Chrome?” Vortex smiled as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “It was difficult to make out but sounded quite original!”

“Sorry, my King, and even more sorry about these.” I examined the flesh more closely. “At least the skin is unbroken, but what unthinkable stupidity on my part. I’m beginning to wonder if good sense is taking leave of me!”

I worked around the injured area as best I could, perspiring more than usual from the extra concentration and effort. During one of my pauses taken to mop myself off, I noticed Vortex studying me.

“Must you be so grim a warrior, Chrome?” he asked. I eyed him in confusion. “Oh, make no mistake. I agree with you; this fight must be won. However, you’re such an angry young Cadet this morning with such a fierce frown—” He pulled his brows together in an imitation so accurate I had to laugh. “I find myself wondering if I’m not in danger!”

“A point well made,” I smiled. “Healing is done in a positive way with an eager heart; my thanks to you for the reminder. And you’re right, I was attacking too sternly.”

I began again less vigorously. Just as determined as before, though, and I would continue to be. Let the whistling cheerful noises be left to song birds.

“Why don’t they sing?” I asked.

“Hmmm?”

“Pardon, my King.”

“No, no, I was thinking of another matter. The caged birds here, you mean? They make certain sounds to each other and to me sometimes, but, no, you’re right; they seem to make no formal song. Perhaps, together and happy, they have no need of it.”

Silence for some little time and then Vortex stirred.

“Tell me, is it true as I’ve heard that your government decrees you may breed or marry only with whom they choose?”

“Yes, of course, my King.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, in the beginning, they had to rebuild our population as quickly and solidly as possible. It had been decimated by the war losses, you see. Then later, governmental choice was found the most effective prescription for properly regulating the growth of the newly formed Society of Restructured Americas.”

“And now?”

“Naturally it is the custom. We consult the master computer files which S.O.R.A. has built up throughout the past century, for their choice is bound to be the wisest.”

“But what of the individual’s natural choice? For example, you say by nature you’re cheerful, filled with good humor. Don’t you naturally prefer people of a similar disposition? Those who look for the positive, the good, who find pleasure and reward in work’s achievement?”

“Indeed, my King. And those are the very qualities which S.O.R.A. will choose in my case when the time comes.”

Vortex regarded me and then the birds which we had been discussing moments before.

“To me it would seem, though their cage is much smaller, they are far better off.”

I smiled at what I took to be this pleasantry on his part and directed my mind back to concentrate on the healing. For me, there continued to be an element of confusion: his tremendous sensitivity to any work being done near the black cylinders covering his lower arms and hands. I would approach them cautiously, with utmost care and still be immediately rebuffed.

“Chrome!” he’d say gruffly.

“It’s very gentle,” I’d reply and stop at once. “No pressure at all.”

“What you call gentle and what I feel are two very different things. There seems no way of making that clear to you.”

“I wish only to aid in the healing. For progress to be made we must, perhaps, endure some slight discomfort.”

So the conversation would go, with me each time having to yield, yet secretly triumphant at having gained a bit of ground. Even if it was only to restate and reinforce the idea that the work ultimately would be accomplished and successful, even that was at least one more step towards my goal.

* * *

During the next days I thought of little else but Vortex and how to heal him. After the massage I would eat and then go for a short walk to clear my mind before retiring to quarters to plan and ponder, to review all the teachings and techniques I had been given.

The cynics who say we forget ninety percent of what we learn must spend their lives surrounded by dullards or morons. In contrast, I agree with those who claim nothing is ever lost to us, that once we’ve come to know a thing, it’s ours to use forever.

A case in point.

Though my walks were aimless and never planned, it was my custom to leave the courtyard and follow the path of rough stones to where it blended into the dry riverbed which led ultimately to the oasis. Once at this beginning, the smooth stones of the riverbed, I would take whatever direction chance dictated. The deciding factor could be anything. A glimpse of a new vegetation, a stone of unusual color, a butterfly straying by, a shadow falling a certain way. It didn’t matter.

One particular day on reaching the riverbed, I glanced up idly towards the bluff which rose to the right some distance from the Cabin, and suddenly a voice from the past echoed in my mind.

‘To see a path, to find, a trail, look and then let it blur.’

Our summer training. My friend Jamison explaining how to track an animal or person. ‘You can’t peer too hard or you see too much of everything. Relax and let the traces come to you.’

I stared at the bluff, let the image blur slightly as if looking beyond it, and in a moment it happened. I saw the faint details of things slightly out of place, an unbalance here, a crumbling there, a tenuous trail leading towards the top of the bluff. There was nothing to do but follow it—and find that dream of most young boys, a secret hide-out cave!

Concealed by the natural stone bank in front of it was an opening which was big enough to enter by stooping low and led to a chamber the size of a large storage-room. This narrowed at its back, ending in a nichelike formation resembling a couch. Since some of the stones there had been arranged to make a kind of shelf, I wondered if the cave had been planned along with the Cabin and oasis by the designer-Cadet. Subsequent visits showed it to be part of the natural rock formation, at least in its original form. The modification and additions, however, would turn out to be quite another matter.

It was a while before I went to the cave again. I was expending much energy on the healing and needed time to replenish what had been used up. So, when finished with the massage-therapy, I took to going directly to my quarters to lie down to think—and sleep. Except for the morning sessions I saw little of Vortex. He kept to his quarters, evidently following his own intensified regime in the enriched atmosphere there. Late afternoons I swam a good distance in the pool, had supper by myself, and then retired to sleep again in order to be fresh and rested the next day.

This continued, as I say, for some little time, with Vortex becoming more withdrawn and I more determined. Then came the day when, at the beginning, all seemed well. Vortex appeared calm and even offered as greeting some now-forgotten pleasantry. I returned it and proceeded with the routine.

I had taken to massaging both upper arms at the same time, reaching over him from the head of the table, beginning firmly with a hand on each shoulder and working downward over the biceps with decreasing pressure. At the crook of the elbow, well before the forbidden cylinders, I would barely keep the necessary contact as I reversed direction and traced the veins back up to begin again.

That day I took special care to be gentle and reassuring in my touch. To the point where I had begun to feel drowsy with the slow easy smoothness of the strokes. So I was especially startled when, without warning, Vortex sat up, legs over the side of the table.

“You’re forcing, Chrome, hurting deliberately! Why?”

His words were bewildering, unexpected; his tone accusing.

“Untrue, my King, I can feel and sense these things. I wasn’t hurting; it’s impossible!”

“And now you say I lie!”

“I don’t understand,” I said unevenly. “I only know I would die rather than harm you in any way!”

Overwrought, shaken, I realized then that I should have been silent, but I’ve known that many times in many years and still I’ve gone ahead and spoken. Vortex’s eyes narrowed as he continued to study me.

“Come here. Face me,” he said, breaking the stillness.

I obeyed. With knees spread apart and the loosely draped towel still covering his loins, Vortex had his cylinder-encased arms resting on the table on either side of his legs.

“Closer. Here, to touch the table.”

Again I did as he ordered. The heat of his body seemed like that of the sun’s rays. I closed my eyes. My heart’s pace increased, and I knew I soon must turn and run or be overwhelmed. Then came a supporting touch on either shoulder from his arm-cylinders. Lower and much warmer, the firm tightening of his knees against my sides.

“I was in error, Chrome. You meant nothing wrong. I see that now.” Vortex’s voice was low. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

Impossible even to think of; I shook my head.

“Look at me, Chrome.”

An imperious command which could only be obeyed. I found the ice-and-fire-and-barely-hidden-danger gone and in their place, soft gray velvet. Able to enfold and protect. Of their own accord my hands came up to rest against his temples. First was the pulse of the man, then a flowing message of strength. Calm, steady, far clearer than any words.

How long I stood transfixed I don’t know. Possibly I might be there still had Vortex not leaned slowly back to regard me with an enigmatic smile.

“Healing can be a path, Chrome, leading in both directions, and wide enough for two to travel. Remember that. Always.”

Remember? Hardly an experience to forget. I was to recall it often, each time to realize anew that certain unknown barriers had been forever broken down, that the forging of an unnamed bond had been begun.

* * *

As soon as the morning’s work was finished, I dressed in hiking gear and started off to try and sort things out. At the riverbed, deeply disturbed and much too drained of energy for nature-jaunting. I remembered the bluff and its cave. Enough removed from the Cabin so one could think in peace—yes, exactly the place. I hiked up and sat gratefully in its shade, enjoying the quiet. But not for long.

In the cave’s stillness, an interior dialogue began amongst those inner voices one cannot seem to control, subtle one moment, squabbling the next. The price one pays, I suppose for being an overindulgent parent to one’s children selves.

‘You realize what’s happened, don’t you.’

‘Be quiet!’

‘Why not admit it, think about it?”

‘Stop. That’s enough now!’

Yes, of course I knew what had happened, so why think about it? I had been overwhelmed, so swiftly stricken the first evening that thinking was pointless. One’s heart has been stolen, carried off in a fevered, lightning-filled moment, leaving no trace, no single drop of blood for proof. So what does thinking do for this? What good can come of it? None. Life simply continues. You get up and straighten yourself enough to be presentable and keep on going as if nothing has happened.

‘Why don’t you tell him? Be honest about it—“the truth,” remember?’

‘Go away. Leave me alone. Let me...’

‘Pretend? Pretend you’re not like that other stupid Cadet, the one before you? But you are, you know. Exactly!’

I sat brooding about the former Cadet. No, I wasn’t “exactly” like him. At least in his poem he’d been able to write of a lost Love; he had at least experienced that. I had nothing.

Restlessly I stretched out on the cool stone slab at the rear of the cave. My hand encountered an object tucked behind a small outcropping and brought out a pair of binoculars—powerful electronic ones issued on first missions to Explorer Cadets. Their enlargement factor is so great they require a stand or mount of some kind; held in the hand, one’s very blood movement causes the image to jiggle into a useless blur. I poked about but there was no sign of any such accessory. Then my eyes were drawn to the barricadelike stone formation at the cave’s entrance. That unnaturally even notch in it—yes, the binoculars fit into the stone’s hollow perfectly. I adjusted the fingertip lever and the Cabin leaped into focus, so clear and close I could have been suspended only feet from it.

What had the Cadet come here to watch? The Cabin, its occupants, its visitors and their comings and goings? The grooved stone angled the binoculars in precisely that direction; to turn them elsewhere was impossible. But why do this? What motive did he have? I sighed and removed the binoculars from the notch. As if to answer my questions, doing so revealed minute lettering scratched into the stone, emphasized by an over-tracing of dark pigment:

IT IS DEATH TO LOVE A ROBOT.

After putting the binoculars away, I stretched out on the cool stone surface at the end of the cave. Carefully I directed my mind to that sentence.

Robots.

In the civilian world, there’d always been rumors of “mechanical men” and other humanoid things. Some so cunningly fashioned as to defy detection. Even as bumbling beginners, though, we Cadets laughed knowingly and shook our heads. Man was far too complex to imitate completely. Improve upon in certain areas, yes, of course, for Man is frail and can be broken. But Man is also an incredible construction of unbelievable intricacy. To claim a thing could be built to equal him, to double for him, to pass—no, that was madness.

There were a few who did make that claim: Robots existed which were undetectable from humans. These true believers had no proof, naturally, only stories they had heard. Such as the one about a Cadet who had “failed” and returned to the dormitory unexpectedly to gather up his keepsakes. Pounced upon by eager brother-Cadets, he had been questioned avidly and had taken it all in high spirits, in perfect good humor. Fending off the buffeting of eager young bodies as best he could, saying it was no use, he couldn’t remember and, anyway, they could obviously see it’ wasn’t any of it that important. Then quite suddenly it happened. (Was it a question someone asked? Or a gesture someone made? Or somebody’s touch?) Without warning his eyes bulged wide with fright, his mouth flew open, and he screamed, “Robot!” That was all of it. One word. Then he slumped unconscious against the Cadets and was taken away.

A lurid tale, it added little of substance and served only to fan the flames of rumor amongst the gullible.

There were, however, other “Robots”—genetically programmed beings not so named at their beginning, but rather in the end referred to as such. A nickname said with that sneer which covers the average man’s fear of anything alien to his narrow knowledge.

Created in a maze of the glass tubing and exotic ceramic vessels of laboratories, these beings—first hailed as “Test-tube Men,” then “T-Men”—were to have been the final solution to every human problem or failing. They were from human stock, their cells and genes and chromosomes selected with infinite care from human donors—men and women whose histories had been minutely detailed and mulled over by the most sensitive computers.

The complexities of choosing traits, manipulating, rearranging, and restructuring characteristics were staggering. By comparison, the mating, the subsequent nurturing of the embryo and bringing it to birth were said to be nothing. I use the expression “said to be” because a heavy cloak of secrecy surrounded the project from its inception. Although it was under the auspices of the Scientific Advancement Committee, Cadets at the Academy knew no more of the actual mechanics than did the average civilian. They did know more about its failure, though, and far sooner than the public.

After the first hysterical triumph at having contrived immaculately conceived birth—in laboratory crockery rather than in some mythical stable’s manger—there came a rash of stories about a race of true super-humans. But when these infant wonders grew and matured, doubts did likewise. Doubts which began vague and became grave almost overnight.

First was the matter of females: there were none. It was as though somewhere Something had firmly said, “No.” Then there was the problem of diet. The thriving infant boys were good eaters, or rather drinkers, for they rarely passed the artificial nursing stage. Ravenous they were, right up until the very hour when they turned away from the food source, refused all further sustenance, and starved to death. And finally, it was the crop which did survive to mature into young adults that put a stop to the whole thing.

For these ultimate “men” had a fatal flaw. In several tragic instances it was detected too late; human lives were lost after long hideous suffering. The lack ran through them all without exception. Termed “a spirit” by some, “compassion” by others, “a soul” by yet others, whatever quality or trait it is that makes us care about each other, that subtle something was missing. Many words were used by many people, and voices were raised in angry shouting. Still the fact remained: A T-man would fight to the death to protect himself, but the life of another meant nothing to him. Not that T-men were killers, though some were trained to this and became most proficient. No, they simply failed to understand that life itself is unique and important. Even with the most intensive programming, they could not be depended upon to fight for it and protect it against all odds.

The project was brought to an abrupt halt. The T-Men assigned to isolated positions of military importance where their capabilities could be utilized, but where no human lives were dependent upon them. Whenever contact with the public was necessary, they were given all possible anonymity and their identities elaborately disguised. After all, they did have feelings, could suffer just as the rest of mankind, and deserved protection from the growing public knowledge of—I remember one shrill voice referring to “These monsters among us!”

Why dwell on this at such length? Because of that cursed sentence scratched into the stone, IT IS DEATH TO LOVE A ROBOT. Because of the storm it set off inside me. Because of what Vortex had said that first night: “You are thinking, ‘By the Gods, those fools have sent me out to wait on a Robot.’ ” And moments later in speaking of the Cadet before me: “...you would make the same mistake that he made—of loving me. Understandable, perhaps, but fatal. And I mean that literally. Fatal. For I have no interest in men whatsoever...”

There was a growing sense of nightmare, a claustrophobic frenzy deep inside me. I suddenly had to bolt out of the cave’s confines into the fresh air.

Surprisingly, it was late afternoon. I descended to the riverbed and made my way back along the rough stone path to the courtyard. Vortex was in the pool swimming on his back, cumbersome cylinders at his sides, using his powerful legs to propel himself easily through the water. When he saw me he ducked under the surface and then out again to let the water sweep his hair back from his face. He blew a stream of air upwards to rid himself of some remaining strands and smiled.

“Good journey, Chrome? You’ve been gone long enough.”

I looked at him silently. He nodded towards the cage.

“The birds have been asking about you.” He studied me, as I did him, and swam nearer. “What is it, Chrome? You look so solemn. Is something wrong?”

A demon within me said, ‘Ask him! Now!’ so I knelt down and looked him squarely in the eye.

“What do you know about Robots, Oh, Guest?”

Vortex threw back his handsome head and laughed.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to that. What you really want to find out is if I am a Robot, isn’t it?” he chuckled. “Well, the answer is...” A wicked smile as he drew out the suspended pause, ending it with a shake of his head, “... no!”

Submerging until the water level was just below his eyes, he continued to regard me for several seconds. Suddenly he brought his head out, and spouting like a fountain statue, caught me full in the face with a mouthful of water!

I sputtered and shook my head to clear my eyes as Vortex, laughing again, pushed away from the edge and out into the middle of the pool.

Grinning, I stripped off my gear, dove in and cut through the water. He turned, kicking to escape, setting up a screen of spray and bubbles with his mighty legs. For the moment I was back in the summer sun of the Southern Islands chasing through the waves in a game of tag with my brother-Cadets.

Vortex’s kicks set up a barrier of foam no matter which way I tried to reach him. I submerged into a streaking path of bubbles; he was down there, already facing me. Before thinking it through, I had both my arms and legs wound tight around him.

An incredible moment with his whole hard-muscled length full against me. Another moment, both of us so still I could feel his heartbeat throb strong on top of mine.

Alarm bells went off inside me. I was, indeed, “in over my depth” in every sense. Loosening my grip, I grasped him much more gently under each arm and brought us to the surface.

“Sorry, my King!” I panted, getting my breath.

We treaded water, he with his black arm-cylinders resting on my shoulders as he flung the hair back out of his eyes.

“For what? The attack began with me,” he smiled, “and was unfair, since you’re too much the sportsman to take advantage of an ‘un-armed foe’...” He tightened the cylinders against my neck slightly, “... if you’ll pardon the play on words.”

“All the more reason for working harder on ‘re-arming’ you!” I smiled back and forced myself to let go of him.

* * *

The next morning Vortex greeted me with an amiable nod and the hope I had rested well. I responded politely (why go into describing another fitful night, even here in retrospect!), and the massage had been well begun. About a quarter of the way through, he broke the silence as though continuing a sentence just left unfinished.

“—although I suppose from your point of view I would be the right age, wouldn’t I.”

I reached for a towel to wipe my brow. Vortex had opened his eyes, so I shrugged and shook my head in mock despair.

“My growing deafness, Oh, King; you must forgive it. I heard nothing of your lecture’s beginning and so am ignorant of even its subject matter!”

Vortex began to smile, one of his brightest. In automatic reflex, my hands holding the towel shielded my eyes as I made a pretence of drying the perspiration around them. Progress! At last I had learned to protect myself. I thought.

“Your suspicions of yesterday, Chrome, that I’m a Robot. From what I’ve been told, the last group of them was issued about the time I was born. So that would fit. The time, that is. But the place...” He sighed deeply. “Ah, Chrome, another matter quite out of keeping with your theory. It was far from here. Far away, indeed.”

Vortex was in a conversational mood, I realized. With pretended resignation, I got two pillows for him to recline against. Then I made a place where I could sit and rest a moment on the table next to his feet.

“Although there is much you cannot know,” he said, “there still is some I’m going to tell you. I have a feeling the more you understand about me, the more intuitively and quickly you’ll be able to apply your healing powers.

“There’s a parallel, a similarity to our lives, as well as a great contrast, Chrome—or so one can say, looking to the future. You now approach the end of your training period at the Academy, from there you go on to your vocation. You’ll be successful in yours, as I am in— Don’t look so doubtful,” he admonished. “Dwell for the time on the possibility of my knowing things you may not, and give credit to what I say.”

He was speaking lazily, in a tone of almost total disinterest, but his eyes, locked on mine, blazed with another message. What had been said was of tremendous importance; I must understand and give agreement to it. I thought quickly back to what he had been talking about.

“I understand, my King: I am to be as successful in my chosen career as you are in yours,” I said, my tone implying a foregone conclusion with no possible alternatives.

“Exactly,” he responded casually, and the blaze went out.

But what had I agreed to? And why was it necessary to speak on what seemed to be two levels at once? It was difficult enough to concentrate on what he said in ordinary conversation. If he now was going to begin taking off in several directions at once, I would be lost for sure. As I found myself to be just then. Vortex had gone on, leaving me to follow along as best I could—something about my Gift, was he talking of that now?

“—born with, and I, in my own way, was also gifted. I speak of it without a sense of immodesty since it’s something I had nothing whatever to do with.”

Referring to his appearance in a completely dispassionate way, he explained how from his earliest memories he had been showered with compliments, attention, affection, love, adoration. Barely into maturity yet surfeited to the point of disgust, he had turned away from all personal relationships, had cursed his handsome appearance, had even thought of how to destroy it. But someone or something—that part of it wasn’t clear—had underlined a sort of psychic law to him: Having been given a gift of great worth, it is indeed worse than evil to throw it away in childish anger.

“Although I didn’t fully understand or accept the concept at first, I did the best I could. I began with the idea of building upon what had been given me, of working with myself to perfect myself; to condition and refine and strengthen my being in every aspect. I concentrated on programming myself to pleasure, pleasure given myself in myself and by myself. To the point where I was able to achieve peaks of gratification greater than had ever been possible with—outsiders.”

I studied the fold I was carefully creasing in my towel. Embarrassed by what he had said, I didn’t want to meet his eyes and let him realize— No, come to think of it, not embarrassed by what he’d said. The subject matter was ordinary enough; when one looked like that, why, indeed, ever bother to leave the mirror? No, what made me uncomfortable was how he’d said it. And it suddenly came to me: he was lying!

“Even now,” he said, “imprisoned as I am with these,” he held up his cylinder-encased arms and hands, “there are still ways, devices in there,” a nod towards his quarters, “to satisfy me completely.”

“I—I’m glad you are so well taken care of, Oh, King,” I said with what sincerity I could.

There was a long silence and I felt myself starting to turn red. Vortex swung his legs over the side of the table. Expecting either amusement or questioning from him, or maybe both, I was grateful to get neither.

“I’ve embarrassed you. Quite far from what I’d intended, Chrome.” His voice was mild. “But at least now you know a little more about me. I trust something inside you will take note and put it to good use.”

I closed my eyes and pressed at their innermost corners by the bridge of my nose. A headache was beginning; sometimes that helped. That and several deep breaths.

When I opened my eyes, he had gone.

* * *

There was no sign of Vortex the rest of that day. The staff from CenMed was due on the next, and so, knowing I’d spend my usual restless night, I got ready for an early start the next morning.

In addition to lunch provisions, I rolled up two extra blankets from the linen closet into a backpack. My thought: use them in the cave to make its couch of stone more comfortable. I could spend the day getting much-needed rest.

Maybe even some untroubled sleep!

VI

The hint of dew on desert shrubs and the crisp fragrant clarity of early morning were revitalizing medicine. I made it to the cave in time to watch the sun rise.

From behind the far-distant mountain range it came; first an ever-brightening glow, then the tiny sliver of fire which slowly became a blinding, burning, molten disc.

Turning away into the cave, I envisioned ancients at their worship of the sun—for them a God, reborn with each fresh dawn to five anew that day, then be devoured by Night.

I unpacked my knapsack and spread the blankets, folding them both double to form a more comfortable surface.

‘And what is this that you worship, Chrome?’

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. It had to be faced though, sooner or later. And answered as well.

Vortex, first with his unexpected waterplay, and then with equally surprising revelations about his past, had actually done nothing to allay my suspicion that he was a Robot. The more I pondered, the .more clues popped up: His incredibly handsome virility, his unnerving animal magnetism, his unbelievable physical development—even the “malfunction” hidden under those black arm-coverings. All these pointed at tinkering and tampering amongst the test tubes to attain perfection. Then his tale of turning away from people and relying first upon himself and ultimately upon machines for his sensual gratification. No wonder it sounded a hollow lie to me. What easier way for a Robot to obscure his basic flaw: The inability to be concerned with, to love, if you will, any life form but his own!

There was more, but condensing, I admitted to myself: Yes, I was an object of entrapment. I settled the matter: Yes, my hunter, Vortex, was a—a Robot.

(Even now, how hard it is to write “Robot.” An indication, as it was then, of prejudice deeply rooted, instinctual unconscious rebelling against the nonhuman, the other-than-we-are of this universe.)

At any rate, I admitted my circumstances and then faced the final ugly question: Why was it death to love a Robot? The statement itself was certainly no news. It had been a joke made amongst the Cadets at the same time the existence of Robots was being denied. Even the general public had taken to mouthing one version or another of it—

My thoughts were interrupted by a flare of light which entered the cave’s dimness for the briefest of moments. I seized the binoculars and cautiously fit them into the slot in the stone barricade.

The cleaning crew had arrived; the sun glinted off their vehicle’s windscreen. There were four of them in white, loose-fitting coveralls. At the same time the staff from CenMed, a team of five, was leaving the Cabin. The cleaning crew politely stepped aside allowing the blue-uniformed officers to pass.

There was no breeze and the heated air masses rising between the Cabin and my binoculars made the image waver. It was tantalizing to see the figures clearly, but have their faces too blurred to make out features. The two groups together that way—there was something familiar combined with something out of the unknown. Had I caught a glimpse of light hair tucked under a workman’s cap or an officer’s hat? I’d never seen Vortex completely clothed and either a military or a laboring uniform could disguise a man’s bodily proportions. Was an exchange being made, a duplicate substituted?

The groups parted, the CenMed doctors getting into their Hover-craft and the cleaning crew moving through the entrance arch and out of view. Trying to pin each down for a moment of identification and failing in each case, I sat back on my haunches cursing. What was it? What memory had been disturbed by those wavering images?

I ate my lunch, lay down to think but, typically, fell asleep instead. So I missed the cleaning crew’s departure and the chance to study them in the cool steadier afternoon air. I hurried down to the Cabin.

The surface of the pool was still a little choppy, and wet footprints led toward the interior. Vortex had evidently just finished his swim.

Looking expectantly for mail on the table in the main room, I found only a, printed postcard acknowledging receipt of the form I had filled in and returned about the Hover-Jag. I studied it closely; there was nothing extra on it. No star-sign.

“In need of glasses, Chrome?”

I jumped guiltily at Vortex’s sudden question. Had they, in truth, exchanged him? I couldn’t tell from that distance.

“No, my King, only interested in whether they print these or electroflash them. It’s hard to tell the difference.”

Under the pretext of holding the card up for him to see, I moved in closer to have a good look at him.

“If you’re trying to see where they screwed on my new head,” he said, “you can stop. It’s hidden, under my wig. A little trapdoor they can open to replace worn-out power-cells.” He smiled a bit. “It is. Didn’t you know? Put your hand under in back; you can feel where it’s fastened. Go ahead, Chrome.”

“My King...”

He knew how much I wanted to touch him, how hard I was fighting not to. And he was going to make me do it.

“I said to go ahead, Chrome. See for yourself, and be thorough while you’re at it. Use both hands.”

He stared down at me no longer smiling. I tightened my jaw muscles, put the postcard in my shirt pocket, and raised my hands. He must not have gone all the way into the pool because his hair was dry. My fingers worked up from the base of his skull but felt only his firm unbroken scalp and the soft strong strands of his hair. He bent closer as if to accommodate my search. His lips were near enough now so that if I let my hands have their way...

“Well, Chrome?”

Those eyes had never left mine. They were reading everything I felt, and now they mocked me, dared me to let my hands bring us together.

“Exploration reveals nothing unusual. King Vortex is joking with me.”

I said it as lightly as possible and jammed my hands deep into my trouser pockets.

“The doctors were satisfied with your work this time, Chrome,” Vortex said. “They seem to feel progress is being made once more. For my part, I’ll be pleased if you remember to shave tomorrow morning.”

He turned and was gone. In my rush to be out and away I had skipped shaving that morning, and, whether a human or a genetically programmed being, Vortex didn’t like it. I walked to my quarters with a feeling of hopelessness. Still no sign from Jamison. Had he forgotten our pact, or, worse...?

* * *

Next morning I went through my exercises and showered, worrying, picturing details of how Jamison might have failed. Glumly I picked up the fresh towel covering my shaving equipment and almost shouted with excitement and relief. Placed under the towel was a star, formed by folding and tearing a piece of blue wrapping paper from the laundry. By the Gods, he had gotten through! He’d made it! That glimpse of golden hair, my madman friend, Jamison, had smuggled himself out here to make sure I got this symbol...!

Then the slow, dry scraping of fear down my spine as I saw the roughly lettered message on the star:

ROBOT + LOVE = DEATH!!

Now Jamison, too, was warning me—and risking his life to do it.

How I expected to follow my morning routine, I don’t know. While shaving I started to tremble. Like an idiot I kept going and sliced my neck so badly it wouldn’t stop bleeding. Staunching the flow of blood with a towel pressed against the cut, I carefully hid the paper star and its warning and went to seek advice from Vortex.

He came striding out of his quarters like some idealized young God as I straggled out of mine. His eyes widened as he saw me.

“I asked you to shave, not cut your throat! What happened?”

“It won’t stop,” I answered stupidly.

He stared at me for a second, then nodded at the towel.

“Take it away long enough for me to see.”

I did.

“Put it back before you bleed to death,” he snapped. “And pay attention. There’s some medicinal foam labeled ‘Syntho-Stearate B’ out in the massage cabinet drawer. Put some on and cover it with a piece of tape.” Walking back in a preoccupied way toward his quarters, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll be out later to see if you survive!”

Hardly tender concern, but I didn’t expect any from him. I went out and pulled open the cabinet drawer. One of the birds ruffled itself, eyed the bloodied towel I held pressed to my neck, and uttered a series of questioning noises.

“Tried to hang myself and the rope broke. Why?” I told it acidly, and rather surprised myself. After all, it wasn’t the stupid bird’s fault.

Yes, and here was that cursed paper with the name “Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum” neatly lettered on it by the other idiot Cadet. A thought struck me; unobtrusively I palmed the piece of paper, found the pressurized foam can, the scissors and tape, and hurried in to my quarters.

I put the paper to one side while I washed with a wet towel. Then I squirted some of the jelly like foam on the cut, smoothed it over, and pressed my finger to it. My “ouch!” was more in surprise than from pain as the strongly astringent substance grabbed at the skin. It dried rapidly, contracting both itself and the blood vessels below as it did. I stuck tape over the area and was done. Except for finding a pencil and printing a brief question under Vortex’s name on the paper.

Gathering everything together, I went back out to the courtyard. Vortex was there talking to the birds.

“Ah, you see? Here he comes now,” he pointed out to the larger one and then asked me, “What did you tell them? They’re both very uneasy.”

“Explain it’s nothing to worry about,” I said, putting away the scissors, tape and foam can.

“You should show them. They have feelings, you know.”

His tone was peculiar, and the request gave me the opening I was looking for, so I walked over to display the tape patch on my neck to the birds.

“See? Nothing. Only a scratch.” I smiled and held the piece of paper up in front of Vortex. “Oh, by the way—I found this in the drawer and it reminded me. I still can’t pronounce your real name, my King. How do you say it?”

Beneath the original Cadet’s script which spelled out his name I had penciled in: “Why is it death to love a Robot, my King?”

Vortex’s eyes dropped to the paper and rose immediately to lock with mine. A peculiar sensation came over me, as though I were watching a laser-video tape and the action had been momentarily frozen. Vortex stared at me; everything about him appeared immobilized.

Then life and motion began again.

“As I told you before, Cadet, it is not important. How my name is pronounced is no concern of yours, so get rid of that paper. Forget it.”

Then, as if some other current had been switched on, warmth returned to his eyes and a slight smile softened his lips.

“I’ve become used to your name for me—I like to hear it.” His glance flickered to the paper I held as he moved towards the massage table. “Let the birds have that. Then let’s get on with the massage.”

I poked the paper between the bars of the cage; the smaller of the birds took it with a little bobbing movement. After distributing the necessary items in their proper places, I began my work. As far as I was concerned it was to be a time of quiet concentration, mainly devoted to analyzing what had just taken place. Vortex, in contrast, seemed somehow committed to a speaking engagement.

“You know, Chrome, I finally realized the cause of your embarrassment the other day, when you brought up the subject of Robots and we discussed the possibility of my being one. You ended by feeling you had offended me, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t take the proper time to reassure you. I understand that now and want to explain.”

I almost asked him if he was well. Why was he talking like this? It hadn’t happened that way at all. But then I thought, ‘No, Chrome. Listen quietly for a change while someone else babbles; you may learn something. The value of silence, if nothing more!’

“You see, Chrome,” Vortex continued expansively, “long ago upon my first arrival here I became accustomed to hearing it. Catching the beginning ‘r’ and final ‘t’ as the word ‘robot’ was muttered when I passed people. My physical appearance, coupled with these arm-cylinders, set me apart and made me seem to them a special being. I remember distinctly someone saying ‘There is an inhuman perfection about you. No real man could be that handsome. So, you are not real; you’re only a created thing, a Robot!’ “

Vortex’s chuckle was tinged with irony, and I found myself wondering about the quotation. Had it come from my predecessor here? Part of his farewell speech, perhaps? That is, if he had been given the time or opportunity to make one.

“What do you think of that for theorizing?”

“Logic, if you mean that part of it, is lacking.” I shrugged and made it sound noncommittal, “But maybe the person wasn’t in a reasonable state of mind.”

“It seems to me an interesting insight into Man’s ego, its prejudices and weaknesses.”

I went on with my work without reply.

“You do understand, though, don’t you, Chrome? There was no need for embarrassment on your part. I took no offense at your questioning my—my ‘reality,’ shall we say?”

“Why not say: Shall we just forget it?”

The sentence was out before I could stop it.

Vortex propped himself up on his arm-cylinders and looked at me in amazement. I took a fresh towel from the stack on the stand, dunked it in the pool, wrung it out, rubbing my face first and then blotting at the rest of me with its coolness.

“Chrome...?”

“I’ve been working hard on one leg.” I held up a forefinger in emphasis. “One leg, my King, since we began. And you have been talking so much— Excuse the bluntness, but there’s no point in my standing here working myself into a sweat if you won’t relax!”

Not quite up to an eye-to-eye contest at the time, I had to look somewhere and decided the bird cage would be safe. Its tenants had divided the note and were now methodically shredding and eating it. I tried to recall if the command to get rid of it had been given to them or me.

“Chrome, I’ve been well aware of your work this morning. In fact your persistence has made me—Well, it’s been very uncomfortable.”

“Are you saying perhaps that the towel is too tight?” I gestured to the chastity-belt-towel cinched into its customary place. “Or have you finally become as tired as I have of this silent combat we engage in every time I come anywhere near your groin?” He opened his mouth as if about to protest. “Vortex, for once let me finish just one thought!”

I was going to have my say, and let the winds scatter the leftovers whichever way they wished. I took a fresh breath.

“From the beginning you’ve resisted, set up a barrier whenever I touched that area. Why? Because a touch there stimulates a reaction which you misunderstand.” Vortex raised an eyebrow. “You do, completely. You may very well be the most magnificent being in the Universe but you can’t know everything there is to know as well.

“This is one thing you obviously don’t know: That massage here—” I propped my foot up on the towel stand and jabbed a finger at the interior of my thigh, “—relaxes these overlying muscles, releasing tension in the neural pathways they cover. The freer flow of fresh blood and heightened sensitivity stimulates the subject—yes, to a state of semi- or sometimes full erection. But that’s nothing to call out the palace guards over! It’s only an indication that the massage is successful. No other meaning—”

Vortex was laughing, and I was getting angrier by the second.

“What’s so funny?!”

“A passing thought, Chrome, as to how some palace guards I’ve known might react to this most interestingly illustrated lecture you’re giving!”

“Name of an Unknown God!” I muttered. Putting my leg down, I seized a large towel and resumed my discourse as if it had not been interrupted. “A purely mechanical response—nothing more. It has no connection with sexual arousal whatsoever. Here—start now by trusting me, please.”

I pushed Vortex’s legs apart and pulled away the confining chastity towel. Impersonally I freed his genitals, then covered the entire area with the large towel quickly dropped to form a shapeless mass.

“There you are, Oh, King. Completely camouflaged so nothing can possibly be revealed. Now, if you’ll be so kind—” I eased him back into a prone position, “—as to lie down and relax. Relax—if for nothing else, for the sake of what’s left of my once cheerful disposition!”

Vortex returned my smile a trifle grimly. After placing a small towel over his eyes, I propped his leg up and applied more oil. Cupping his knee, I rotated my hands slowly—a quick reversal of direction and then I slid both downward along the sides of his leg. There was an intake of breath, the reflexive tightening.

“My King,” I said quietly, “I am no longer able to harm you. You know that.”

Vortex exhaled and relaxed.

“Good. Let go completely.”

I used firm, smooth movements, releasing and contracting my fingers, feeling the ebb and flow of tension under the supple skin. I remembered the first day’s massage and wondered why now, this time, I sensed no wrong in what was happening. Perhaps the change lay in the firm flesh beneath my hands. Vortex lay quiet, lips parted, his breathing deep and even; he had let go all restraining reactions.

It was still hard for me to judge and I closed my eyes in concentration. He would have thought it only more of that flattery which he’d already experienced a lifetime too much of, so I never told Vortex: his musculature was so solid and perfectly developed that recognizing relaxation in its fibers was most difficult. I had learned, though, to move through the work with an inner sensing, letting the nerves in their pathways beneath sinews and bunched muscle fibers speak to me when and as they would.

“Easy, Chrome...” Vortex breathed.

I glanced up to the steady beat of his heart just under his rib-cage. It had become heavier and the rate had increased. A bit out of breath, I withdrew my hands up to his knee moving them only lightly to maintain the continuity and flow of the work as I took a moment’s rest.

“Think of me as just another of your machines, my King,” I joked.

After a pause, I began again, moving along the heavy cablelike tendon leading deep into the groin. Not through any conscious effort on his part but rather from years of overtraining it still resisted. Smoothing on more oil, I rubbed along it purposefully.

“The tightness here isn’t your fault; it’s due to past exercising. I wish you’d let me show you—”

“This is not a war.”

“Pardon? Well, no I—I didn’t think it was,” I stammered. “I mean to bring you the opposite: complete peace!”

I smoothed his leg muscles with long gentle strokes.

“Enough, Chrome!”

Rising, he pushed me away from the table as he swung his legs over the side and stood up. I resolutely resisted a downward glance as my peripheral vision told me the towel covering him had just dropped away.

“Just another one of my machines, you said?” he chuckled. “A highly efficient one, then—to the point where I want no further delay. The others in my quarters must now complete this work so well begun!”

I stared after him as he strode through the violet shade of the archways into the house. Well, at least I had removed the relationship further away from such a personal basis. My suggestion had been a good one, that Vortex think me merely another of his electronic or mechanical aides or whatever they were. Things which even now had begun servicing him inside the Cabin somewhere.

Yes, that was best. They had taken over.

And I was left alone, perspiring and bemused amid my oily towels.

VII

Irrational behavior began at this point which I found inexcusable even while creating it. Later I understood and forgave myself, but that helps little with the telling of it now. Therefore I will deem it courteous if judgment is withheld on whatever areas appear sketchy and imperfect in detail.

The next massage session I draped a towel loosely across Vortex’s loins. Staying away from particularly sensual neural pathways, I nonetheless worked intently and was well pleased by the time I had finished.

At the formal end of the work, since he was face downward, it was my custom to leave one hand on his back and give him a light slap across the buttocks. An old teacher had suggested the technique: “Gives ’em a signal you’re through, lads, and wakes ’em up gently-like if they’ve gone t’sleep upon the table.” It helped end the massage-bond intimacy in an informal but polite way.

At the finish of this session I gruffly told Vortex to turn face up again. He said nothing, but I felt his gaze on me. I placed a clean dry towel across his eyes and another over his loins. Flexing his leg up, I applied fresh oil and began massaging gently but firmly down into the groin muscles.

Vortex inhaled deeply, then slowly let the air out, relaxing, attuning himself to the strokes. How clearly the messages came to me from beneath the firm smooth skin, how easy to read his needs, flowing freely now the barriers were put aside. A prelude to what brought him pleasure? Then let it be so; I would use my skill to create the best of all possible beginnings.

Sensing that the proper time had come, I withdrew both hands to his chest and rested them there. A murmured “Thank you, my King,” and I walked to the far end of the pool to look out across the desert, giving him the privacy to leave in whatever manner he wished. I did not see him the rest of that day.

When the next morning’s work was completed, I asked Vortex to turn over on his back again. Pretending not to notice that he was already partially aroused, I covered him with a towel there and draped another over his eyes.

While at his head I slipped my hands behind him to check the powerful muscles of his shoulders and neck. They were tightened—against the sensual experience ahead? To tell him not to fight, that I was complimented if my hands could bring this beginning of his gratification, I rubbed the stiffness, kneading it, silently urging reassurance upon him. His head lay against my hands, the wheat-blond hair a soft, tangled cushion between us. I withdrew from its warmth, smoothed it a bit and moved down.

Brushing his thighs lightly in greeting, I poured fresh oil on and spread it over them slowly, communicating my admiration of that incredibly smooth skin and the coiled-spring strength beneath it. Vortex smiled, stretched mightily and crossed his arm-cylinders behind his head. As I began working upward on both legs at the same time with firm deep strokes, he made a quiet sound of pleasure and gave himself over to the movements of my hands.

I found myself studying him, how his breathing slowed, then steadied to become deeper and increase in rate. Gradually his biceps and powerful upper abdominal muscles began contracting and relaxing in a counter rhythm to mine.

Easing his legs apart, I let my fingers work on his inner thighs. Alternating between firm thrusts and gentle withdrawals, I worked closer and closer to his groin. Vortex moved his head slowly from one side to the other. His powerful buttocks began to contract and push against my movement. I slid my palms firmly up either side, thumbs still on the cords of his groin muscles, and leaned my weight on him. Working inward, my thumbs massaged either side of the potent hard shaft which lay between them. Feeling its throb and shift, I began to withdraw by degrees. I worked back toward the knees, flexed and bent them upward to let him relax as I massaged his calves.

When Vortex’s clenched jaw muscles relaxed a bit, I brought his legs down to the table again. His chest was gleaming with perspiration. I moved to stroke it, making the motion light and soothing.

“Your hands are trembling,” he said huskily.

“Sorry.”

“No harm done, Chrome.”

He smiled and I was glad his eyes were still covered.

“Thank you, my King.”

I moved to the end of the pool and again saw nothing of him that day. There was a spectacular desert sunset—one of those billowing purple-and-gold-and-azure-and-orange ones where the whole world seems caught afire—and, watching it alone, I thought of Jamison. His audacity, the courage it had taken him to warn me that Death might be close at hand. I was helpless to change things though, and realized how right I’d been in giving Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum the name “Young King Vortex.” Some superhuman pulling force from him refused to be denied.

The next morning he was early. He had evidently exercised especially hard for his muscle tissue was bulkier than I had ever seen it. My groan of pretended dismay as I first felt the added heaviness brought only a brief sound of amusement, so I concentrated on putting forth my most serious efforts.

At the end I paused, fingers at rest on his lower back and the tight beginning curve of his buttocks. Slowly he turned beneath my hands to let me first feel and then see that he was completely aroused. Silence collected around us as I took my hands away, put a fresh towel over him, and began straightening the other towels piled on the stand. I cleared my throat.

“There doesn’t seem to be any—uh—further need for my work, Oh, King.”

“To the contrary, Chrome, I enjoy it and look forward to it. You’re far more perceptive than my other machines!”

I shot him a quick glance. He raised up on his arm-cylinders to give me a disarming smile.

“Unless you’re too tired today?”

“No—I’m not tired.”

I reached for a towel to put over his eyes.

“A pillow this time, Chrome.” He looked at me blandly. “If you have no objections.”

“No, my King.”

I put one under his head.

“I want to watch you,” he said. “It’s difficult to imagine how you achieve some of your results.”

Though he sounded sincere, I felt myself beginning to become red. I started working on his thigh muscles, tried to concentrate and not think of anything, but the flesh beneath my hands was warm and the pulse already full and strong.

In spite of myself I looked up. Instantly his eyes caught and held mine. He had to have known the havoc he was causing; his gaze, straight to the center of me, was amused by what it found.

“Incredible, Chrome.” His tone was lazy. “You continue to blush. By this time surely you must know—”

He left it waiting in the air, confident I would have to ask.

“Know what?” I said, still staring at him.

“That you are not in any way difficult to behold!”

He couldn’t mean what those eyes of his said, and no mere Robot could make me feel the emotions which swirled through me. Something unseen reached out from him, grasping me intimately, toying with me. As if he had taken the oil—and was letting me slide slowly through his fingers...

Somehow I must break away from those incredible eyes and what they were doing to me. I pressed against the massage table, letting its height hide the fact of how intensely aroused I was. Silently inside I yelled for help. Then again, harder this time.

Echoes came ringing back from the past, and brought with them a memory. I was running in a bleak November, running back in Time, back through a gray afternoon drizzle towards a highway accident.

Two Hover-Jags had collided. One of the Cadet drivers was already dead, killed instantly. The other had been thrown out of his vehicle. Completely faceless from the shearing effect of hurtling through the plastic canopy, he was still alive—spinning and stamping about—then stumbling to the ground to croak and gurgle as he drowned in his own blood.

My yells for help had been useless then. There had been nothing to rescue.

There was very little more to save now, back in the desert sunshine, but I wasn’t wise enough to analyze that far. All I cared about was that whatever spell had been at work was now broken. Without a word, Vortex got down from the table and went into the house.

Some realization of what I’d done came when we met next morning. Vortex was almost an hour late and like ice.

“Good morning,” I said with a respectful smile.

He paused only long enough to flick a glance at me as one would a stranger, then lay down on the table.

Except for the warmth of his flesh, it was, I imagine, like massaging a dead person. All rapport was gone. The communication lines had been blocked; nothing came through to me, and he would let nothing through to him. As the initial shock wore off, I applied myself with determination to the work and shut out all other thoughts. When Vortex turned over on his stomach, it was the only time he showed any consciousness of my presence. At the conclusion, I had enough sense left to return to the established routine of a polite tap on the buttocks. Instantly he arose.

“Thank you, Cadet,” he said and went into the house.

This was to become the pattern for the next several days. I expended so much energy on my work, I had none left for nature walking. And anyway, I wanted to keep close to the house. A chance glimpse of Vortex might be turned into a reason for starting repairs on the rift between us. No such meeting took place; there was no sign he even existed until the morning massage. Then he was always late and increasingly preoccupied.

I must admit I’d never felt so alone, nor had I ever known the real meaning of desolation before. True, I also had never been subjected to the emotional battering ram of a Young King Vortex before and so was unable to deal with his utter rejection of me, my work, even of my existence as a human being. As a person I had, for him, simply ceased to exist. It was this which at last brought home the conviction Vortex was truly a King. Probably a Robot as well; no being with human feelings could treat a fellow creature in such a manner.

Only one thing was sure: the warning “It is death to love a Robot” would not go unheeded. Whatever my Cadet predecessor had suffered before scratching that sentence into the stone and then, with no other means of making it stand out, filling: in its letters with his own blood which dried into that “dark pigment”—yes, yes, I now admitted it: It was his blood, a fact I had known since first seeing that cursed sentence. ...

Where was I? The Cadet’s warning, yes. That and whatever Jamison had gone through getting our symbol and its message to me—those efforts would not have been in vain. I would survive this, no matter the cost. I would!

As a step in that direction (since the next day CenMed and that bunch were due). I again made preparations for an early departure. This time I took only a small packet of food wafers and a canteen full of water.

The day dawned dull and overcast. Perfect for my plan of a long hike far beyond the oasis; there’d be no dazzling sun or heat to fight. I’d had my fill of combating bedazzlement and radiant burning energy!

Putting first the Cabin and soon the oasis far behind me, I headed straight out through the sand dunes, feeling calmer the further away I got from stress and counter purpose pullings. I began making a mental list of things to be thankful for.

First, for early Cadet training which had prevailed upon me to bring my compass. Without it, even by then I would have been hopelessly lost. There was a light breeze, and my tracks had blurred in the short time it took to get from the crest of one dune to the next.

What else did I offer thanks for? Difficult to recall now. Probably the things I’ve always been grateful for: a strong body coupled with an honest liking for things of the mind, the beautiful Gift of the healing art in my hands, my sense of humor—assumed at that time to be completely lost, of course.

Perhaps I even possessed internal balance enough to accept as a positive experience the torment I was going through with Vortex. It was totally of my own doing, and the bitter lesson might turn to treasure one day.

A lone outcropping of granite began to form on the horizon. Distances deceive in desert air, and it took me several more hours of steady walking to reach it. The size of the Cabin or bigger, it was made of huge layers of stone—strata broken and thrust upward by some convulsion of the earth ages ago. I walked around it and then, tired though I was, had to scramble up to see the tablelike top.

There I found a flat area worn quite smooth by the wind. Despite the overcast, its surface was invitingly warm. I shed my gear and spread-eagled myself on it—firmness like that is excellent for relaxing aches and tensions. I stretched as I felt tension drain away and heaved a sigh of relief at the sense of freedom the fresh dry air gave as it washed over my bare skin. Lazily I rubbed my hands down over my chest and abdomen, flexing the muscles as they passed. Nothing to compare with the mighty Vortex, of course, but enough definition and bulk was there to give pride in having developed myself.

My sensual awareness had become heightened by recent events; it was good to feel the breeze play with my nakedness, to let the warmth begin in my groin at its imagined caresses. I closed my eyes. The warmth concentrated itself and grew. My fingers sought it out, smoothed its length for a while, then closed around it. I let them move idly, amused at how their motions slowly became more deliberate and defined as images came into my mind. Those girls in the summer islands again held me captive, were presenting themselves and fondling me. Now the pleasure began to increase as the strokes took on a satisfying long-established rhythm. The first twinge of urgency shot lightly through the building desire, a sly hinting at how much better it could be, was going to be. The strokes were coming a little faster now, maybe too fast.

Frowning, I took my hands away, rolled over and lay face down; clearly just in time from the disappointed craving which throbbed inside me. Someone had to be in control, though, I told it, and that someone was still me. I would decide when and where I needed this kind of release.

After several moments pressed against the unyielding stone, my stiffened stubbornness sullenly gave up enough for me to dress with reasonable ease. I washed down the food wafers, a bland depressing imitation-grape flavor but supposedly nourishing, and took out my compass—which promptly dropped down a narrow fissure in the strata next to me!

I named myself, my forebearers and that cursed compass everything I could think of. There I was, in the veritable middle of nowhere, without a clue as to which direction I had come from. Oh, of course I knew where I had climbed the sloping granite, but how many times had I circled the outcropping before starting to climb? And where were my footprints leading up to this rotten pile of stone? Vanished. Blown away by that damnable breeze I’d thought so stimulating a while ago!

Vortex in his present mood couldn’t be counted on to send out a search party. Quite to the contrary, he’d probably give a sigh of relief and order himself a new Cadet slave. I could almost hear him saying it: “And a more stable dependable type, if you have one.”

As if to refute this crass thought, my hand brushed against the whistle Vortex had told me to wear whenever I left the Cabin; purely from habit I’d slipped it over my neck before departing, and now I brought it out through my shirt. Except for the small dotlike red button on one side near the mouthpiece, it looked like any ordinary silver metal whistle. Maybe a bit bulkier to incorporate a tiny power disc or similar electronic arrangement. I blew into it tentatively, first with the button pressed in and then without. Nothing. I blew harder, again both ways—and again, nothing.

Realizing there was little value in just sitting on a pile of granite, I slid down to the sand, picked a direction and set off once more.

VIII

How long I walked I had no way of reckoning. It seemed as if the sky were growing darker, but that could have been a thickening of the cloud layer, the lengthening afternoon, or mere imagining.

And the copterlike form now coming silently towards me, also a fiction of my mind? No craft known to me was that quiet. As it neared, I saw the sand clouds it kicked up and knew it wasn’t imagination. At this point in my life, hallucinations, yes. Quite possibly, but not imagination.

The copter edged closer and circled, still amazingly quiet. The design was foreign to me, its drive force not anything known to our Military. That blond hair and grin on the pilot, though. The eyes were masked by a gleaming gold band, protective goggles of some type, but could it be that Jamison...? No, this man’s hair was straight, of a reddish-gold and worn long in a caplike cut reminiscent of Vortex’s. He brought a microphone to his mouth.

“Running away from your home, little boy?”

His amplified voice had a friendly conversational tone. Grinning back, I shook my head.

“Without shirt, please,” he requested pleasantly.

I took it off, turning my pockets inside out and opening my handkerchief knapsack for good measure. Poised motionless inspection, then he nodded.

“Good. Hold them and turn away. Coming down.”

The stinging sand blast stopped as the drive-power was cut off and the craft came quietly to rest. I made my way through stray particles of swirling sand to the bubblelike compartment where the pilot sat. His tight-fitting black uniform and brilliant red cloak were alien to me (perhaps some foreign dignitary’s private guard?), but his smile was that of a good friend. The sound system amplified his low chuckle.

“Where is your home, little boy?”

I took a breath to shout at him through the plastic. He shook his head.

“No, no, don’t do that. I hear you good.”

“Oh, Well, I—uh—I’m a Cadet.”

“What?!”

He raised his golden goggle band and laid it on the control board in front of him.

“From the Space Academy,” I smiled. “I guess I don’t look much like one right now. I was out on a hike and got lost.”

“Where did you find the signal thing around your neck?”

“This whistle? It’s mine, sir, but it’s broken. See?”

My demonstration was cut short by the pilot’s yell.

“Stop! Put it down—” (something oathlike in an unknown tongue) “—down. NOW!”

“All right, sir,” I smiled, “but you don’t have to yell at me. I hear you very well, too.”

He touched something on the control board. A door in the transparent plastic covering popped open, and at his nod, I scrambled into the seat next to him.

He was around twenty-five I judged, and about my height. Lean but more heavily muscled. Bright blue eyes, now crinkled into a smile. A sprinkling of freckles across his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“And I think you say, ‘Welcome aboard, Cadet.’ Yes?”

Now I could hear more distinctly in his resonant voice the slight accent, a different tonality in the speech, somehow pleasant and suitable.

“My name is Chrome.” I stuck my hand out. “And thank you!”

He looked at my hand, then took hold of it. I shook his firmly and he returned the grip. In the awkward way of one not used to handclasps between men, he let go and touched the controls again. The door beside me shut and safety-latched itself. A slight humming filled the cabin bubble.

“Put your arms and legs against the rest spots for the lifting, please.”

I did and was gripped by foam-cushioned bands of thick plastic around my wrists and ankles. He made a slight movement with the control crescent, and we shot up noiselessly to come to rest high above the desert floor.

“When you say ‘lifting,’ ” I gulped, “that’s exactly what you mean, isn’t it!”

“That was nothing.” The pilot gave me a puzzled look. “How many hours have you logged on a space craft?”

“Well, launchings are expensive and pollute the atmosphere, you see, so there is no actual training in space. But the Academy simulators mirror exactly the reality of space and its exploration—”

I heard myself parroting one of the Scientific Advancement Committee’s indoctrination pamphlets and stopped to find some simpler words.

“I understand your meaning,” the pilot nodded.

It was admittedly a relief to be able to look someone right in the eye and not have to worry about being struck by lightning. This man’s gaze was so open and direct, though, as to make one a bit uneasy. I shifted against the bands which held me; they didn’t move.

“You gave your hand as greeting, Cadet. I will show the correct greeting between equals from the place of my being.”

Flicking on what was evidently an auto-pilot interlock, the man knelt next to me; I braced myself for I-don’t-know-what—which turned out to be a perfectly proper brush of his lips against my right cheek and then my left.

“I know something of your custom, Cadet. You were expecting another kind of—of that, yes?” he laughed. “Please do not fear me. I am only playing.”

He rubbed my cheek with his fingers, resting the other hand across on my leg.

“Such a thick beard, Cadet, could make a man uncomfortable. Be more careful.”

His smile was so level and open it was difficult to comprehend any of this.

‘Has the whole world gone mad?!’ I silently wondered.

His hand on my leg had now moved up to my loins, and was evidently staying there. I felt its warmth and weight through my thin hiking trousers as his fingers began stroking me.

“Ahem!” I cleared my throat, and tried for the right words. “Please—uh—would you just listen for a second, sir? I mean, without—” I glanced down at his hand, “—without doing that?”

He straightened, but left his hand where it was.

“Sir, I know this may sound rude in your world, but you’ve made a mistake. I don’t want that. I—I’d be very thankful it you’d stop now.”

“But you do want it.” Puzzled, he cupped his hand. “I can feel that.”

I pulled against the plastic which bound me.

“Please, Cadet, no. Do not harm yourself.”

Looking genuinely concerned, he eased me back against the cushioning of the seat. At least he had let go of the one part of me which obviously wanted very much for him to continue.

“Uh, sir?” I said, hopefully. “All right, now, please listen because—”

He kissed me full on the mouth. I was stunned for a second, then I bit him. He backhanded me hard twice, once from either side, so fast I saw neither blow coming.

A pause as I blinked and waited for my vision to clear. His one hand was cupped against me again as he checked his lips for blood with the other.

“Why do that, Cadet?”

He sounded honestly confused.

“Because I really don’t want... I mean, I wish...”

I was all too aware of his hand on me, and things were becoming honestly confused for me, too, at that point. His fingers increased their pressure; an automatic throb of pleasure came from me. I sighed and closed my eyes. Why lie about such a simple thing. I felt him undo my belt buckle and open my hiking trousers. His fingers freed me from confinement.

After a moment his mouth closed around me and any pretending about what I did or didn’t want was done with. The feeling—the incredibly erotic sensation of warmth and softness, of his tongue just barely moving as it pressed against the most sensitive part—I couldn’t think of anything else.

“You have to be careful,” I said. “I haven’t... I mean, I don’t think I can... Oh, Gods...”

He stopped. His hand went to my cheek, rubbed gently against my beard, then moved to my lips.

“You bring no news, Cadet. For too long you have not had love. You cannot keep yourself contained much more. I know that. Now, close your eyes again—and stop talking!”

He cuffed me lightly and I did as I was told. Again his mouth enveloped me and his tongue swirled warm and soft around me. I stood the mounting pleasure as long as I could, even longer. At last I groaned and fought to withdraw, to stop the inevitable.

The pilot paused, stilled completely. I felt myself growing even harder with the wait. There was an abrupt throb—impatient, demanding—and a deep quiet sound of approval from my captor. He slipped his hands under me to cup my buttocks and pull me slowly up, forcing me farther into that consuming warmth, taking in all of me.

Now the tongue swirled harder, insisting, commanding there be nothing but gratification. And so there was nothing else in the world, only the growing hot tide of acute pleasure, building, threatening to burst and overflow. Without warning the feeling intensified—too unbearably good—and at last, deep inside, the clenching spasms of ecstasy were unleashed.

As they came, what exploded and engulfed my being was the feel of Vortex in the pool when I had wrapped myself around him. The hard-muscled body held close, the warmth of his genitals pressed to mine. I moved against him in fantasy, feeling the sharp sweet pulsing relief as the pressure within me flooded out. The phantom image of Vortex smiled and slowly faded away.

* * *

I let the waves recede as they willed. The pilot, motionless as I, was attuned to me now even more closely than before. When it was right, he released me with such care as to bring a final throb of pleasure. I felt him draw his cloak over me and opened my eyes to find him watching me closely, his expression one of solemn scholarly concentration.

“You can—tell what I’m thinking?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I was trying because it is important to me, but I have no success for that.”

“No one has been so gentle. I didn’t know I could feel that much. Or the way I am now, calm and peaceful. And I was thinking how to say it to you.”

Frowning, he moved back to his seat to stare out at the darkening sky.

“I cannot understand. Do you live amongst madmen? Why is there no one to care for you and be with you!”

“Can you release me now?”

He swung around cursing his forgetfulness and punched the control board. The bands snapped back freeing me to rub at my wrists and ankles as he stammered apologies.

“And also for hitting you I am sorry. It was wrong but it happened before I thought.”

“No. I was at fault—let me see your lip.”

I studied his mouth and then, with a glance at his eyes, I pulled us closer together. I could almost feel the thoughts racing around his brain. I looked at his mouth again and brushed his lower lip with mine. When I pulled away he was blushing.

“Yes, I know,” he nodded grimly, “I have become red. It is something I cannot help.”

“Nothing wrong in it; doctors say it’s sign of good health.”

“Why did you do that to my mouth, Cadet, touch yours to it?”

“Because suddenly I had to.” I smoothed his lower lip with my thumb. “I’ve never done so before and may never again. I don’t know, but I think my life was very close to being lost. And now you have given it back.”

Grasping my shoulders, the pilot touched his lips to my cheeks with a combination of power and tenderness I did not expect. His alien words flowed warm against my ear, then he haltingly translated what he could.

“Cadet, you are my Forever-Friend.” (I capitalize the words because from the way he said it they belong so.) “Remember, please.” He pulled away and gazed at me. “I must go now. It is late, and I am bound by honor I cannot explain.”

“You don’t have to; Cadets are also bound by honor. What’s your name?”

No sooner had I asked than I knew I didn’t want to hear the answer. That language I’d brushed aside as alien and unknown, he would speak now, and it would be clear it was not unknown.

“Never mind,” I said quickly, “ ‘Forever-Friend’ is better!”

“My name is hard for you to say,” he smiled, “but if you want to try, you may, please. It is Rond-H’Lokk.”

Yes, of course it was. And of course their “H’ “ had to be in it. An awful wave of Death-cold from the future rolled over me as I smiled back stiffly and pronounced “Rond-H’Lokk” for him much too easily and well.

“Oh,” he breathed. A stunned pause, then almost inaudibly, “And where is it you go, Cadet?”

“There is an oasis. That means a place of trees with water. Then a ravine, a cut made into the earth, leading to a house they call ‘The Cabin.’ Do you know where it is?”

I turned to find Rond-H’Lokk ashen with horror. He must hear it all from my lips, though, since he knew it already.

“Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum lives there. I serve him. You do know the place, don’t you.”

A terrible silent look as Rond-H’Lokk slowly took a silver dagger from its sheath buckled at his waist.

“Yes.” His voice was harsh. “I know the place. I also serve Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum—as Captain of his Guardian Patrol for as long as we stay on this rotten planet.”

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the dagger. I tried to read his face, to gauge the attack and parry the plunge I felt was coming. He shook his head.

“We—we were not told of this. I did not understand... that you...” He searched for words. “To touch a brother Warrior’s companion is death.”

We eyed each other for a long moment.

“Here, my Lord.” Hilt first, he extended the dagger to me. “I must die. It is so ordered.”

“We’re both late, Rond-H’Lokk...” I tried to counter.

“Take it. This is now yours, must be yours—to use upon me when we land.”

“Get me to the oasis and leave me there,” I said, taking the dagger. “No one will know anything.”

“The Master will—you must tell him.”

“Are you out of your MIND? I’ll tell him nothing. Neither will you, nor anyone else.”

“He must know!” Rond-H’Lokk insisted.

“Stop saying that and head for the oasis.” At his hesitation, I yelled, “Gods, man, move this thing!”

Startled into action, Rond-H’Lokk nosed the craft earthward in a dive I thought would bury us in the sand, leveling off at the last moment to skim along, barely above the surface.

Probably evading warning devices or scanners, I thought as I got back into my shirt. The razor sharp ceremonial dagger presented a problem to my handkerchief-knapsack, so I stuck it behind the plastic webbing of my canteen.

A sudden sidewise swooping lurch and we settled to a halt on the rock slab beside the oasis. Rond-H’Lokk punched at the controls, and the miniature waves on the pool calmed as the humming died away. The transparent doors popped open.

As I got out and moved around to the other side of the craft, Rond-H’Lokk also exited. He dropped with an athlete’s grace to one knee and pulled his hair forward to lay bare his neck and the base of his skull.

I grappled him to his feet and hit him twice. Two good, hard, measured cracks; one on either cheek. He saw them coming and took them full on.

“I owed you those from a while back, Rond-H’Lokk.” He nodded. “Also, this.”

I kissed him full on the lips.

He stirred and my arm went around his neck to lock him where he was going to stay until I was through. I forced his lips apart telling myself it wasn’t now, but a summer long vanished; one of those island girls was upon me and must be taught who was master, and would be taught! At last Rond-H’Lokk broke into laughter and I let him go. Arms still around me, he stood shaking his head.

“There isn’t time, Cadet!”

“My name is Chrome, Rond-H’Lokk. Are you a palace guard?”

He straightened, cold and proud.

“I am a Warrior, my Lord.”

“And my Forever-Friend?”

He rubbed the roughness of my beard.

“Yes—Chrome.”

It was safe. I drew the dagger out of my canteen webbing and returned it to his scabbard. Rond-H’Lokk nodded.

“It will stay there now forever.” Pain was behind the bright blue eyes, and his next words were a husky whisper. “Go—now! Do not ever look back!”

I ran then. Making every noise I could, thankful to hear nothing but the scattering of rocks and gravel, the rasp of my labored breathing as I maintained a breakneck pace.

Nearing the Cabin I saw the lights come on and slowed to a stumbling walk. Vortex was by the caged birds when I entered the courtyard.

“Chrome!” he called sharply from across the pool.

I stopped and eyed him. I might have changed (even more than I then imagined), but Young King Vortex was still as magnificent as ever. I waited, wishing he were stupid—most beautiful people are, you know—but he wasn’t, not in any way.

“The birds have been concerned.” he continued after a piercing stare. “They heard a cry.”

“I fell down, my King.”

“Where is your canteen?”

“I lost it. Good-night.”

I started for the house. “ ‘Good-night’?”

“I’m dog-tired, Vortex.” I kept on going. “But—have you eaten?”

“I will. In the morning. Thank you, Oh, Guest!”

IX

The activities of that day should have assured a full night’s sleep. My first stunned slumber, however, soon gave way to the classic nightmare of being chased, of running with leaden feet as an unnamable horror steadily came nearer.

I awoke, or so I thought, drenched in sweat and sitting bolt upright. At the foot of my bed stood a hooded figure.

Like a play-within-a-play, this next dream blended into reality so closely it was impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. The shrouded form slowly turned to extend its bloodied hands which held a grinning skull. Ghostly moonlight, dreamed or real, filtered down from above to illuminate what was set at a jaunty angle on the awful thing: a Cadet’s cap! The offering came closer, suddenly was pushed almost into my face. I yelled and lashed out. The skull and its bearer vanished into the darkness leaving me to fall back onto my pillows shaking, chilled to the bone.

Lying there, it dawned on me—dream or no dream, I really was cold. I reached down to pull up the bedding. Something wet was there. Jerking my hand away, I found it dripping with gore.

Why I was foolish enough to leap from bed and race out into the darkened hallway, I don’t know. Some muddled idea of protecting the Guest, perhaps. In any event, the corridor was empty and silent as I ran down it into the main room. It seemed empty, too. Just behind me, though, there was a slight rustling of cloth as something hit me very hard.

A roaring, a burst of stars, and then the polished marble floor swung up to meet my outstretched arms.

* * *

“Chrome, wake up! Chrome—? By the Gods—!”

A foot nudged me none too gently in the ribs. I groaned and rolled over to find myself back in my room with the morning’s bright blue sky above. Bleary-eyed, I squinted up at Vortex.

“What time...?” I croaked.

“Almost midday. I was going to let you sleep, but something just came through from CenMed for you. In all courtesy, it must be answered at once. Come!”

He started for the door. I sat up and the headache hit me.

“Oh, my head...!” I fingered the lump at the base of my skull. “I—someone tried to—”

“I’ve been as patient as possible, Chrome, but that’s an end.” His eyes narrowed and the handsome face took on a granite grimness. “Get out of bed and come with me! Now!”

The last had the crack of a bull-whip about it. I pulled a bathsheet round me to ward off the chill and followed, bedraggled, to the other wing. There on the monitor, now blinking impatiently, was the display:

FOR 8738-61-965 (my Cadet number):

COMMENDATION OF EXCELLENCE IS HEREBY ATTACHED TO YOUR RECORDS FOR DILIGENCE AND ATTENTION TO DUTY. ACKNOWLEDGE.

“But why, Vortex? What does it mean?”

He gestured to a sheet of white plastic in the receptacle marked “Completed Transmission.” On it was the printout of yesterday’s readings:

EXAMINATION AND FINDINGS INDICATE LINKAGE BETWEEN NEURAL PATHWAYS COMPLETED. REGENERATION REACTION POSITIVE ON ALL LEVELS. FORMATION AND TAKE-OVER OF HEALTHY NEW CELLULAR MASSES COMMENCING.

Protocol went out the window as I whirled to Vortex. His black arm-cylinders came up to ward me off, but I ducked under them and threw my arms around him, laughing and slapping his back. I think he pulled me against his chest for a moment, too, before calling a halt.

“Gods, Chrome, your beard! Stop this foolishness and answer that before they change their minds.”

As if in agreement, a warning cube on the instrument panel began an insistent buzzing. I leaped to the keyboard, cleared the line, and after a moment’s thought, typed:

DEEPLY HONORED. MOST GRATEFUL. WILL BE PRIVILEGE TO CONTINUE SERVING GUEST TO UTMOST OF ABILITY.

8738-61-965.

There was a wait before the reply:

RECEIPT ACKNOWLEDGED.

END TRANSMISSION.

The printout of this last exchange dropped Into the basket. I had started to turn away, but was caught as a quick coda appeared on the display tube:

CONGRATULATIONS CHROME OLD BOY STAR RPT STAR.

There was no printout of this on a plastic sheet. The display quickly faded and the equipment shut off. I shot a look to Vortex; he was rereading the printout concerning his healing progress I’d clipped to the panel. Jamison had made it through! Had he sent the message himself? I doubted it—probably gave a Cadet operator the wink and a harmless gift to do it. I rubbed the back of my head in thought and winced at the tenderness of the lump there.

“What’s the matter with your head? You said something about it in your quarters. Turn around and part the hair . . .” Vortex’s voice became grave. “Tell me how that happened.”

We walked out to the main living area as I explained the dream—or dreams, whichever.

“And I got just about to here and was looking toward the pool when something hit me, and that’s all I remember.”

“You say you felt blood?” He frowned and started down the corridor. “I didn’t notice earlier. Let’s see.”

In the bedroom I straightened the tangled sheets and blanket. They were spotless.

“Not important,” Vortex cut in on my protest. “The blood could have been part of your dream; in truth, the whole thing could be a dream. It wouldn’t account for your injury, though. That’s the part I don’t understand, and I don’t like it.” He looked at me accusingly, almost as if it were my fault. “You’re positive there’s nothing else? Something more you haven’t told me?” He cut off my assurances, glancing with irritation at his imprisoned arms and hands. “Sorry I can’t help you with your injury. Perhaps the hot water of a shower? But then, you know more of these things than I.”

He left the room abruptly. For some reason he didn’t believe or didn’t want to believe me. I shrugged and started for the shower, but an impulse made me turn to the closet with its built-in chest containing my few belongings. All was in order. My uniform, returned by the cleaning crew on their first visit during my stay, hanging neatly as they had left it—no, not as neatly.

My Cadet cap had been pinned to the hanger. The safety pin was lying open on the floor, but my Cadet cap was gone.

I forced my throbbing head under the spray of the shower, turning the selector from scalding to freezing and back again, repeating the process until I felt myself beginning to become water-logged. Putting aside speculations about phantom monks and missing Cadet caps, I shaved, brushed my unruly curls and went out to get the day back on schedule.

Floating in the pool, arm-cylinders behind his head as support, Vortex was obviously in an excellent mood.

“Chrome,” he called, “you named me ‘King,’ is that not so?”

“ ‘Young King Vortex,’ to be exact.”

“And one of the functions of Kings is to proclaim?” At my nod, he continued triumphantly, “Exactly. And so I, Vortex the First, do hereby proclaim this a holiday, a celebration honoring the good news we have received. There shall be freedom today, freedom to break loose from the regimen we’ve been on, freedom to do as we please. What do you say to that, Chrome?”

“Your Majesty’s generosity is overwhelming,” I said, and bowed in courtly fashion.

“There is, of course, one condition.”

“I was sure there would be,” I grinned.

“The day shall include sandwiches of peanut butter.”

A drawer in my mind shot open and a plan popped out to unfurl itself with an efficient snap.

“Oh, most excellent of Kings, permit me a suggestion! You recall my speaking—”

“Speaking? Constantly!” Vortex interjected dryly.

“—of my enjoyment in cooking? (I’ll pretend not to have heard your last rudeness, Oh, King.) Well, I have in mind a meal which will erase peanut butter from your memory! I shall create for you a dinner—!” A thought caught me up short.

“What is it, Chrome?”

“Do you have something to put on—clothing, anything to wear?”

“What has that to do with eating?!?”

I explained my plan. I had noticed in the freezer some wonderful cuts of meat which had brought back memories of carefree mouthwatering meals cooked over open fires on those summer islands of long ago. So what I would do was prepare us an evening meal, a simple but filling one, up at the oasis. It would take a few trips on my part and the gathering of kindling—

“But the fire pit up there is automatic, Chrome, like the brazier in our main room here. Ah, yes, now I understand; covering for me to use against the chill of evening. I’m sure I’ll find there’s something in my quarters.”

I raced to the kitchen area. Meat and cobs of corn out of the freezer. Utensils and plates and napkins and glasses, and a woven hamper to carry them in. Spices and seasonings and vegetable greens for a salad. A plastic cold-storage box for the greens and—a final burst of inspiration—a raid on the liquor cabinet which yielded two bottles of wine.

It took careful packing and two trips up to the oasis, but by the time the late afternoon sun was almost gone everything was in readiness. On my return from the last trip Vortex was waiting in the courtyard with barely concealed impatience. Beside him was a pair of soft leather boots, a blanket and a large robe of toweling material. I got him into the boots and robe, gave him the blanket to manage, took up the electronic torches and we were off.

“ ‘When the heart is happy, Time is a winged eagle!’ “ I quoted, leaping from one stone to another. I looked back long enough to admire the nimble grace of Vortex. Even encumbered by his bulky robe and the blanket he managed to follow close behind.

The oasis, almost in darkness when we reached it, was lit by the cheerful glow of the fire pit. I put one torch near it for me to work by and the other at the end of the pool to illuminate that area.

While I busied myself seasoning cobs of corn, then, wrapping them in foil and putting them and the steaks onto the grillwork to cook, Vortex slipped out of his boots and robe and swam in the pool. I threw everything I should into the salad container and tossed it about, spread out the blanket on the still warm stone slabs, and opened the wine.

Setting two places, and slipping corn and chunks of sizzling meat onto the plates, I poured the wine. When I turned to call him, Vortex was already into his robe and sitting cross-legged at his place.

“I suppose you will now torture me by refusing to help me eat what you’ve cooked,” he said. “The smell is driving me mad, Chrome, and I will first have the wine which I do not usually drink as it is forbidden by my diet. But never mind—this is an exception and so I’ll begin with it to distract me, you understand, from the delicious smell of that meat—Hmmmm, where was I? Oh, yes, the wine. But, my good Chrome, why such unseemly mirth? This is indeed serious business!”

Laughing at this telling accurate imitation of me, I offered Vortex his glass. He drained it in a gulp.

“You see? Your King is a hopeless barbarian. No manners, no sense of—Gods, but that was good! What technician’s triumph created that? Drink up, Chrome, so I’ll not fall flat on my face alone. And then pour more, and then a bit of meat, since you have nothing else to do!”

I found the wine marvelously light and poured Vortex more. Then I cut him some meat which he ate and pronounced magnificent.

The corn proved a mistake. Oh, it was perfectly cooked. However, eating a cob of corn for and by oneself is messy enough, but preparing it for and feeding it to someone else can turn into a shambles.

We both fell to laughing—quietly at first, then, between swallows of wine, louder. By the finish of dinner we were breaking into roars of mirth over anything or nothing and ended propped up against a boulder gasping for breath.

“I suppose,” Vortex sighed, “if I think about the pounding head I’ll have tomorrow, it’ll help stop this present foolishness!”

“Excellent idea, my King. And water to help wash away the bits of food.”

I arose—steadily to my surprise—and dipped my napkin in the pool. I splashed it on my face, wiped away the debris, then dunked it in again and returned to Vortex. I wiped off some corn and a dab of butter from his nose, tossed away the napkin and got a dry one. I’d just bent in close to finish the cleanup when he suddenly smiled at me. One of his higher voltage variety. Rocked back on my heels, I sat for a moment. Then I had to say it.

“Please, the time has come for you to know. I can’t think when you smile like that.”

“Oh, I see.” He caught me with those eyes and his smile faded. “So that’s the way it is.”

“Yes, my King.” No way to break free, no attempting to lie. I swallowed with difficulty and still only a whisper came out. “I’m sorry. I have tried, but I cannot help myself.”

“Then the time has also come for you to know, friend Chrome—it is not easy for me to think, either, when you touch me. Yet I have managed this far. Fairly well, would you not say?”

Unsteadily I sat down against the boulder and fought the spinning sensation.

“Take deep breaths,” Vortex advised. “We’re not used to the wine. It’s gone to our heads.”

“But—” I stared at him, “why can you not think if I touch you?” Movement beyond him made me cut him off. “Look, the pool is steaming!”

“The air is cooling down. The builder of this provided a heating system, Chrome. You’ve seen water vapor before.” He stepped free of his boots, let the robe slide off his shoulders, and walked down to the pool’s edge to test the temperature with his foot. “Comfortable. Shall we go in?”

I took off my clothes and joined him. He draped an arm-cylinder across my shoulder to steady us as we walked into the pool.

Vortex turned to me and brought his arms up to rest on my shoulders. Through the warm soothing water I let my hands move slowly down his sides. As always the incredible smoothness of his skin over the hardness beneath was a marvel.

“I’ve never known how to speak my thanks.” Vortex touched his lips against my right cheek and then my left. “That is our custom to show gratitude.”

“Yes.” I closed my eyes to hide what must be there. “Like our shaking of hands. Nothing more.”

The slightest of hesitations, then I felt the soft pressure of his lips against my forehead. They moved gently to my eyelids and parted to brush slowly across my mouth.

The Gods know I couldn’t have helped myself at this point, even if I’d been mad enough to want to. I reached up and pulled his mouth to mine; as in fantasy and reality before, the incredible strength of him was full against me. He was not aroused. His lips were trembling and I realized, mighty though he was, this was no casual thing for him. He had hungered for too long a time to signal anything as quick and uncomplicated as mere sexual stimulation. I drew back enough to get my lips next to his ear.

“Vortex, on that first evening you said—”

“I didn’t lie, Chrome,” he said huskily. “I do not like men. I’ve never been with one or had one as a friend. I—I don’t know how to begin.”

He was shaking now. I held him as hard as I could.

“Beloved King, you seem to think me experienced in such matters. At this moment I wish I were, but I’m not.”

“Maybe we should move to the shallower part and rest a moment.”

We did and lay facing each other. Free at last, I gave silent thanks and let my gaze tell Vortex all that my heart asked, my sinews pledged, my mind worshipped. Some of this silent saying must have reached him; closing those velvet eyes, he echoed me.

“I cannot think when you look at me like that, Chrome.”

His lips were warm against mine, and as our bodies touched I realized he was beginning to relax, to accept the pleasure he needed from me. While it was impossible to give him what had been mine in the copter over the desert, I told myself at least not to be so clumsy as to spoil things for him.

An interior stillness. Then something moved to take over, and for once I had sense enough not to question. I let it.

My hands felt and stroked him with a will of their own. Tracing around his mouth, lingering to feel the pulsing movement of his tongue as we kissed, then down to stroke the column of his throat. (At last it dawned on me, the symbolism drawn between the smooth muscular neck of the young male and the erect upward thrust of arousal. Fool for the years wasted!) I felt the sculptured planes of his chest, traced the pattern of the muscles, flicking those hard nipples and a second later soothing them. His sound of pleasure sent an echoing wave through me. My fingers raced to the lower abdominal bands, nails scraping barely below the threshold of pain, causing a helpless shuddering contraction.

“Oh, Gods, Chrome...!”

Vortex struggled to free himself, and from somewhere I willed the raw power to recapture him. (An illusion, of course. He permitted it to happen.) To still the flow of his alien language, I brought our lips together. My fingers stroked his hardness, tracing its rigid length, then on to cup the soft source beneath. I moved my hand gently and kissed his closed eyes at the same time, letting my tongue caress their lids even as my fingers moved to trace the vulnerable softness between his thighs. The hard shaft under the velvet skin throbbed, demanding attention, and my fingers brushed up to its tip. As I let it slip through them quickly several times, Vortex gasped at the pleasure, then set his mouth to mine again, his tongue probing, urging, caressing. I moved my hand slowly, rhythmically, the strokes following the pattern of thrusts and withdrawals he was making.

His mouth crushed still harder against mine; his whole body trembled with the effort to delay the building ecstasy. Wedging an arm between us, he forced my hand away from him and spoke—a rushing phrase in that alien language, filled with a liquid beauty I have no words for.

“I mean—please—stay with me,” he breathed.

Part of his trembling came from trying not to hurt me, I realized; muscle fighting muscle to keep from crushing me.

“Have you forgotten so soon?” I asked. “My name is Chrome, a hard metal. You cannot hurt me.” I moved against him. “Vortex, I want you closer.”

Murmuring something so deep it was more a growl, he took me to him. The power would have been fearful coming from any other source. But from him, whom I’d already made up my mind to die for, it was a release from every hurt I had ever known. I even found breath to speak.

“Better, my King. Now I must stay with you!”

A moment of struggle as if to break away. Then the ultimate straining thrusts of surrender. And the climax—so tight against me I felt its throbbing pulse, the heat of it flooding out between us. A second clenching shudder, a gasp for breath and then a whispered repetition.

“Stay with me...!”

“Forever, my King!”

Gradually his hold loosened as the tension eased. I ran down a mental check list of bones and found none sending up breakage flares or distress signals. That was reassuring. Of course, by tomorrow I would be black-and-blue, and—I smiled to myself—proud of each and every bruise.

Vortex lay still so long I thought him asleep, but when I moved to make him more at ease he stirred.

“Now yet, Chrome,” he murmured. “I cannot think of being without you. No.”

I pulled him close again and let my hands move along his back to soothe him, assure him, say in silence that whatever he wanted was his, as it always had been.

Did he know he was sealing my fate then? The weight of him, his warmth, the flow of energy from him, all worked to form a bond which not even Time could sever. Young King Vortex at his forge, muscles gleaming in the firelight as he hammered mightily, soundlessly—fashioning that ultimate bond from which there was no escape.

Reality asserted itself after a time; Vortex yawned, gave an enormous stretch, and stared upward at the stars. A moment or two, then he pretended to notice me for the first time.

“Good evening, Cadet,” he said, his tone imitating distant politeness.

I let my hand pass lazily downward from his chest.

“Indeed a good evening, my King, a magnificent evening—in every way.”

My hand came to rest, its fingers moving, encircling him, fondling. With a small groan, Vortex melted and leaned over to kiss me.

“I called you dangerous, remember? Now I realize you are also disastrous, a hazard, a menace.”

“And your slave forever,” I added solemnly and received another more serious kiss.

Ultimately we had the good sense to call a halt and make our way back down through the ravine to the Cabin, Vortex in the lead. We passed the bluff and I gave a start; silhouetted high above us was a motionless cowled figure. Its attitude of watchful waiting brought a flash of Rond-H’Lokk to mind and stilled the comment I was about to make.

Going from the courtyard through the huge glass doors into the house, I pondered the problem of what good-night speech could possibly be appropriate to this situation. Vortex gave the solution.

“I’ll be in your quarters shortly,” he said in a pleasant matter-of-fact tone.

I hurried in to brush my teeth, shower, curse my curling locks while scrubbing at them with a towel, wrap myself in a bathsheet, and jump into bed. Waiting, I shivered a little, jumped out of bed to turn off the lights and then back in again to burrow beneath the covers.

There was the soft slap of bare feet on the polished marble of the hallway, the sound of a robe dropping to the floor. I threw back the covers and Vortex slipped in beside me. Wanting desperately to please him in every way, but knowing all I had to draw on was vast inexperience, I found my usual temporary solution in talking.

“You’ve never spoken of where—of your land to me.”

“It seems like another life, belonging to someone else.”

“You sound sad, my King. Forgive my thoughtlessness in not realizing one would miss home after a time.”

“I long for it, yes. And now I long to take you there with me.” A near eternity before he continued. “Somehow I must find the way to do it.”

“Tell me how I can help, Vortex. I have the best of Academy training; my scoring sheets are almost perfect. In navigational matters I really excel—”

The sudden softness of his lips on mine blotted everything else from my brain. That silken warmth as part of such animal virility was a wonder of the Universe to me. Vortex murmured something.

“Wh-what, my King?” I asked dizzily.

“I want you to sleep now. Somehow we must arrange these cursed arm-cylinders to allow that.”

We did, using cushions from the couches in the main living area and a couple of its floor pillows. I curled up next to Vortex, head against his chest. (In future days of desolation I was to cling to the memory of his wondrous warmth, the sweet healthy scent of his body, the strong sure beating of his heart.) Intensely aroused, I tried to conceal my state from Vortex who brushed my forehead with his lips.

“Rest against me, Chrome, and let it be. There will be time later, but now you must sleep. I will speak of things you cannot yet know, and so I’ll tell them to you in my own language. Listen, and remember,, and sleep.”

At first the resonance of that liquid golden language was like a sexual caress, but as his voice kept on I became drowsy and calmer and realized sleep would be a possibility. The last thing I did before drifting off was stroke him gently and kiss his chest near his heart.

Vortex said my name softly with some syllables of his own added to it and continued with his tale of magic yet unknown. Wondrous, unimaginable, secret, dazzling surfaces without substance... which moved with a life not their own and formed glorious galleries... through which one could pass swiftly and yet still remain motionless... in the floating palaces of unending delight where...

X

I awakened late in a very amorous condition, verging on consummation in fact—only to find I was alone and wrapped around one of the larger pillows. An icy shower cooled my ardor, and with a small growl of my own at the bed with its nest of pillows, I went out to seek Vortex.

A message was blinking on the examination room display monitor:

GUEST TAKEN TO CENMED FOR FURTHER EXAMINATION AND TESTING. PROGNOSIS EXCELLENT. MODIFICATIONS OF ROUTINE AND PROCEDURE FORTHCOMING UPON RETURN OF GUEST. NO ACKNOWLEDGMENT NECESSARY. END TRANSMISSION.

I punched the keys to clear the flashing monitor, picked up the plastic printout sheet from the incoming tray and read it. There was a sense of uneasiness somewhere inside me; at the ambiguity of that “modifications of routine and procedure,” perhaps.

To rid myself of mental naggings, I set about retrieving material from the previous night’s dinner and restoring the oasis to its usual orderly state. Before my final return to the Cabin, I sat awhile with my feet in the pool. Watching the slowly widening ripples spread across its surface, I tried to analyze what had happened.

One may smile or possibly be impatient with my simplicity. After all, to speculate upon what had happened, at least physically, would have been stupid; it was self-evident. Whether one used pseudoanalytical gibberish like “an intense intimately meaningful interpersonal relationship,” or just called it “sex with Vortex” didn’t change a thing. No, that wasn’t what I was mulling over. It was the realization I had never been so happy and alive before; filled with feelings of relief, of freedom, of having cast aside some unknown and terrible weight. Which led me to the paradox: How could my dedication to Vortex bring so much inner happiness, when supposedly I should be overwhelmed with shame at turning my back on a lifetime of dedication to the Academy. Terms like hero worship or schoolboy infatuation were inadequate clichés. And with such careless abandon as to blunt its ageless message, I had thrown around the one word that said it all so simply: “Love.”

No point in pretending. I was completely miserable as the afternoon lengthened and there was no sign of Vortex. I tried talking to the birds; they literally turned their backs on me, marching up the roosting pole into the privacy of their enclosed sleeping quarters. I went in and exercised glumly. Three repetitions of everything with all the prescribed huffing and puffing. I parboiled myself in the heat room and afterward plunged with a yowl into the ice-water pool beside it. On a sudden impulse, I jumped out and, dripping and sliding, ran to check the examination room monitor. There might be some message from...

There wasn’t.

The lights came on just then. I rubbed my chin and felt the beginning of a slight stubble. That wouldn’t do at all. I must shave at once; for Vortex to come back and... I felt the blood rising to my face, my heart speeding in anticipation, and thought, ‘Gods, Chrome, you have, in truth, become a schoolboy in love!’ No safe retort to that; with a rueful smile I went ahead and shaved again.

Four hours later no smiles were left me, rueful or otherwise. No message had come through, I hadn’t eaten all day and still didn’t want anything. The melodic guitar music only depressed me further, and a chill seemed to have settled over everything in my world. I put on my hiking gear and returned to sit wrapped in a blanket staring into the brazier’s flickering flames.

A short sharp sound awakened me. I peered around the darkened room, saw nothing. From the direction of the courtyard another sharp “ping!” startled me to my feet. At the far end of the pool, cowl drawn up to cover its head, stood the phantom monk of my nightmare!

After a frozen moment of staring, I almost smashed the glass doors getting through them. Upon my first move, the figure whirled off into the darkness toward the ravine path. I ran after it as if my life depended on it. I suppose at that moment one might say it did.

The moon, high in the cloudless sky, made it easy to see the figure was headed toward the oasis, and again a flash of Rond-H’Lokk crossed my mind. Gods, what if it were he, luring me up to be spirited away? Absurd; his behavior when he realized Vortex was part of the equation made it clear he would never intrude again. No, it had to be some other... But it was difficult enough to keep up with this winged monk without taking on academic reasonings as well; I concentrated on breathing and running. Sometime during my vigil the wind had shifted, and now the night air was warm against my face. Racing around the last sharp bend, I skidded to a stop in the open oasis area.

On the far side of the pool, motionless in the moonlight, was the hooded figure. I stood panting and wiping sweat from my eyes, trying to plan strategy. My quarry was directly opposite me; if I moved one way he would move the other. I could spend the rest of the night dancing about the pool like an idiot puppy chasing its tail, never getting any nearer. On the other hand, nothing was to be gained by just standing there filling the air with heavy breathing.

I took a tentative step. And another. Then began a slow circling of the pool. The figure moved; I stopped. It raised both arms heavenward, letting the loose sleeves fall back to reveal bare arms and the age-old palms-opened gesture of peaceful intent or surrender. It lowered them, beckoning me forward.

Unsure, I stood testing with all my senses. The figure extended its arms fully, the unmistakable meaning of “come here.” Still I waited. Its hands grasped the edges of the cowl and flung it back.

A flash of wheat-colored hair made blue-white by the moonlight, the deep familiar voice calling, “You do not recognize these arms, Chrome?” and I started to move, but really move.

Don’t talk about the speed of light. I was there. Then. In those arms. And Vortex was laughing, pretending to try to protect himself. And I was telling him not to worry, that I had shaved, and let me see his arms, and, Oh, Gods, had I hurt—?!

“No, no, Chrome,” he laughed, “see?” He flung an arm upward to free it from its sleeve. “They put a membrane on them for a while to protect the skin from overly-friendly Cadets and that sort of thing.”

I could make it out then: the almost invisible film of Synthaskin began above the bicep and molded his arm and hand completely. He let me examine it, the fine golden hairs on the perfectly muscled forearm, the prominent veins on the back of his powerful hand. I took the other hand in mine as well.

“As beautiful as the rest of you, my King.”

I pressed my lips to each palm. Quickly he cupped my face in his hands and raised it to his.

For once I felt no need to fill the silence with talk, was more than content to gaze up at that moonlit mane of hair and those fabled features. He was fabled; I had become convinced of that. Some young God, sprung from the past, to confound all known laws, a guide to what Man could again become. Unbidden, my hands reached up to trace the planes of his face, to stroke his hair.

“Kings do not cry. They are above tears.” Vortex nodded to himself as if confirming established truth. “Yes, above tears. But, by the Gods, Chrome, you move me close to them sometimes!”

He bent and kissed me. Feeling the wetness of my skin, I moved back.

“Sorry, but I’ve been running.”

“You taste of honey. Stand still,” he said and covered my mouth with his.

I felt his hands undoing the fastenings of my shirt front and moved to speak again.

“Chrome!” he cut in, “what will become of you? I asked you to stand still. The use of my hands is still new to me—how am I to practice if you jump about?”

He eased me out from the opened front of my hiking trousers, then undid my belt buckle and knelt to push my trousers down, helping me step out of them and my soft leather boots at the same time. As he straightened he let his heavy silken hair move slow and full against me. The sensation was near ecstasy.

“I’ve been thinking, Chrome.”

He slipped my shirt off.

“I can tell you have!” I swallowed and took a breath. “Please let me go in the pool. I’ve been running and—”

“Thinking about those girls who captured you that summer, the ones you found exciting.”

He undid the cording knitted at his waist and took off the monk’s robe.

“I—I couldn’t help myself. They did things I’d never even heard spoken of by the older Cadets.”

“What a pity there’s nothing left for me to show you.” Behind his smile some secret played. “But I want to try, and will. Who knows? Perhaps some stone may yet be left unturned.”

Together we walked into the water. After a time of stillness in its warmth, Vortex began touching me, parting with tantalizing slowness the curtains of civilization, revealing the primitive being hidden so long within me. I stood aside in wonder as that sleeping savage awoke, shook himself, and reached out toward the young gladiator-god.

This savage self within Cadet Chrome I speak of, it was a revelation to me. I had never been given a hint of his presence, unless it was he who authored those wild-man rages like the one possessing me when I battled to free Jamison from his tormentors. But never mind—my point is, this primitive man was and is part of me. Then unknown, he is far more familiar to me now. I still cherish him most of all, however, for what he did that night. Since it’s awkward to write of myself as “he” this way, I will leave it as “I” and set down what I can of the events which occurred.

Vortex, with no warning of the extent of my awakening, was also in for a revelation. His touching me was gentle as had mine been with him the night before, becoming a stylized washing to free me of the sweat I’d complained of. Firmly and much more explicitly I did the same with him, feeling his murmur of surprise mingled with the kiss we were locked in. He started for the shallow part of the pool, his lips moving down as we arose from the water.

The breeze, now almost hot as it eddied in off the desert, played against me; I began to imagine what it would feel like when his—

Shocked recognition of the next image stopped me dead in my tracks, leaving Vortex to straighten and ask I-know-not-what. For I’d believed I was thinking of his mouth on me, but now an interior voice corrected:

‘No, Chrome. Your mouth on him.’ Instead of struggling or arguing with myself I stood and thought it out.

It was true. After that first glimpse of him, I’d done all I could not even to glance at his genitals—and all the while that secret self had been fighting to see them, caress them, know them. It mattered not that I’d massaged a thousand bodies; viewed even the most well-endowed with only mild interest; grown bored with this “appendage,” even as an indicator of successful work. That was past now—no longer would this secret self be denied.

So now—I plotted.

Vortex urged me to the bank of the pool, to lie down on his monk’s robe in that warm night wind. I responded to his embrace and kisses, all the while figuring and gauging. Yes, of course, I wanted what his lips and hands promised. But even more I wanted to possess him, as that blue-eyed copter pilot had possessed me. I knew what that felt like, what it had done to me, and I would command the same for Vortex. It would be the first time for both of us—and it would be now.

Taking Vortex’s head in my hands, I broke away from his lips to kiss his throat, the hollow at its base, to stroke his nipples. He laughed softly as I started to kiss them and tried to pull me away. I bit him gently, then smoothed my tongue over the spot. His grip on me tightened. I resisted, tugged to get free, and in a split second we were well into a wrestling match. No real match at all, of course. Against his might I had no hope of winning, but I fought him as though I didn’t know that. All I possessed went into my struggling. Everything except what might hurt him; that I would die before doing.

Within seconds I was pinned to the ground, panting and cursing with Vortex calmly astride me. His genitals lay soft against mine. My eyes went to them. Letting go of my wrists, Vortex bent down and kissed me. As he did, an idea came to me. I moved my hands slowly as if I was going to touch his softness. Instead I dug my fingers hard into his ribs. He yelled, tried to rise; I grabbed him in a scissors hold, jabbing and prodding in just the right places.

Vortex, the mighty young monarch, was ticklish—but extremely—and the tables were turned. Within very few more seconds than he had taken, I had him pinned beneath me, helpless, howling with laughter. I kept my hands resting on his ribs, quiet until he would try to move, then a quick little pressure from my fingers would stop the maneuver fast.

I let him rest a bit and got off to kneel by his side, stroking his thighs and the softness lying between them. I was bending to touch my lips to him when without warning he grabbed me again.

A fiercer fight this time. There was no question now of what I had in mind, and Vortex was not about to allow it. He almost had me subdued once more when I managed to get one foot loose. My toes found a ticklish zone, dug in, and within moments I was again master. Now I showed no mercy, carrying the torment to where he was fighting for breath and shaking with laughter and cursing and pawing at my hands all at the same time.

I stopped and sat by his side again, watching. One arm flung across his eyes, the other clinging to a handful of monk’s robe, his massive chest working as he gulped in air and let it out. The beating of his heart was visible below his rib cage even through the heavy bands of muscle which overlay it. I put a hand on the side of his abdomen nearest me, just below the navel where he was vulnerable, and smoothed the silken skin there as a reminder that I would have my way. He caught his breath and moaned as I bent and took his softness into my mouth.

“No, Chrome! Please—!” he begged, grabbing my guard hand around the wrist.

I flexed my fingers, pressing my nails into his abdomen. He flinched, relaxed his grip on my wrist and began muttering what sounded like curses as if to distract himself and keep from becoming aroused.

His efforts were short-lived, for I remembered a thing my pilot-captor had done. My tongue sought out an area of immense sensitivity, slowly slid back and forth across it several times, then paused. Vortex was silenced, his surrender evident as the soft warmth beneath my tongue became harder. Again I let the caresses begin, this time more firmly. He turned on his side, brought his knee up and guided my head to pillow itself there. As I did, his fingers came to rest against my temples and there began a flow of communication, a kind of transmitting of sensation which I had no preparation for, no knowledge of.

Levels of perception interchanged with each other in ways unimaginable. As if what I did to him was being done to me; I could feel what he felt. Then, superimposed, came remembrances of the pilot holding me in his mouth, of the sensuous pleasure he had taken in bringing those throbbing waves of gratification to me. And this, in turn, seemed relayed to Vortex. He had become tremendously hard. His breathing was ragged now, but he would allow himself no movement. Only his fingers softly rubbing my temples, telling that the victory had been mine and so must be the decisions and consequences.

The desire was building faster within him. My tongue responded to it the way I remembered the pilot’s had; I felt my own throbbing at the thought of that feeling. Since Vortex still would not move, I brought my hand up to stroke him and guide his hardness. The pilot’s mouth seemed around me once more, his tongue thrusting as mine now did.

Vortex’s entire body became rigid, his breath coming in gasps as the pleasure went beyond all control. I knew the inevitable climaxing ecstasy had already begun and brought him closer, forcing him into me harder and deeper. Suddenly his hands sought to pull me away, to deny me the final surging flood to come. A wildness took over as I threw them off, fiercely taking all of him, again and again until at the last of it I couldn’t separate his hot throbbings deep within me from the pounding of my own racing pulse.

As his passion slowly spent itself, I recalled the pilot’s care with me and calmed the lust which wanted to continue its devouring. I stilled myself and held him gently, sought to match my very breathing to his. He stroked my head with a touch more erotic than any other had ever been, for it spoke of what he had experienced and what he was then feeling.

Bring me up into his arms, he cradled me against him in the hot gusts of night wind blowing from the desert. His incoherent phrases and faltering attempts at caressing gave me glimpses of what I could bring to him, the pleasures I could devise to release and receive all he had ever hungered to give forth.

“Chrome,” his voice, still unsteady, was that deep near-growl, “you fought unfairly.” My protest was stilled as he added, “Thank the Gods!”

He lapsed into his golden liquid language as I smiled and slid my hands over his silken skin, now covered in perspiration from his lost battle. No, wrong: No vanquished that night, only victors. I thought.

As he felt my touch slip over him, Vortex abandoned me and dove into the pool. I joined him. Pretending pious help as he washed himself, I let my fingers poke without warning into an as yet unexplored zone. He gave an outraged yell and grabbed me.

“Gods, Chrome, a demon has possessed you this night!”

“The south wind’s about us now; legend has it ruled by a demon. But I am ruled by you, my King, and can be subject to no other.”

I ran my hands along his sides tracing a path with my thumbs from his nipples downward. He gave an involuntary quiver.

“No more of that. Come here.” He pulled us together and embraced me giving my hands a chance to feel that muscular back, to clasp the hard tight buttocks. He flexed them, then laughed. “Chrome, I’m at a loss—”

He wasn’t, though. Before I knew it he brought me swiftly to the surface to float in his arms, and even more quickly took me into the sensuous warmth of his mouth. A pause, then I heard my new savage self make a deep sound of agreement and approval of the pleasure being promised.

On the bank of the pool, lying back against the monk’s robe I trembled, knowing that before Vortex and this primitive self had finished with me, I would be splintered to the very center of my being.

“Stop thinking of anything but this,” Vortex interrupted as though catching my mind’s direction.

A needless command, for in anticipation of what was to come I’d already shut out the rest of the Universe; all of me was focused on him.

I hesitate to say he went about his loving of me methodically for that could suggest a mechanical quality—and it was anything but that! No, it was more the leisurely, voluptuous thoroughness with which he worked me, slowly opening the hidden doors within, pausing to let me savor completely each keenly felt increase in satisfaction before moving on.

His hands took over for a while. Resting next to me, lips against my ear, he murmured unknown words as his fingers explored and smoothed and grasped me to begin erotically indolent movements. A minute of letting me enjoy this new level, and then he spoke in what I realized through the haze of pleasure surrounding me was my language.

“Show me how,” he whispered.

Which made no sense; I was only interested in what he was doing at that moment. After a pause he repeated the words. I swallowed and struggled for speech.

“Gods!” I breathed, “you know how!”

“Your way, Chrome.”

He stopped and brought my hand down to replace his.

“I—I don’t.”

“Please, Chrome,” he urged, grasping my hand and molding it around me, “I want to know.”

With a mutter of reluctance I started; his sound of pleasure and his hands caressing my inner thighs soon made me able to adjust and begin the familiar comfortable strokes.

“Yes,” he whispered in a while and halted me. Putting my hand to rest on his upper arm, he slid his other arm under my shoulders to hold me closer as he took up where I’d left off.

With his bicep bulging and hard under my hand, Vortex imitated my strokes. My fingers traced the sinews and distended veins, then grasped its might in approval when he settled into a steady satisfying rhythm close to my own. He put his lips against my ear to let me feel and hear the echo of that movement in his breathing. Waves of warm gratification began lapping inside me. As if he, too, could feel them, he gradually let the strokes come faster, bringing a great level of pleasure, a growing desire for even more.

“It’s bigger,” he murmured. “Tell me when to stop.”

All that mattered now was the feeling of his hand and the ecstasy it brought as it moved. His bicep grew even harder as he increased the rate. Again a rise in gratification.

“Tell me when it’s close,” he insisted huskily, “before it’s too much.”

I couldn’t lose that feeling, the surges of satisfaction. His fist hard around me, the power of that arm moving faster, the heat of his lips and breath against my ear.

No, the desire to have it keep on building was too strong. I couldn’t, I mustn’t let him know how close it was to being too good right now.

But he knew without me saying and took his hand away.

I swore under my breath as the warmth receded. He chuckled, slid his arm out from under my shoulders and let me lie back against the robe.

“What did you say, Chrome?”

I opened my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts. It was hard when all I wanted to do was feel.

“I—I don’t know. I didn’t mean it. But it was so close.”

“And will be again.” Gray-velvet eyes shot through with hot orange, he gazed at me. “Now.”

He knelt between my outstretched legs and with deliberate taunting slowness took me into the marvelous warmth of his mouth. His hands came up the inside of my thighs all the way, teasing, letting my desire rise full again. When it had, he reached up and brought my hands down to rest on either side of his head, then slid his hands under my buttock. His tongue was moving only enough to tantalize the craving in me. All else waited.

At last realizing, I pushed my hands deep into his hair and began to guide him. He responded, pulling as my buttocks tightened, bringing me up to where all of me was enveloped. A pause as his tongue pressed me hard. He matched his movements with mine, letting me pull him away and then thrust deep again as I willed.

The erotic pleasure of it possessed me completely. To move and thrust with my own rhythm, to have the throbbing answered each time with that probing caressing tongue, to feel the waves of voluptuous satisfaction curling around the core of me again and again, harder, stronger, the mounting overwhelming excitement, knowing that only a few more times now and nothing could stop that ecstatic tide, each thrust deeper, hotter, almost unbearably good now, each throb closer to touching that center—

Abruptly Vortex reached up and grabbed my wrists, pulling them to my thighs and anchoring them there. He withdrew his mouth from me almost completely, barely holding me, going slack as I struggled in vain to thrust up and secure that ultimate ecstasy still pulsing just beyond my reach.

I clenched my jaws and fought to clear my mind enough to form words; I was about able to speak when he took me into him. All thought vanished under the assault of those hot caressing movements. Quickly the pleasure spasms returned to grow and intensify. His eagerness and pacing this time told that he knew I could stand no more, that it must not be prolonged. Then I felt him slowing. Frantically I sought for images to reinforce the feeling but none would come to aid me.

Past caring, carving only that one thing, I uttered anything I could. Asking, and asking again. Then pleading, begging him, not really knowing what I said, only that this must end. It was inhuman torment, maddening, nearing torture.

At that moment he released my hands to slide his under me. I leaned forward over him to caress and placate and bring us closer, kneading gently at the broad shoulders slick and gleaming with sweat. His tongue began again and he moved impatiently for me to give him space. I lay back once more.

This time I knew he would let me finish. I raised myself enough to put my hands beneath me to join with his as he moved me. The pleasure mounted more warily, but he lured it on, pausing only for a throb of desire before continuing and quickening the pace. My whole body was straining now, shuddering with the passion that was building. Vortex took complete control of that savage ecstasy, dictating that it should be gradual in taking hold, surer in growing, decreeing that there be more, and yet more, that there now be an even greater heightening of the acute utter pleasure. At last he commanded an ultimate impossible intensity that triggered my release, and the excruciating jolts of ecstasy were let loose. I heard myself yelling out to the Gods with each new spasm as it flooded forth.

There had been too much, too long a waiting. I felt myself shatter into a billion pieces. The yells of relief turned into helpless uncontrolled sobbing.

* * *

Vortex was there, rebuilding me anew with a loving strength such as only Gods had known before. Making me complete and whole once more, letting me drift off to sleep in the sublime peace of his arms. His mighty protection surrounded me as he murmured in his alien language which by now had an almost tangible beauty for me. Golden and glowing, flowing to infuse itself throughout all the fibers of my being.

* * *

“And now, Chrome—now will you always remember me?” he asked with gentle insistence. “Will you?”

Eyes still closed, I stirred and laughed, more to myself than to him, for I alone understood how totally I belonged to Young King Vortex. I thought.

“Always, Vortex. You know that.”

I was about to bring his lips to mine when he continued.

“And if I ask you to do a thing, will you swear to do it?”

Something had crept into the tone of that still-quiet voice. I opened my eyes to search those classic features for a clue. None was offered.

“Of course,” I answered. “You know I’m yours to command. But what?”

“Dress yourself quickly. Listen with utmost care and don’t interrupt. There is much I have to say; all of it is vitally important.”

Even as he was talking he rose and turned the fire pit up to its highest flame. The wind had died away and the stilled air was cooler. Smiling a bit uncertainly, I held out the robe for him to put on. He pulled me hard against him, tousled my hair and then let go of me.

“Now dress and listen, Chrome.”

I listened and at first disbelieved. Listened and then had to believe. Listened and finally prayed for death.

Silent and immobile, I huddled close to the leaping flames of the fire pit, their warmth no match for the soul-chill upon me. Vortex spoke calmly, even kindly, while I listened without blinking.

And prayed for death.

XI

All too well I know how repulsive is the idea of a relationship between human and Robot. To many people it always will be. So, forced now to speak of it, be assured I do so with great regard for the protection of finer feelings and delicate sensibilities.

But you already guessed that Vortex was a Robot? How clever, how shrewd. My congratulations on such astuteness. And do, I pray, excuse the unseemly bitterness I still so deeply feel.

Before becoming too settled in smugness, however, pause and reflect. You were not blinded by a young godlike being, by some thing, the power of which words even now cannot correctly describe. Nor was your reality, your world, your Universe suddenly ripped to shreds before your very eyes. Nor was it our sole reason for being who stood before you mow explaining what must be done in order for you to continue to live—a life no longer worth living.

Numbly I sat listening to Vortex, realizing for the first time how truly dangerous Robots were, how terrible their power over us could be, why the price for loving one was and had to be death. They had the ability to enchant, to enslave, to break a human’s willpower, to cloud and finally destroy his loyalties, leaving that person a mechanical thing useful only to its Robot master.

If it could be so termed, I was “lucky”—for some reason Vortex cared about me, and now he was setting forth the details of his plan to protect me.

“And out here at the oasis there is only the tracer circuit to show when the area is occupied and by how many. Not even a sound monitor here, thank the Gods. But at the Cabin the authorities have video and audio monitors carefully hidden everywhere, especially in the pool area and the central living space.

“So out here I’ll explain exactly what will happen, what you must do to save yourself. Must, Chrome. There’s no other way. It is death to love a Robot; that you know, and you would be killed for loving me.”

Vortex paced for a moment in thought. I watched, silently commanding myself to hate him, to change love to loathing, find him ugly and unclean. So ridiculous a notion even to attempt, it brought a faint smile to my lips. Vortex caught my changed expression and misread it.

“That’s better,” he said, nodding approval. “You were looking quite pale. Now then, during tomorrow’s massage will be an excellent time. Let the subject come up as naturally as possible. I’ll say something about our days together being almost over, how unhappy I am at the thought that I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Reply lightly, near disrespect, with a joke, and I’ll pretend rage. I’ll throw the towel stand so as to sever the electronic cable of the surveillance system—it runs along the leading edge of an archway by the caged birds. All this we’re programmed and rehearsed to do. Do you understand?”

I nodded and cleared my throat enough to agree.

“Good. Now I pretend to calm down. I point out the cable I’ve just cut and tell you that at last we can speak the truth, that you can once more reassure me of your love since the police at the CenCom master monitors can no longer see or hear us. At this, no matter what I do or say, you must laugh at me and keep on laughing. For there is a second cable, Chrome, a second one, hidden and quite separate from the first; it keeps on with the transmission.”

I nodded, yes, I understood: there were two cables.

“So this is where you must tell me to stop my foolishness. Do it firmly, politely at first. I’ll pretend hurt and anger and increasing emotional disturbance until at last you must threaten me with the authorities. Say something has evidently unbalanced my programming and start into the house to call them. I’ll stop you, accusing you of having lied and tricked me by your attentions during the massage. Push me aside in disgust at this misinterpretation. I’ll grab you, and then we pretend a fight.”

He looked at me and his voice took on some of its former warmth.

“I promise not to harm you. You’re a fine young man—the finest I’ve ever known—and you’ve been most kind to me.”

I took a breath and started to rise, but he pushed me back down.

“It has to convince the police viewing it, though,” he cautioned. “So at the end knock me down and break away. Get to the examination room and signal ‘emergency’ on the keyboard. Be in command of yourself, as you naturally would be, but make it look and sound most urgent. The Robot you’re assigned to has broken down. It’s behaving irrationally, and you’re requesting advice. The CenMed police take over from there. You’ll be safe from any suspicion. You’ll have passed the final phase, Chrome. Victorious, free to follow that path to the stars!”

Arms outflung in triumph, Vortex smiled with pride at this carefully thought-out plan. My consciousness had to accept it as the truth, but as I rose unsteadily to face him, far inside a small pathetic hope pleaded.

“A joke—just a bad joke,” I whispered. “Please, Vortex?”

His face was a mask. Handsome, cold, without expression. Freeing himself of his robe, he deftly ripped off first one arm covering, then the other. Synthaskin will not come off healing tissue; once applied it must be absorbed gradually and naturally by the body. Vortex held his arms out for inspection.

“No healing here. Look closely, Chrome. Use your knowledge, your training; you’ll find no scars or join-mark.” His voice was as impersonal as was his face. “There never was anything wrong with my arms. Only another deception to trap you just as all the others were.”

A wave of nausea flooded over me. I turned away and fell to my knees, clutching my stomach as the muscles there knotted. I’d eaten nothing that day so the strained convulsing brought forth only bitter bile. The attack became a cramping torment, passing only when my system accepted the fact nothing was being gained.

Vortex dunked a torn-off square of his robe in the pool. Weakly I motioned him away, but he paid no attention. Positioning me with my head on his lap. he smoothed the moistened cloth across my feverish brow to let its coolness bring relief. After a moment, he reversed the cloth to its other side and began working his fingers carefully through my tangled curls.

“How many times I’ve wanted to touch you.” He ruefully shook his head. “Could you not guess?”

Shutting my eyes against this new attack, I rubbed at my knotted abdominal muscles. Vortex put his hand there and joined my efforts. Already far past my breaking point, I knew that kindness or warmth from him would be impossible to bear.

“Don’t do that, Vortex. I can manage.”

“I mean only to help. I wasn’t trying to—to suggest anything. I know you feel unwell, Chrome; I’d never—”

“Stop talking! Stop it!!”

“By the Gods, I won’t! I have rights in this!” he cut in. “I must no longer touch you? Then, let it be so. But I have feelings and thoughts, and while there’s still time I will voice them.”

I sensed him gazing down at me and heard his soft ironic laugh.

“It’s unjust, unfair, Chrome. You’re a most beautiful man, but you don’t know that, of course. It’s kept from you somehow, part of your tremendous appeal.”

He would have his way, would do anything to break me. The hot tears forced past my closed lids despite all my efforts.

“No, don’t—please!” Vortex gathered me to his chest as one would a child, slowly rocking back and forth. “We’re not so inhuman as they’d have you think, beloved Chrome. It gives me great pain to see you this way.”

I looked at him, trying to comprehend.

“You said ‘beloved’!”

“Yes. Here, for the first and last time, I can say I love you. I will always love you.”

I turned to him. His hands on my shoulders quickly held me at just that distance.

“You must understand something, though. This is not the ‘love’ humans can experience and feel for one another; therefore it is forbidden. But it’s all I have, all I’m capable of giving.”

He shrugged and took his hands away. Resting his arms and chin on his knees, he stared into the fire pit’s flames.

“I’ll never forget when H’Zin-H’Tarn died; you had shed tears for her that morning, even though unaware she was bidding you good-bye. I brought her body up here to the oasis so those unspeakable technicians couldn’t desecrate it. She’s buried out in the desert there, returned to renew the planet. Afterward that night, I thought of you, your tall young strength, your courage and dedication—and what I know as ‘love’ began. And brought with it this plan to save you.”

Vortex turned from the flames to look at me. After a moment he straightened an arm to rest his fist against my chest. His muscles bunched as he pushed me gently with it once or twice and then left it there.

“But no more now. An end to this. Promise to do as I’ve said. Believe me, Chrome, any other course is useless—and deadly as well!”

At last I shrugged.

“Then I have no choice, my King.”

* * *

What remained of the night I spent on my bed, sleepless, staring up through the transparent ceiling. The sky clouded over blotting out the stars. A wind began to sigh and moan. Soon a full-fledged thunder-and-lightning storm descended.

Reminded of the storm so long ago which caused the collapse and crash of the monorail, I watched, wondering how life would have been if my father and mother had lived and I’d grown up with a real family instead of as an orphan.

Then a tremendous bolt of lightning shifted my thoughts to a drama I’d seen. Recorded on a curious old photographic filmstrip, restored and electronically enhanced to the point of being viewable, its flickering tale of a monster sewn together from parts of dead bodies and brought to life by a storm of lightning bolts had amused me at the time. Now my throat tightened as I thought of Vortex, the “monster” I loved; the Robot who had told me, “I love you. I will always love you”; the magnificent demigod who called me beloved.

I wiped at my eyes and waited. When it was time, I shaved, went through my exercises twice, used the heated vapor room, then the icy pool. Drying my hair I remembered Vortex saying he admired it. I brushed it, awkwardly trying to make the best of it, but halted when struck by the realization of what lay ahead.

The sweat began anew. My nerves fought to take over, some inner voice screaming in senseless fright.

After showering again, I rubbed on antiperspirant salve and stared fixedly into the mirror until that terror-stricken inner self was quieted.

The courtyard was empty, so I walked to the pool’s end to view the desert. The crystal morning brought back that rain-washed, sun-flooded day when I had first set out on my way here. It is better we cannot know the future, for surely our hearts would break.

A glance towards the bluff gleaming in the morning sun, and I turned to give a start of surprise. Vortex was waiting by the massage table.

“Ah, Chrome, forgive me—perhaps the bell you once suggested I wear might not be a bad idea! But I couldn’t help pausing to admire your excellent condition this morning.” The tone, lightly mocking, the careless smile and veiled gaze, all perfectly calculated. “You must have slept very well indeed.”

“Alas, King Vortex, not one wink.” I matched his tone and attitude as best I could. “Though I thank you from the heart for your sincere compliment.”

“A pity. The storm disturbed you?”

“No, no, my King. My thoughts disturbed me, thoughts of you!”

“As—as well they should, Chrome.”

The slight faltering, was it at my boldness in giving such an opening? I carried my supplies to the stand, remembered just in time the role it was supposed to play in our drama, and put the towels and oil on the lounge chair next to it instead.

“Yes, my King. Our time together grows short now.” I snapped open the largest towel to cover the table. “Up here, please—and I find a curious sadness has come over me.”

Eyes slightly narrowed, he got into position, annoyed, I imagined, at my taking over so much of what he’d indicated he would say.

“Thank you, Oh, King, and if you’ll permit, may I leave the eye covering off? There are so few opportunities left me to look upon your beauty.”

My tone verged on sarcasm but I kept my expression pleasant. Putting a hand on his chest as if to steady myself, I brushed the hair back off his brow. The pounding of his heart stunned me momentarily but I recovered.

“Oh, forgive my touch, King Vortex. I forgot your arms and hands are functioning quite well once more—quite well, indeed!”

“Gods, Chrome!” He sat up angrily. “You forget yourself!”

“How, my King?” I asked with pretended innocence.

“By this mocking of my feelings for you.” His voice softened, “And, I think, of yours for me.” I started away. “Chrome—?”

“Yes, King Vortex?”

“I swear by all the Gods I cannot think of bidding you farewell. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“Oh, King,” I smiled, “if all else fails, there’s always that houseful of your devices and machines.”

“I—I didn’t know you were so able at being cruel! Please, Chrome, not now.” He put a hand to his chest. “A pain is here I can’t explain. In truth, it hurts me so—”

“Well,” I cut in briskly, “we know Robots’ hearts don’t break. So we can cross that off the list, can’t we.” Laughing, I turned for the oil. “A bit of gas, perhaps—from overeating?”

Even though I expected something, the bellow from him startled me. I whirled and ducked aside.

In a blur of fury Vortex lunged to grab the stand I’d left empty for him. He swung it once around his head and let it fly with perfect aim to hit the archway. There were squawks from the caged birds and a ‘Ffftttt!!’ from the edge of the arch. With a popping sound and a puff of smoke, one end of the severed cable fell loose and hung limply out from the plaster.

I shook my head in silent admiration. At his skill and coordination, yes, but even more at his incredible grace. If there had been Gods on Earth (and I now was sure of it), they would have paled and withered in envy beside King Vortex.

A calm descended upon me. What would happen now was the truth, and therefore only good could come of it. Something in my manner must have signaled a warning to Vortex.

“A surveillance system, Chrome, to CenCom and the police there.” He eyed me cautiously, pointing out the severed cable. “But this accident has damaged it. It will be some hours before they realize and send out the repair crew. So now, at last, we can speak the truth. Chrome—”

He stopped as I advanced towards him smiling;

“The truth, beloved King?” I took his shoulders and looked into those magnificent eyes. “That it’s death to love a Robot? I have faced that truth, and I find no terror in it.” A growing terror was in his eyes, though, as he sought to quiet me. “For I love you—”

“No, Chrome!” he yelled.

“I haven’t forgotten the second cable, and I don’t care what the penalty is, my King. I’ll follow you and serve you, fight for you through all the Universe. Or, if I die the next moment, it matters not: I am with you. If I’m banished forever, I still have known you and loved you and will always love—”

Sudden horror struck me. There was a slackening to the muscle beneath my grip. Vortex stepped back, seemed to sag slightly. Something ghastly was happening to him, the glaze of pain in his eyes told of it. He managed to grasp the stand lying on its side nearby. With a mighty effort he hoisted it up, hacking mechanically at the wall next to the cage. There was a crumbling of plaster, a shower of sparks and the second cable parted in smoke.

“It is death—for both!” he rasped. “They—they shut our hearts off... Run! Please! I’m finished now, but you—can—run...”

He grabbed at the bird cage, hanging on as he summoned up a ghost of that radiant smile.

“Remember, Chrome, I always love you—alway...”

The cage, buckling under his weight, slipped and toppled to one side. Vortex swayed for a moment, took a step towards me and fell through my outstretched arms to lie motionless on the tiles. Breaking free of the terror paralyzing me, I dashed for the house and the drug dispensary.

The door of the cage had broken open, and the birds flew after me into the examination room to flutter anxiously about as I pawed the cupboards in search of heart-stimulant injections. At the ominous lack of sound, I spun to check the monitoring system panels. All were off, darkened, except one. A flashing red oblong:

ROBOT LIFE FORCE DISCONTINUED

NOTIFY AUTHORITIES

If I say, “Then and there I died,” it would be an obvious lie: I am alive and writing this. Yet I did feel my life go out, and something did happen because abruptly both birds stopped their fluttering and were gone.

And if I write of how a terrible darkness fell from the heavens to blanket all the earth, that, too, would be false; I walked slowly back to the courtyard and stood squinting in brilliant sunshine. Yet for me there was no more light in anything.

But when I tell you I looked down upon that body and could not cry, it is the truth. Vortex, my King, was gone from me forever. And I, fool that I was, could not even summon decent tears to honor his passing.

At last I heard a dead, dry, old-man’s voice—my own, I realized.

“Yes, Chrome, look here upon what you’ve done; look, unable to weep. And just as well. What good would fool’s tears do now?”

XII

Silence blanketed the courtyard except for where the fountain softly splashed. I numbly watched the sunlight glitter on its falling water as eons or seconds passed, one and the same to me now that Vortex lay dead at my feet.

A sharp crack and muffled slam from the front of the house. Then sudden muted squeaks of alarm, and the birds fluttered frantically around my head.

‘Run! Run!’ screamed my inner voices.

And I did—ran like the wind, streaked out of the courtyard, up through the stones of the riverbed towards the oasis. An abrupt halt, a flash of knowing: ‘Head off at a right angle, hide over there in the shadow under the boulders!’

Even the birds lost me and circled in confusion. At my low whistle, they banked sharply, gliding and peering in the right direction. A second whistle and they flashed to join me in the shadow.

Just as they’d frozen into statues, the swollen black bulk of a police jet-copter came flying along above the trail, high enough not to stir up sand and dust with its shrieking blades and slow enough to let its sonar sweepers comb the area. The Gods were kind; the thick overhang of stone hid the three of us from the searchers. Several more ear-shattering passes, then the craft blazed into jet-drive and vanished in the direction of the Academy base.

I should have wondered then at the craft’s origin. It was not from the group with local jurisdiction, the Desert Academy’s Police Force; it belonged rather to S.O.R.A.’s ultimate authority for the enforcement of its laws, the Governmental Security Agency. The craft’s bottom surface had displayed that Agency’s insignia: on a field of white, a pyramid of three black discs outlined in red. How or why would S.O.R.A.’s agents move in to take over so fast? I was too dazed for logical thought at that point, however, and only felt thankful to have escaped detection.

When the sun had moved far enough overhead, I stealthily began climbing upward towards the cave. At first I worried that the birds might give me away but then saw they were far wiser than I. They waited patiently, peeking and checking on my progress, until I’d found a resting place big enough for us all. Then they followed, skimming barely above the surface. A faint breeze, a slight ruffling sound, and they were there, cocking their gleaming ruby eyes at me and bobbing encouragement. After what seemed hours of this, we reached the cave with its lookout notch centered on the Cabin.

Through the binoculars I detected no signs of movement or of anyone’s having stayed behind to keep watch. At sunset the lights came on automatically. I could see the rippling reflections of the pool and part of the glowing brazier.

The birds flew off to forage, but stayed clear of the Cabin’s brilliant illumination. They soon returned and watched me. My throat was parched and I felt faint from hunger but didn’t dare risk whatever entrapment might have been arranged at the Cabin. With the birds nestled nearby, I curled up on the blankets in the back of the cave and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Again the Gods were good. During the night, thunder and a veritable cloudburst awakened me. I thrust my upturned head into the torrent, slaked my thirst and began to realize the further benefits. This tremendous amount of water would wash away any tracks left of my flight. It would also leave filled the holes in nearby rock formations; I’d be safe and able to survive for some little while. Wondering vaguely why even to bother with survival, I returned to my blankets (the birds had refused to budge) and again was soon asleep.

In the morning the birds had gone. Hours passed with no sign of them; I began to wonder if they’d deserted me. After going into another ravinelike fissure to relieve myself, I was returning to the cave when a commotion arose from the oasis trail. The binoculars, steadied not too satisfactorily on a secondary rock formation, showed an unbelievable scene.

The birds had caught and killed a fairly large rabbit and now were flinging it about like kittens playing with a dead mouse! It got tossed and apparently lost for a time under the stone outcropping of our first hiding place. Then the male retrieved it and dragged it a little way in the direction of our cave, only to abandon it on a level stretch of ground. With that both birds took off towards the oasis.

I returned to the cave, shaking my head and mumbling to myself. Vegetarians, they had always disdained even the choicely chosen, hygienically packaged grubs and worms from their automatic feeder. And now? Poor things, unaccustomed to freedom, they’d eaten some toxic plant or berry and become crazed.

The female returned in about a half an hour still damp from her bath at the oasis. In a state of controlled agitation she peered at the house, then flew a short distance back to check the trail to the oasis, then the house, then the trail. She’d begun urging me to a vantage point out of the cave but then flew directly into my face when I tried to stand up.

Peeking over the rim of stones, I saw an Academy Patrol vehicle in front of the Cabin. Voices drifted up as two black-uniformed Academy policemen and two other males in desert hiking gear made their way along the riverbed. Each of the civilians had a hunting dog on a leash. Water still flowed in some quantity from last night’s storm and they split up, one policeman and a civilian with his dog taking one side, the others crossing to follow along the opposite side.

“... all last night... still so much water around... no chance of finding anything now...”

Grumbling, they passed below and were about opposite our first hiding place when out from it flew the male bird. He rose a few feet, lost altitude and fluttered weakly to the ground. The yapping dogs almost jerked their startled handlers off their feet. The civilians let slip the leashes and the dogs galloped toward the bird. Dragging a drooping wing, he struggled a short distance. Just as they leaped for him he managed to flutter up and glide unsteadily some distance farther, only to fall to earth once more. Again with mindless yips the dogs bounded forward for the kill, and again the bird eluded them. This time, however, he’d brought them to where they were standing upon the rabbit carcass. The dogs abandoned him and fell to fighting over the freshly killed meat.

From a perch safely out of reach, the male bird, wing still drooping, watched the scene unfold—as did his mate and I from our vantage point.

The men, yelling angrily, collared the dogs and jerked them away towards the trail. As they passed our first hiding place, one dog caught some of my scent—left there untouched on surfaces sheltered from the downpour. Baying frantically, he broke loose and ran to sniff the ground beneath the overhang. The men saw only the spattered blood and bits of fur left from the birds’ earlier premeditated tussling with the rabbit; they thought the dog was off on that course again. His handler charged in after him and dragged him out. The dog stupidly headed back in; the man let loose a heavy-booted, well-placed kick at the dog’s exposed rear parts. A thump, a yelp of pain, and that finished the investigation of the only clue left them. Oh, they all trekked up towards the oasis, of course, but soon came scuffling back in glum silence on their way out.

The rest of that day and the next passed with no movement or sign of life from the house. I managed to find small pools of water to quench my thirst and paid no heed to the hunger which, ignored, soon left me.

Late on the third day the birds decided it was safe and flew down into the courtyard to find what might be left of their food. Restless and jumpy during their long absence, I halfheartedly scolded them through my relief at their return. They were plump and contented once more and settled down near me for the night.

A soft warbling between them and the female came over to give my ear lobe a gentle nip. It brought back with a terrible pang the night the male had done this to Vortex. I managed to thank her at some length, though, ruffling her topknot before letting her return to her mate. I’ve always been grateful to whatever Gods prompted me to do so; in the morning the birds did not awaken.

Again no tears, and when, with shame, I knew they would not come, I sat pondering the cause of the birds’ dying. Their food might have been purposely poisoned, or maybe merely through exposure and spoilage it had become deadly to them. Or the rabbit might have carried disease against which they had no defense. Or—I was utterly alone now, abandoned, and my madness had begun—or, I thought, simplest of all: their hearts had been shut off. Of course! They, also, had been robots; I had loved them, and that was not permitted. So their hearts, too, had been stopped.

“Miserable stinking dogs,” I ranted, “why don’t you turn my heart off?! Now I, too, am only a Robot and utterly useless at that. My Love is dead at your hands, so turn those same hands against me and let me die in peace. Now!”

Mumbling with irritation when my demand was ignored, I drifted into feverish sleep.

I awoke face up in the blazing sun and groggily rolled back into the shade of the cave’s interior, groaning at my various aches and bruises, trying to reason what had made me crawl outside. The voices! That was it! Male voices raised in the argument I could still hear even as their owners moved out of range.

Some inner sense goaded me to get to the oasis. I began to follow along above the trail, keeping well back from the bluff’s edge. Stumbling, cursing my increasing weakness. Resting, then staggering on, only to fall and have to rest again.

During one of these forced pauses I became aware of the noise. A dry, rhythmic, near-mechanical scraping would stop a moment, then continue. Something inside me twisted into a cold knot; it knew before I did what made that sound. I hurried on as best I could. The noise grew clearer, more unmistakable. I reached the point where I could peer over the edge. I didn’t have to; by that time I knew what was happening down there. But I had to see it. And did. And still do to this day.

On the far side of the palm grove was a work detail of four prisoners, civilians by the look of them, the type usually employed for manual labor at the Desert Academy. In pairs, sweating and cursing in the noonday heat, they took turns with the digging. Beside them, seated at ease on the oblong form of a burial case, was an Academy police guard. A long-barreled radiation rifle rested across his knees.

“The less time you spend complaining,” his voice floated up distinctly, “the more you’ll have for digging—and the faster we’ll all be out of here!”

One of the diggers stopped and mopped his face with a rag.

“A grave for a Robot?” He spat in disgust “I thought they burned whatever was left of them!”

“Get on with it,” ordered the guard. “You heard the same as they told us all. This was no ordinary Robot, and it was his request—”

“I know, I know,” the other cut in. He imitated some officious administrator’s voice: “ ‘This was a King, my good men, a King from beyond the stars! So let it not be drudgery but a privileged duty!’ “

He made a rude noise and broke into a braying laugh while the others nodded and snickered. I felt myself growing dizzy and turned away to seek shelter. In the shadow side of a boulder I lost consciousness.

Night had come when once again I awoke. A chill wind blew and an almost-full moon bathed the desert with sterile rays. I crawled to the bluffs edge. The oasis was still. The men had finished their task, leaving behind them an ugly oblong heap of stones. I watched for a long time but nothing moved.

Sliding, slamming into unseen obstacles, falling, I made my way down—past the pool, past the grove of palms with its gushing spring, past all the familiar objects of the oasis—to face this new thing, this obscenity.

I stood panting in front of the metal cross set into a base of already-hardened cement. Without bending, I could read its moonlit legend:

ABD H’LOKK-MOND H’ZUM

Warrior and King

King? I had known it by instinct from the beginning. Warrior? That I also knew. He had fought hard and skillfully to save me, while I, with my blundering, had brought him to his death. Here before me lay what remained of that magnificence, here under an ill-fashioned heap...

I fought for breath and looked up blindly to search the stars for something—some sign, some last farewell.

“Oh, Gods,” I prayed, “in your goodness, be kind to my King. Let his rest in this alien soil be peaceful and undisturbed. And, Great Gods, most humbly I pray you, ask of my King for me his forgiveness...”

Without warning the dam within me suddenly crumbled and the tears, so long denied, came flooding forth. I fell across the grave, ripped and tore at the stones piled atop it, but was too weak to move them. After a time, I pushed myself up to stand unsteady, sobbing in the moonlit clearing of the oasis.

It was then the horror began: The watchers—the police and other Academy authorities—revealed themselves. They’d lain concealed, waiting for me to emerge from my hiding place. Now, in my delirious state, they seemed like friends from some nightmare, a crowd of rotting ghouls, these watchers who crept out of the shadows. Their whispering, gibbering, foul-breathed slobbering was all around me.

“It’s him: Chrome—the other one. We got him!”

“Careful, don’t hurt him! It’s Chrome!”

“Hurt him? He’s cut hisself to ribbons already. Look there at his hands!”

“Where’s that fool doctor? Here, give me that, you idiot!”

A sharp stabbing pain in the small of my back brought merciful, swiftly spreading numbness. But not swift enough nor merciful enough to keep one last frightful thing from me. There was a phlegm-filled cackle, then a gloating voice.

“I’ve always said it, boys, and I’m right again: ‘To catch a Robot—use a Robot!’ “

As consciousness left me, all my awareness seemed filled and echoing with those ghastly words and their dawning truth: “To catch a Robot—!... catch a Robot—!... catch a ROBOT!!”

Part Two:  LIMBO

XIII

According to the medical records, I was a raving incoherent madman for many weeks. Partially from physical exhaustion and lack of food, plus a clumsily administered overdose of Anesthetol out at the oasis—but mostly from my inability to face reality, to cope with the lies implanted hypnotically by S.O.R.A. I’d had no family, no mother or father, there’d been no monorail crash to take their nonexistent lives, I hadn’t been left an orphan. All fictional, to mask the truth: I was that alien hated thing of rumor and gossip, a Robot.

When at last I began reaching out for sanity and understanding, the first face I recognized was that of Vortex! Naturally I thought I was still hallucinating. His reality gradually began to sink in, though; no matter how many professionally cheerful nurses were around my hospital bed, or how often the professional pompous doctors from CenMed’s staff visited me, always there remained that silver-uniformed gleam. And even in my dazed state I was aware of the tremendous respect with which Vortex was treated, the bowing and scraping and courtesies shown him whenever he moved. Politeness out of fear? More than that, but certainly that, certainly fear.

After the rest had gone babbling on their way, Vortex, his face grave, would come close again. Those incredible eyes were a smoky purple now, so dark was their velvet gray. They would lock upon me, and he would speak softly, slowly in his own language. Soothing me, making me drowsy enough to drift into sleep, to dream of multicolored honeycombs tended by jewel-like bees gently humming as they moved in glittering patterns of metallic greens and golds and purples and the turquoise of butterfly wings. Awakening, I would find him still there, his eyes and voice making the world outside us unimportant, meaningless.

Meaningless it was, indeed, even in the face of what I could only assume was reality: that Vortex was alive and beside me, that this was a preferential-care room somewhere in CenMed’s security facilities, and that I was a very sick Cadet.

My hands must have been badly damaged; they were still bandaged in several areas. It caused pain to move them, and they were stiff, but I could sense the patching and repairing had been expertly done. With time and exercise I was sure I’d regain full use of them. I was much less certain about my mental faculties.

To find one’s physical world turned upside down can be unnerving, but Cadets learn to cope with that early in the whirl and swoop of navigational training machines. To find one’s mental world turned inside out, backwards, warped into an echoing hall of demons was more difficult to deal with. Evidently a matter of putting aside everything I’d thought of as real, then taking each moment as it arrived, examining it, and classifying it.

When it became clear my mind was settling, Vortex began to explain what had happened. From his point of view, it was all his fault. The plan and the execution of that plan had been his, so the results, he said, must also be blamed upon him.

“No matter how terrible the circumstances seem now, though, in the final outcome we will be the victors. You’ll be free to join me, Chrome, to become my co-captain. And one day, perhaps, you will learn to forgive me.”

So many things crowded in to be questioned, but I had to correct something.

“Vortex, listen. Alone at the Cabin—seems a long time ago now, doesn’t it?—back there, I pledged my life to you. My life was and is and ever will be yours. There’s no room or need for questions of... forgiveness or... any...”

I had to wave the rest away with a gesture. The weakening effect of my illness left me out of breath, and also there was the look on Vortex’s face. Touched by my words (the truth often does that), he reached out and brushed his fingers against my lips.

“Kings do not cry, Chrome, and yet—”

I ran my tongue over his fingertips and bit them lightly. He smiled and said something in his golden language; the color deepened in his cheeks when I asked for a translation.

“I don’t know your words for it, but when you’re well enough to—”

“Does the door have a lock on it?” I asked innocently. “Or will it be a matter of my beard?” (Rather than disturb me further, they’d let it grow, and by now it was full and curling.) “Will it cause a hazard, some hardship as yet unknown to me?”

“You are—” Vortex shook his head. “Let me think; there’s a word, a fine, complicated word I’ve learned. ‘Uncorrugatable?’ No. Ah, ‘incorrigible.’ That’s it: Chrome, the Incorrigible.” He frowned. “I have it right now, or not? Incorrigible is correct?”

“Very correct, my King, and a fine word, indeed. Where did you learn it?”

“While I waited for your recovery, my advisors and I read enough of your idiotic legal books to last a lifetime. It was somewhere in there.”

“The way you say ‘advisors,’ the manner in which they treat you here, and at the oasis, on the grave’s burial cross, it said . . . Vortex, you truly are a King, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Chrome, I truly am,” he said with a faint smile. “King of my planet and of its Warrior Race.

You knew that and so named me, from the very first, you said. But let’s return to this present situation.”

“First, please, a moment ago you said something about how finally we would win and I’d be free to join you. Free, how?”

Vortex sat next to me on the edge of the bed.

“In our days at the Cabin and at the oasis you came to believe me to be a Free-man. I mean, a Robot.”

“ ‘Free-man’?”

“I’ll explain later. You thought me a Robot, yes?” I nodded. “Yet, even though I was, and even though it was death to love a Robot, you found it possible to do so. True?”

“I found it impossible to do otherwise than love you.”

“And you were willing to speak forth, to declare it.”

“And always will be. Until asked by you to keep silent.”

He nodded and studied me.

“So now we come to the present, Chrome. We find ourselves here.”

I waited, thought it through and realized I should be the one to say it.

“And the situation turns out to be the reverse, you’ mean? I am the Robot, a genetically programmed being, and now you’re wondering if I’ll believe what you say you feel for me.” Vortex nodded. “What’s the alternative? To reject your words—to say you lie?—just because I have to accept this new concept of myself?” I smiled and shook my head. “No, Vortex, the bond between us cannot be changed. I know what my thoughts and feelings have been. They still are. It doesn’t matter what terms are used; I am dedicated to you. Let Cadet Chrome turn out to be a Robot instead of a human being; it alters nothing in his loyalty or devotion to his King. Call him a—‘Free-man,’ did you say? What’s that?”

“The term originated, I’m told, amongst the younger scientists here at the Desert Academy. It’s used by them to designate what the ignorant of this planet call Robots. ‘Free-men’ because they’re free from contamination, free of the defects and inherited malfunctions, the undesirable character traits produced by ordinary breedings.”

“I like its sound: ‘Free-man Chrome.’ But we’re not free, are we.”

Until now, no. Free-men were never cleared to assume posts in any way connected with the lives of others.”

“Because of their, or rather our lack of concern for whether human beings lived or died.” I shook my head in rebellion. “But for me that’s untrue! Always, since I can first remember, I’ve always had concern for my fellow beings, or those I’ve thought of as fellows. Why, there was a Cadet, a close friend of mine—oh, not close in our way, but still I was and am deeply fond of him. Yes, and I remember now, once in the summer islands a swimming accident of some kind; I rescued a boy from drowning. It was automatic, the only thing to be done. I did it without thinking. Do you see?”

“You are getting well, and stronger,” he smiled. “The words once more begin to flow quite freely!” Then, serious again. “Yes, Chrome this caring ability of yours was recognized and nourished from the beginning. For you were the first of a new breeding, the first laboratory propagation sanctioned since the ban on all creation of Free-men went into effect. An experiment to see if realization of the importance of another being’s life could be instilled into a Free-man. And word soon spread; it could. The breakthrough apparently had been made. How this was done I don’t know, nor do I care.”

He rose abruptly. I watched him, never able to get enough of him into my mind. His body, so known to me yet still an astonishment, was now clothed in a burnished silver uniform. The material molded itself to him like a second skin, making the animal grace of his movement even more compelling. A thick cloak of the same substance was caught and held in place on either shoulder by metal buckles. It was the custom for Vortex (and his companion Warriors, I was to learn) when on duty or in the presence of strangers, to catch the’ leading edge of the cloak’s right side up into a drape, hooking it across to the left side of the wide metallic woven belt which circled the waist. This draping concealed whatever weapon the wearer carried and also camouflaged the position and movement of his weapon arm. (It was amusing to note how the drape also effectively masked the wearer’s loins. A contemptuous signal: “I have no need to prove myself to you!”). Now, in the room with me, Vortex had naturally left his cloak free, and I was admiring the heavy flow of it as he paced.

“Chrome,” he said, stopping suddenly, “it’s very difficult to think and talk when you watch me as you are now.”

“It was your cloak and its movements I was appreciating, but I’ve been paying attention to your words as well. You did not care how the technicians accomplished the apparent success of the new breeding; you do not share the general exalted opinion of them. To you they are workmen and nothing more; most of them stupid and unskilled; the rest devious and greedy, and none of them are to be trusted in any manner.” I took a breath. “And...?

“My compliments on your ability to concentrate in two quite different directions at once, Chrome!” He gave an ironic bow. “So it was my request that you be assigned to me for final testing. I had already seen you among the candidates offered us from your graduating class as possible additions to our Warrior ranks. Since the Cadet Corps was first formed, we’ve screened each class but have found none who were worthy. You seemed to be exceptional, though, truly outstanding, and the authorities, when questioned, were finally forced to explain why: the circumstances of your ‘birth’ as the first of a new breed of Free-men, and the rest of it. And so I struck a bargain with them.”

He smiled wryly and shook his head.

“A King bargaining—with these garbage mongers. How my advisors shuddered. But I paid no heed, and the terms were made. If I could prove that this new method of breeding had resulted in an entity—you, Chrome—which would be willing to sacrifice itself, be prepared to die for a life-force other than its own, S.O.R.A. promised in return that you would be pronounced a Free-man and would be released to join me, if you chose to. The decision, of course, would be yours, but in any case, you would truly be free. Free to remember everything, free to come and go as you pleased.”

He came back to sit on the bed.

“So that is what I did: I trapped you. As I told you at the oasis, it was not an easy thing to do.” He smiled ruefully and brushed the hair back from my forehead. “Within those first moments of our meeting I became caught in my own trap. That was the part I almost could not manage.”

“Couldn’t manage—what?”

“The lies, the deceptions. They’re beyond counting, Chrome, but I did tell you one truth. There was never another before you; I was unprepared, defenseless. Another male have the power to move me the way you did? Unthinkable. But it did happen—before I knew it. A tide stronger than any raging between the deepest galaxies of space.”

“Vortex, what about the other Cadet?”

“There was no other.”

“But the scriptlike writing of that poem I found, and the poem itself?”

“The writing was mine.” He glanced about the room. “If there were writing materials I’d show you.”

His color deepened as he added, “And the words were also mine, after seeing you.”

He started to get up.

“No, wait. What about the Monk in my nightmare?”

“To hit you was the hardest thing of all, but I had to do it.” He frowned reproachfully. “Why did you follow? You were to be left frightened, motionless, with another terrible warning to overcome. But no, not you; you had to come running after me. If you’d found me, fought with me, you’d have recognized me. So—”

He shrugged and indicated the rest with a slight, quick chopping motion of his hand. I laughed at the contrast between that insignificant gesture and the mighty crash still so well remembered.

“I see. Something more, though, Vortex. You said I would be your co-captain.”

“Yes. It’s the custom of our Race to choose a battle companion. Out of pride, I suppose, combined with a lack of interest, I always refused to follow this tradition. When pressed by my admirals and others, I finally answered them with H’Zin-H’Tarn, the animal you called cat. I’d bartered her from some rug-merchant on a no longer extant planet a short time before.”

“No longer extant? You mean, the planet doesn’t exist any more?”

“They do blow themselves up, you know.” He smiled a trifle grimly. “At any rate, as her particular means of trapping her prey she had the power to enchant, and so she quickly reduced my fiercest officers to playful schoolboys on their knees, making toys out of string and paper for her. To the annoyance of all concerned, I spoke of her as my co-captain and brought her with me on our voyages. In the back of my mind, though, I knew sooner or later I’d have to give in to the wishes of those I lead. That realization was an added incentive when I saw listed in your qualifications the ability to heal with your hands.”

“What has my healing art to do with being—”

“Along with it goes the gift of foreknowledge, the ability to look beyond the surface of the present, to see through our Now into future Time.”

“But I have no such power. True, I can within myself ask—”

“It will develop, Chrome, and it will make itself known. To share the fortunes of combat with a battle companion possessed of such a capability will be of great aid.” He smiled at me warmly. “Don’t look worried. Things are even now working out for the best for us.”

There was a quiet tap on the door beyond the folding screen.

“Yes?” called Vortex.

The door opened a crack and a male voice spoke in their alien language. Vortex kissed me firmly on both cheeks and got up.

“Word from S.O.R.A. Its Scientific Advancement Committee is ready to work out the formal details of your release. I must leave you for a time, but you’ll be well protected.”

He said something to whoever was outside. There was a pause. He repeated the sentence more decisively; the door opened farther and someone came in. Another pause, then a scarlet-uniformed Warrior stepped from behind the screen—reddish-golden hair worn in a capcut similar to Vortex’s, a sprinkling of freckles across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, those bright blue eyes now staring straight ahead as he stood tall and stiff at attention. I gaped in disbelief.

“Yes, Chrome. Your Forever-Friend, Rond H’Lokk.” I stared from Rond H’Lokk to Vortex who nodded. “When he told me what happened, the tale left me strangely helpless. I could do nothing but say—I understood.”

He went into their native tongue. Rond H’Lokk’s face turned crimson. Vortex’s voice took on an edge, and Rond H’Lokk finally voiced his quiet agreement.

“He has become red, embarrassed that you may think him boastful,” Vortex explained. “Not so. He’ll be carrying out my order that he tell of his part in rescuing you. We both owe him gratitude, Chrome; his quickness of thought saved your life.”

Vortex regarded me deeply for an all-too-brief moment, then the door clicked shut behind him. Rond H’Lokk, motionless, still stared blankly at the air in front of him. The room was so silent I could hear his breathing.

“You can’t possibly be waiting for some kind of order—from me?! Gods, Rond H’Lokk, relax!”

My Forever-Friend turned. His bright blue eyes regarded me earnestly.

“Lord Chrome, there was nothing to do but tell him,” he blurted. “When I got you here to the hospital, The Master started to thank me, praise impossible to take when he did not know. So I told him. Everything.”

“Every—?” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “Everything?” Rond H’Lokk nodded vigorously. “But couldn’t you just have given some kind of—of general outline?”

“No, my Lord. He had to know it all before he put an end to my being.” Rond H’Lokk’s eyes widened; there was wonder in his voice. “But Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum spared me and thanked me and chose me as your guard!”

Something cold touched me at the way the Warrior pronounced Vortex’s real name.

“Can you translate his name for me?” He looked puzzled. “That is, can you say it for me in my language?”

“The words as they are, Lord Chrome, you say, ‘The Master-Bringer of Death.’ But your language is hard in this. To make it come out near truth, you must explain that the Master is he whose only purpose is to bring the death from which no one can escape. He is like the Gods in this.” He looked at me intently. “Your face is strange. Do you understand me, my Lord?”

For the first time a doubt struck at me. Vortex had seemed so loving, so dedicated to healing me with the warmth and tenderness of his compassion. But now this new being was suddenly revealed: Vortex, the implacable, totally efficient executioner. And Rond H’Lokk’s overtone implied an insatiable blood thirst as well!

“Do you understand?’’’’ he asked again, more firmly.

Chilled, I nodded and gestured to the nearby chair. Still studying me, Rond H’Lokk sat down.

“It’s a difficult name.” I searched for the right words and tried to still a warning inner voice, to silence the confusion and anxiety it foreshadowed. “To make it easier and simpler to say, I call him ‘King Vortex.’ In our language ‘vortex’ is a powerful force which can never be conquered. He likes it and has asked me to call him by it and not by the other. So it will be better if you and I also use it. ‘King Vortex.’ “

He said it successfully several times and nodded.

“It is easy, and if it pleases you, my Lord Chrome—”

“Rond H’Lokk, I’m your Forever-Friend, not your ‘Lord!’ Call me Chrome, or Forever-Friend, or just ‘my friend’ would be fine. Is that possible?” He nodded agreement. “Good. May I shorten yours to ‘Ron?’ It would be easier—Gods, now what?”

He had gone as crimson as his uniform again.

“Nothing, my—uh—Chrome. It is only, to do that in our custom means that—uh—you and I... We are—or we have...”

“Well?”

The Warrior looked away, then back to me, broke into laughter and slammed a fist into his open palm.

“By the Gods, that is clever. To say it all in one word. ‘Well?’ he mimicked. “Right, Forever-Friend, call me Ron.”

“Thank you. And,” I added tentatively, “thank you for saving my life. Vortex said you’d tell me about it. I—I can’t remember.”

“Remember? How can you? The fools almost killed you!”

He launched into phrases which showed their golden liquid language could also have bite and sting to it. I calmed him and got him to begin again.

The plan, he said, had been to lure me out of hiding with the fake burial of Vortex. Upon my capture I was to. be taken immediately to CenMed for examination and treatment by the authorities there. In my crazed exhaustion it was hoped I would reveal my true underlying motivation, giving final proof I cared more for him than for myself.

Naturally Vortex could not be present, so he ordered Rond H’Lokk to patrol the area. Ron’s craft hovered silent and motionless in the night, dark against dark, on the opposite side of the ravine while he watched my progress through their version of electronic binoculars.

All went well until those driveling idiots pounced upon me; then things appeared to disintegrate. Ron swung down and heard shouts of panic on his sound system, babblings that they’d pumped ten times too much Anesthetol into me; my breathing was beginning to falter; they’d forgotten to signal CenMed to dispatch any rescue craft—!

Ron swooped lower and scattered the milling crowd with the backwash from his propellant system. Snatching me up into the craft, he headed on emergency drive toward CenMed as he got a temporary inhalator system strapped over my nose and mouth to pump oxygen into me, like it or not. Somewhere along the line he jammed all existing communication bands with strident commands to get out of the way and get things ready because he was coming in fast; at the same time he turned up to full volume the screaming blast of his alarm siren.

Come in fast he did, knifing sideways between buildings of the CenMed complex, slashing through ornamental shrubbery, and slamming to a halt a scant two paces from the emergency entrance. Leaping out, he flung me over one shoulder, put his head down and battered his way through doors, orderlies, and the on-looking crowd, all at full speed and bellowing for help. What finally stopped him was seeing the crimson uniforms of his fellow Warriors led by the flashing silver of Vortex. Only at their urging did he surrender my limp form over to the begging orderlies with their wheeled stretcher and larger oxygen unit and hypodermics full of serums and antidotes.

Once freed of carrying me, Ron turned his fury onto the crowd. It took four brother Warriors to subdue him and keep him from transforming the hospital corridor into a slaughterhouse.

This last was told to me later. White with rage at the memory of that night, Ron merely said he had been in a hurry and very angry. He concluded by telling how Vortex himself had come to calm him and thank him, but Ron could not let him do such a thing without his knowing—and I had heard the rest. Finished, he got up to pace off the pent up emotion the story had aroused. I let him glower and mutter to himself and stride back and forth for awhile.

“Ron...?”

“Na-H’Va?” Glaring, he swung around, then stopped in confusion. “Uh—I mean, ‘what.’ Yes. What is it?”

“That’s all in the past now. It’s over. But I understand why Vortex said I must be grateful to you. You saved my life, Ron, and more than that you—”

“At the oasis you saved mine,” Ron cut in, “and more than that! You turned away and left, not to see me do a thing impossible for a Warrior!”

He meant tears, of course. I wondered about his restriction.

“ ‘Kings do not cry,’ King Vortex has told me, Ron. Now you call it an ‘impossible thing’ for a Warrior. Why?”

“I cannot speak for our Master. For myself I tell you, to cry means too deep a feeling. A Warrior gives his life to only one thing: fighting and winning for what he serves.”

“Then you cry only if you lose a battle?”

“We do not lose our battles.” His voice was flat, cold.

“What if King Vortex were to be—”

Ron didn’t even let me get the word “killed” out. He slammed a hand down upon his knee.

“Stop! Do not speak that!” he commanded and started for the door, then turned back. “Where is he? I do not like this, Chrome. Something is wrong or he would be back now. You say the fight is over now and it is all in the past. But the cold—” he rubbed the back of his neck, “—touches me here and says it is not over. The cursed beings around us have the smell of dead flesh on them. They lie by nature. They are not to be trusted—”

“Wait, Ron. Only a moment ago Vortex called our government ‘garbage mongers,’ and now you say they smell of death. Don’t you understand that S.O.R.A. has saved our planet, rebuilt it from the ruins, restructured society so as to bring peace?”

“Peace?!” Ron stared at me. “We bring peace here—and we keep it here, no matter what your government wants. That S.O.R.A.—!” He almost spat it. “S.O.R.A. has turned this into a planet of animals—and soon a place unfit for life!’ ”

A pounding at the door. He whirled about and opened it. There was a hurried exchange in the language, obviously an argument. One of his fellow guards, black-haired and deeply bronzed, followed Ron back into the room, past the folding screen. He interrupted his heated speech as he turned his attention my way. There was a moment’s impact from an arresting similarity in his dark good looks—something around his deep set eyes, something about the line of his jaw, but whom was it he resembled? This handsome Warrior directed a quick respectful bow to me, then returned to his verbal battle. Ron clapped his hands resoundingly upon the other’s broad shoulders. He barked a command of great finality, spun the man around and sent him, crimson cloak billowing behind, on his way.

“It is as my thought, Chrome.” Ron turned to me. “He tells that the rotting fools have answered ‘no’ to freeing you. The Master, Vortex, is being held. Not in danger. They do not dare that, but he is being kept from coming here. I must guard now, outside. None shall enter until he comes!”

The door clicked shut behind him, but with a new sound: The sharp mechanical clank of a second metal bolt slamming into place! The lights in the room went out. Ron’s trying of the knob, his pounding on the door and yelling my name all receded as I felt the bed sinking, almost falling, so quick was its descent.

The elevatorlike floor of what had been my room came to an abrupt barely cushioned halt in a brightly lit area. Gauze-masked orderlies sprang forward, throwing a net of soft cording across the bed, binding me securely from the neck down.

“Watch the hands. Be sure they’re protected!” a white-gowned figure commanded, then to me, “Please, Cadet Chrome, do not fight this. We wish you no harm; to struggle is pointless.”

His voice, though firm, was most polite, and I was surprised by the cold contempt which came out unbidden in my response.

“Yes, of course. Why risk death from another overdose of Anesthetol from you idiots!’ ”

“We didn’t do that, sir,” said one of his companions softly. “We weren’t responsible for what happened out there.”

“You are for this,” I replied just as softly. “So do your business in silence. Nothing says a Robot has to talk with dogs in dressing gowns!”

I closed my eyes and lay quiet.

An angry muttering from one of the other orderlies was quickly hushed. After a murmured “Pardon, sir,” a light cotton band was fastened over my eyes and gauze across my mouth. The latter was unconfining and felt like those worn by the orderlies; a sanitary precaution rather than a silencing measure. Careful adjusting of my hands beneath the netting to free them from undue pressure, then I felt my bed vibrate as we began to move.

From the bumping and the sounds of maneuvering footsteps, I judged the orderlies had pushed the bed off the platform floor of my former room and were moving it down a corridor. There were several turns, a chill to the air, and many empty echoings suggestive of long side hallways. Then warmer air, the quiet “whuuush” of an air-lock elevator, an ascent, and the exiting backward out the opposite way onto what must have been a carpeted surface. Our movement had a soggy feel to it and all footsteps were muffled now. After a few more turns and the opening of a door, we came to a final stop.

I could hear the rustling of the orderlies as they grouped to leave. Gentle pressure on my shoulder and one bent close.

“Please understand, Free-man Chrome,” a young female said softly, “this is also very sad for us!”

I heard the door slide shut behind them and knew I was alone.

XIV

“I didn’t ask to see your tonsils, dear. I asked you to drink this,” a pleasant female voice was saying.

I finished yawning and opened my eyes. The gauze coverings were gone, as was the restraining net. My bed had been elevated to bring me into a sitting position, and a plump, middle-aged, gray-haired woman bent over me. She was encased in a white uniform; her nurse’s cap had three impressive gold bands of braid on it. One arm was slipped behind my shoulders to help support me, and she held a glass of pinkish liquid in her other hand.

“Come on and try at least a sip.” Smiling encouragement, she brought the glass closer to my lips. “It’s very good and it’ll chase those cobwebs away.”

She smelled of lavender and clean starchy things, and her uniform made a nice crinkly sound as she moved. I smiled back and took a swallow of the drink. Delicious; sweet and lemony with an unexpected fizz as it went down. With a surprised, “Mmmm!,” I polished off the whole thing. She lowered me back against the pillows, laughing at my loud involuntary hiccough.

“Don’t worry, that’s part of what it’s for. Now just relax there and I’ll be right back with breakfast.”

A momentary dizziness caused me to close my eyes and miss her exit. I could feel the lemon fizz working away, though, and after another braying hiccough, brightening warmth began to spread through me. I opened my eyes to look around.

The room was large. A lounge chair and its matching footstool were against one wall, my bed against the next, and toilet facilities occupied the third, with a U-shaped track set in the ceiling for a sliding curtain arrangement to give that area privacy. The fourth wall was composed of thick plastic glass with a sliding transparent entrance door of the same substance, outlined and fixtured in heavy gold-colored metal.

The ceiling, walls, and floor were all of the same deep restful blue. Burnished gold studs indented the walls and ceiling at regular intervals to make a quilted pattern. The lounge chair and its leg rest, the cover and sheets of my bed were of a softly patterned matching color; even the toilet facilities were in harmonizing blue and gold. The total impression was of a very expensive resort establishment, except for the view through that fourth wall. A hospital monitoring station, emergency equipment and a desk were positioned just a few paces away in the hall outside.

The lemon fizzing seemed to bring memories into sharper focus. Someone whispering it was also very sad for them. The sound of the door sliding shut, and next? Yes, that scent of spice in the air, exotic, overpowering. Then, blackness.

I brought my hands up. The bandaging was gone and they’d been covered with Syntheskin! I examined them closely. Only faint tracings of the damage done by my clawing at the oasis grave. A slight stiffness on flexing but nothing more.

“Yes, you’ll soon be—ah—leaving us,” the nurse said brightly.

The door had opened automatically allowing her to carry in a covered tray.

“How long have I—?”

“Now, there’s plenty of time to talk, after you eat something, dear.”

She pressed the sides of the tray and its supporting legs popped down. Putting it across my lap, she lifted the cover.

“Look what we have here!” she continued in that bright professional tone.

“Gods!” I breathed.

Two thick peanut butter sandwiches and a large mug filled with malt-o-milk! It had to be chocolate flavor; a quick gulp confirmed it was. I pounced on the sandwiches and dispatched them stomachward in seconds as the nurse shook her head in disapproval.

“I didn’t believe my eyes when I read on the schedule your first meal was to consist of that. Here, hold still; you’ve got a moustache of malt-o-milk.”

She opened the unused napkin and firmly wiped my mouth.

Everything flickered and went out.

I was back in the Cabin feeding Vortex his first peanut butter sandwich. Thanks to his cracking me across the shin bones with his arm-cylinder, I’d recovered from my fit of laughter and was wiping his mouth in a love-stricken daze. I could see him so clearly, could hear that deep resonant voice, “You’ll pay for this, Chrome. Heed my warning!” And I felt no alarm, only warmth and security...

The hospital room swung back into place, and I struggled to focus on the nurse whose patting of my cheek had a true professional sting to it.

“None of that, now. No tricks!” she said.

I released my grip on the napkin. Somehow I’d gotten hold of it and had it clutched tightly against one ear.

“I’m sorry. I—don’t know what happened; I must have remembered something...”

“Let me get rid of this tray,” she smiled, “and we’ll have a little talk.”

The door opened for her, then closed swiftly as she moved to a polished metal section of the wall beyond the monitoring station. It slid upwards; she deposited the tray on the inside shelf, and the metal sheet slid down as soon as her hands were safely cleared. Pausing to tap out some information on a keyboard and speak briefly into a recording device, she glanced up to me, pressed something on the control board, and the speaker concealed in the wall of my room nearest the entrance came to life.

“Just a moment longer,” she said. “Nothing of interest to you; only routine things.”

After several other activities during which the light from an unseen video screen flickered on her face, she returned to the foot of my bed.

“Now then, dear,” she said, folding her arms across her ample matronly bosom, “we’ll have that little talk, shall we? First, let me say what I have to say. It may save you a lot of wasted energy.”

A hint of iron had crept into her tone. Since I at last had begun to learn, I smiled a silent agreement.

“As you see by the Syntheskin,” she nodded at my hands, “you’re on the way to complete recovery. Mother Trenter—they all call me that, so I don’t mind if you do, too—Mother T. is here to help you get well as fast as possible.

“I was chosen to tend you by both parties in this dispute over allowing you to go free. By your friend King Vortex—Close your mouth, dear, you look stupid with it open that way; it is easier to call him that, especially since he now prefers it and is a most forceful man. So, King Vortex chose me because the administration of this entire complex is under my authority. He reasoned, quite rightly, that I must know my job.

“By the way, he’s sworn not only to break the Covenant but also my neck, if anything happens to you. So do your best to get well as soon as possible. I don’t want to leave this life just yet, especially not the way ‘the Master-Bringer of Death’ would manage it!”

She said this last with a pretended shudder and a wink, then continued in a more serious manner.

“S.O.R.A.’s Scientific Advancement Committee chose me because they know I’ll give you the very best nursing available but that, at the same time, I’m completely immune to you.”

“Wh—what do you mean ‘immune’?”

Mother Trenter rested her hands on the railing of the bed and leaned toward me. No smile now.

“Your beguiling straightforward manner, your unfailing schoolboy charm, your innocent persuasiveness, your whole mode of operation has been well documented and analyzed. I’m immune to it all. Don’t waste time with any of it, understand?”

“No. I mean, yes—uh—of course I understand your words,” I stammered, “but I don’t know what you mean.”

“Very well,” she said quietly, “I’ll be blunt. Please realize I mean neither unkindness nor disrespect.”

She waited a moment.

“I’m immune to Robots, dear. My only child, my son Charles, was killed by one.”

We looked at each other for a long time. My mind raced for something to say.

“By the way,” she smiled, “what you’re doing right now, the hint of tragic awareness, that’s very effective!”

Arms folded across her bosom, she stood there, a plump little pigeon, regarding me with polite interest.

A flash of white in the corridor outside caught my eye. An orderly, flung from somewhere down the corridor, followed in rapid succession by three of his fellows. The four of them formed a sprawling heap against the base of the monitoring counter. A second later two blurs of red skidded into focus as they stopped to peer around: Rond H’Lokk and a brother warrior, the bronzed dark one.

Rond H’Lokk spotted me first. I could see his jubilant yell, “Chrome!” The door wouldn’t budge so he slammed his weight against it. Nothing gave. Ron brushed that shock of red-gold hair back from his face and studied the door.

One of the orderlies was stealthily reaching for something in his pocket. I yelled, “Ron!” and pointed. The black-haired Warrior followed my gesture, looked absently at the orderly and then kicked him in the face. As the orderly slumped slowly back to the floor, the Warrior turned to me with a smile and a wave of greeting.

“Here, here! No, no, no!” said Mother Trenter clapping her hands sharply.

She bustled over to the door where Ron was preparing another assault. At her approach the door slid open; Ron and his companion bolted past her and over to me. Ron was about to grab me, but his fellow Warrior caught his arm with the equivalent of, “Don’t hurt him, you fool!” Ron stopped awkwardly.

“Uh—how... how are you this day, my Lord Chrome?”

In a marvelous flash, their words for “what?” came to me. I scowled up at him fiercely and barked it.

“Na-H’Va?!?”

The Warriors’ surprised laughter was interrupted by Mother Trenter.

“I was about to invite you gentlemen to come in, but that obviously is unnecessary.” She eyed them with annoyance. “I take it you’re the guards assigned by King Vortex. Well, I am the Matron assigned by the Administration to tend the patient. I also supervise this entire area.”

Ron and his companion straightened their uniforms, looped the clasps of their cloaks up to their wide woven metal belts, and, ceremonially draped, bowed gravely.

“Rond H’Lokk.” announced Ron.

“Tormlad H’Korr,” announced the other.

Again that feeling of having known him or someone who looked like him.

“Na-H’Va?” I questioned under my breath.

“Tormlad H’Korr,” he said softly, “but you must call me ‘Tor,’ even as our handsome friend Ron does, my Lord Chrome.”

He gave me a wink of mischief at his use of these intimate name-form changes, and we both looked over to find Ron had reddened to a match of his uniform.

“Gentlemen!” Mother Trenter clapped her hands. “May I have your attention?”

Ron and Tor wiped all expression from their faces and became as statues. I continued to shake with silent mirth on my bed.

“As the Matron in charge here, I must demand there be no more of that nonsense.” She gestured toward the disordered orderlies trying to organize themselves. “Go about your duties as quietly as possible. This is not outer space, you know; it is a hospital. Now, I have some door sensors which will enable you to come and go as you need.”

She moved toward the door. Tor’s unexpected and explicit gesture at her retreating backside caused me to laugh aloud. He was again at attention as Trenter turned to regard me.

“It’s good for you to find things so amusing, dear,” she said. “Especially since your time for laughter is so very limited now.”

The tone was her professionally bright one, but behind it lay something ugly; mirth left me. She walked out to the orderlies, briefly examined the one who had been kicked, and then shooed them off.

Ron had missed her remark and asked Tor to translate. He did so grimly, and Ron frowned at me. I shrugged, watching as Mother Trenter’s approach popped the door open.

“It’s activated by these,” she explained as it closed after she was comfortably through.

In her palm were two small metal chips the size of a thumbnail. Opening the pin clasp on the back of one, she fastened it like a small decoration on the section of uniform above Tor’s left pectoral muscle. She was about to do the same with Ron, when there was a blur, a faint “zap!” and he had her hand in his fist.

For some time nothing moved in the room except the energy which streamed down on her from Ron’s glare. Then his other hand seemed to float effortlessly up through those frozen moments to pluck the metal chip from her fingers. Mother Trenter had sense enough not to attempt to struggle out of Ron’s grip, or take her eyes off him.

“You must let go of me now, young man.” Her voice was soft and reasonable. “You’re hurting me.”

“If you feel pain it is not his fingers which hurt you,” was Tor’s translation of what Ron growled back at her.

Ron released his hold. Clearly it hadn’t been tight at all, only immovably confining. He spoke a longer, even lower phrase now, with a vicious twist to the end of it. Tor wedged himself quickly between the two, facing Mother Trenter.

“And now, he says, please leave.”

Mother Trenter raised an eyebrow but did as she was told, pausing in the opened door.

“Thank you, young man, for censoring your friend’s last remarks. It was clear how forgetfully rude he became.” She was struck by a sudden thought. “Oh, yes. Getting the patient out with your sensors won’t work. Not even mine will let him pass, nor all of ours combined. Come, gentlemen—try, now, while it’s already opened for me.”

A word from Ron, and Tor came to my bed. The black-haired Warrior slid one arm under my shoulders, the other under my knees, took a quiet breath and lifted me as if I were one of the pillows. We were maybe three paces from the door when a loud gong sounded. Mother Trenter stepped quickly out of the way as the door flashed shut.

“It’s programmed to speed up its closing action. Triggered by the patient’s proximity, it can be very dangerous. So, no games, like trying to throw him through while it’s open!”

This last was directed at Ron, who merely continued his glare at her. She turned sweetly to Tor.

“Oh. I know you’ll be pleased to learn the orderly you kicked sustained only a simple rupture of the nasal cartilage—nothing to concern oneself over.”

“That was all I intended. Had he required something more permanent, Madam—”

Tor chuckled, nodding an indication in the direction of her station outside the hall. A clear dismissal, but one which she could find no response to. At last she left, and Tor lowered me easily to the bed.

“My congratulations, Tor; you have the strength of ten!”

“A few more seconds and I’d have begun to shake.”

He smiled, sat on the bed, and after a moment leaned forward to take my face in his hands.

“Uh, Tor, do you not think it unwise—?”

“Please relax, Chrome,” he said casually, turning my face from one side to the other and then releasing it. “No, you’re much better looking, even with that beard. There is some resemblance, though; I’m most flattered.”

Of course, I thought, that was the reason for the nagging sense of familiarity about his appearance. I studied his face, as he had mine, and got an odd kind of—of “feeling,” more than anything else of the similarities which were there. Moving back into a more comfortable position, Tor continued.

“You see, others remarked that we look alike. Then Ron demanded I become his friend after his experience with you, even though I am not for men.” He shrugged. “But where does a Warrior find a female in space, and how often?”

He called softly to Ron who was still glowering at Mother Trenter. After a hesitation, Ron stretched out on the lounge. Within seconds his eyes were shut and a soft purring snore had begun. Tor turned and our smiles mirrored each other, which made us smile even more broadly.

“As you know,” he went on, “Ron is excellent at love.”

“Uh, I only had a brief—”

“Chrome, please, he told me everything.”

“I’m sure of it,” I said in irritation. “He seems to tell everyone. Vortex—Ron babbled the whole thing, every detail, to him! Even after I told him to keep his mouth closed about it!”

“Ron is completely honest and open in everything with everyone.” Tor regarded his sleeping Warrior companion with warmth. “He’s much closer to being a Knower than any of us. And the irony is, he himself cannot recognize it.”

“A ‘Knower’?”

Tor pulled out a small book from under his cloak and began thumbing through it.

“My dictionary of your language. It’s my hobby; I love it. Ours may be more beautiful to the ear, but yours has variety, so many wonderful words.” His smile faded. “But not for Knower. A person who can silently ask a question inside himself and receive an answer in the same silent way. What do you name this person?”

“I don’t know. Most likely there is no such word in our language. But I can do the thing you speak of when I must. I’ve always been able to.”

Tor’s bronzed tone paled as he stared at me.

“Why look at me that way, Tor? I feel it’s a part of what gives me the healing power in my hands; a good thing, nothing to fear or turn away from.”

But Tor continued his stare, dark eyes glazing now, beads of perspiration breaking out across his brow. I took tissues from the bedside table and wiped his forehead. The touch brought his focus onto me again.

“What if an answer comes in silence? when you haven’t even asked a question?” His voice was uneven. “It happened just now. You were talking about ‘knowing.’ I felt something so quiet inside me, and suddenly I—I know.” He touched his temples. “Death, for me, will come two times. I will die twice. The second time, I die for you.”

Something warned me to stop this at once.

“Tor, you’re tired; such is not the time for asking or listening or believing. You should rest now. Relax and think of other things.”

He only stared at me, deeply troubled by his sudden revelation of twice dying.

“There’s more than enough room on this bed for the two of us,” I continued. “Even an extra pillow for you. Will you take it amiss if I ask you to join me?”

After a moment he called softly to Ron. Those bright blue eyes opened instantly. At a quiet question from Tor, Ron thought for a moment, removed the door-sensor clip from where he’d stuck it to his cloak, and tossed it onto the bedside table. Then he positioned the lounge and footrest lengthwise, directly against the door. When he lay down once more, most of his weight rested against the transparent plastic—there’d be no opening of it without his awakening; that was assured. After a glare over his shoulder to where Matron Trenter was seated, writing at her desk out in the corridor, Ron turned to me.

“Be careful with her, Lord Chrome. Watch her. She is dangerous, because she...”

A struggle with words, then, lapsing into their own tongue, he had a short exchange of questions and answers with Tor. At its end he shook his head, waved good-night to us, and closed his eyes. Almost immediately that low purring snore began.

“ ‘She only lives for jealousy’ is all he can say,” mused Tor.

“What does he mean?”

“Who knows?” he shrugged. “I don’t understand it even in our language.”

There was a slight draft, and that heavy spicelike scent filled the room again. Matron Trenter, a finger to the equipment panel, was standing watching us. I grabbed a breath to shout a warning to my friends. A sleepy groan came forth, and I fell back against my pillow as blackness once more blanketed me.

XV

This time I awakened to find a well-muscled, masculine arm supporting me in an upright position. My yawn was not at a gray-haired, motherly archetype nurse; it was directed into that bronzed face so arrestingly similar to my own. With some anxiety, Tor was urging me to drink the familiar pink liquid, so I drained the glass in one long gulp.

The lemon fizz swiftly worked its way down; I uttered a gigantic belch and lay back contentedly.

“Nothing if not the elegant gentleman. Right, Tor?” Silence as he eyed me, so I replied for him, “Right, oh, Extraordinary Chrome—” Another belch escaped. “Right, indeed!”

This time a smile flickered, a flash of gleaming white in that bronze.

“Would you care now to use the toilet? Let me give you an arm.”

He had me on my feet and moving there before I could agree that it seemed wise. Guard rails had been raised on either side of the toilet and the curtains drawn.

“Good. I can manage now,” I said, gripping the rails as Tor ducked back through the curtains and closed them behind him. “I don’t understand all this racing around, though. Did somebody hit the countdown button or something?”

No reply, just the sound of the door opening and Ron’s voice raised questioningly. When finished, I washed my hands, splashed water on my face and then straightened to check the mirror. I was clean-shaven!

My well-scrubbed countenance stared back at me in happy surprise. I’d fared remarkably well, considering these chaotic times. A bit thinner, maybe, but my color was good. Hair longer still and curling more willfully than ever; however, a simple barbering would take care of that. I dried my face and got back into bed.

“Everything all right?” asked Tor, uneasiness in his tone as he hurried in.

“No complaints.” I smiled and sought for casualness. “In truth, it’s a great relief to be rid of that prophet’s beard I’d begun. We must summon the court barber again, though.” He looked blank. “A haircut, Tor. These curls’ll soon be—”

“No barbering,” he broke in. “Vortex has said they’re to be let alone.”

The room about me flickered and vanished.

Night, moonlight, and the oasis. I lay with my head in Vortex’s lap as he pushed my hair back and cooled my feverish forehead with a moistened towel. Again I gazed up at those chiseled features, felt him work his fingers through my tangled hair, heard him tell me how he had longed to touch me. He put his hand on mine to help me ease the cramped muscles as I rubbed my stomach. And I told him no, not to do it! He spoke earnestly, with such kindness; knowing how badly I must feel, he was trying to help. I told him to be quiet, cut him off!

“Chrome! Chrome...?”

The hospital room spun into view, righting itself with difficulty. Tor held my face in his hands.

“Gods, Tor, what’s wrong? Everything keeps changing!”

His grave gaze willed that his calm and strength be accepted. He was right: he was not for men, which made his compassionate, silent demand all the more compelling.

“Maybe,” I drew a shaky breath, “an aftereffect from that spice-vapor?”

He took his hands away and sat back.

“Part of your therapy, they said. It had no effect on us; unpleasant to breathe, nothing more. It made you sleep undisturbed through their examination and testing. Even through the specimen they took of your—your...” Searching for the word, he pointed to my groin. “What do you call your ‘life-fluid’?”

“Semen.” I gave a start as the implication dawned. “You—you mean they...!?”

“They say the machine is attached onto you every morning.”

“Gods! In truth, the world’s gone mad!!”

“When they left, the most lovely female I’ve ever seen shaved and bathed you. Oh, she was beautiful! I told her I, too, could be bathed if she were courteous and approached me correctly,” he grinned, “but she said her schedule was filled and she had no time. She did give me a tube of what she used to remove your beard, a green substance.”

“Depil-a-gel?”

“Yes, Lord Chrome. It’s excellent. More important, it’s a beginning. For now it’s my turn to give her something, and I have just the right gift in mind.”

He sobered at an impatient gesture from Rond H’Lokk, striding back and forth in the empty corridor.

“Oh. Vortex has sent down Immortals; he must know for certain you’re well and correctly cared for. They’ll be here soon. Also if you’re willing to join him after all this is over, they’ll begin your preparation. Now, please! Don’t be afraid of them. There’s nothing to fear. They bring only good!”

“Why are you suddenly rattling like a loose rocket rivet? And why is Ron pacing like that? No Matron on duty. What did you say Vortex was sending down? From where?”

“Immortals, Lord Chrome. They are beings impossible for me to explain. They travel with us on the Master’s Command Ship, which is stationed above us in orbit. Vortex has returned there until he receives the Committee’s reply to his statement.”

“What statement?”

“He’s given the Scientific Advancement Committee formal notice that their actions have become criminal; if they don’t live up to their agreement and free you, he will take the matter before higher authorities.”

“But what if he does and S.O.R.A. supports the Committee?”

“Not S.O.R.A.—it counts for nothing in this, Chrome. No, final jurisdiction lies with the Greater Council of the Confederated Galaxies. Your planet signed its Covenant, receives our protection because of it. But Earth is also bound by the Covenant’s laws, and S.O.R.A. seems more determined each day to violate them.” Tor shook his head. “Something’s wrong. We all sense it, not just those like Rond H’Lokk who are used to such hidden currents. Some plan is being—”

Tor raced to get the door open as Ron snapped to attention outside. Two red-clad Warriors marched into view with four gray shapes moving along behind them, then another pair of Warriors as a token rear guard. The party halted. Tormlad H’Korr dropped to one knee, bowing his head in respect. A moment of waiting and the gray forms came into the room. I sensed a vibrating communication which brought Tor to his feet to join them. As the door slid shut behind him, Rond H’Lokk and the others outside took up sentry positions to screen the room from any intruders.

How to describe the Immortals? My first impression of them still lingers: An odd sense of “echoing” of both the past and the future. Echoing not only in an audible way, but visually and imaginatively, too. I now know them to be entities who have elected to join forces with us on our plane of existence, but who extend out of it in many other directions as well. Because of this, they exist in the past, and in our “Now,” and in the future—all at the same time. Our senses can only partially recognize this, their state of being, so we perceive it as a sort of blurring shift of their edges and forms.

Whether really so or merely projected as such for convenience and reassurance to us, their figures look humanoid. Cloaked loosely in layer upon layer of a soft, filmy, gray substance to subdue the irritating time-distortion effect on our sense of sight, they seem more like shifting gray, cloud-shaped monks than anything else.

The four shapes drifted closer and grouped themselves, two on a side, at the foot of my bed. Their method of communication, the vibration I mentioned, was barely perceptible to me, but Tor obviously understood it perfectly and now began to interpret.

“They give you greetings from Vortex and from themselves as well.”

“Thank them, Tormlad H’Korr, and—”

“Please, Lord Chrome, just listen at first and let me talk as they do—to keep up, you understand.”

“Sorry.”

“They are pleased that you welcome them with such interest rather than fear.”

It was difficult to keep silent; why should one be expected to feel fear?

“Their first duty is to determine your health for Vortex. To assist them in this will you permit them to touch you? It will not cause pain.”

“Gods, Tor,” I said impatiently, “if the dogs in this place can drug me and paw over my private parts, why shouldn’t these gentle beings do whatever is necessary? I know they won’t hurt me!”

Tor smiled as he lifted back the cover and sheet and removed the pillows from behind me.

“If you’ll lie flat now and close your eyes. Let your mind become as still as possible so they can begin.”

I sensed the Immortals coming to rest, two at either side of me. There was the oddest feeling then, a kind of buzzing coldness as they took hold of my hands and feet, one apiece. That is to say, they made contact with me there; I couldn’t tell if they had actual hands as we do or what they used for touching. The sensation was so unusual I gave a muffled chuckle.

“They’re very pleased. Now if you will give them anger.”

“Feel anger towards them, you mean? But I—I can’t!”

“Do it by remembering something or someone. Concentrate very hard; it will come through enough for their needs.”

I thought about it. Anger.

“Don’t concern yourself about your choice of subject,” he added. “They’re not monitoring your thought images or memory banks.”

Anger, hmmm. When had I really been angry? Never with Vortex certainly. And, when my Cadet classmates had tormented Jamison, pulling at his chest hairs, and he stood there in silent tears of rage and frustration. I dwelt on the anger which had overwhelmed me.

“Enough, thank you. And next, its relative, hatred?”

“Tor,” I complained, “it’s beyond my ability just to suddenly feel things. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever hated. I’ve seen it in another’s actions, but—”

“Good. Think on that, my Lord.”

I had in mind Rond H’Lokk’s response to the ugliness hidden behind Matron Trenter’s motherly facade. I worked on imagining how he must have felt to glare at her that way. There was a vibrating from the Immortals.

“Ah, yes,” Tor filled in, “In its secondary form, but quite sufficient. And now, fear.”

This was strange; I tried everything I could think of, but nothing was acceptable as “fear” to the Immortals. The hooded monk holding its blood-covered skull was diagnosed as “shock” and “surprise.” My emotions as Vortex told me he was a Robot and later at his supposed death ranged through “pain” and “sorrow” to “compassion” and “loneliness.” The sensation of hairs rising on my neck and forearms at hearing the distant glory of that silvery trumpet note as I first moved across the bridge toward the Cabin—that was most interesting of all.

“No, no,” Tor impatiently translated, “you don’t have the words, Chrome, but that feeling is part of your Gift, or will be. Something like, maybe you could say ‘future-viewing’ or ‘pre-knowing.’ No, you are evidently without fear.”

“Tor,” I laughed, “that’s ridiculous. I’m afraid of a lot of—”

“Please be still, Lord Chrome,” said Tor, absorbed in further vibrations from the Immortals. “No more emotional-projection responses are necessary. They now will analyze your physical state. You need only relax and practice quiet.”

The odd tickling sensation returned as the Immortals... It seems impossible, but I actually sensed them dipping beneath the surface of my body, slipping below its cover, to move gently amongst the tissues. I could not feel with precision what they did, only the pleasant tingling realization that somehow they were working inside me. In time, they quietly withdrew.

“Thank you, Lord Chrome. They are well-satisfied. The only foreign substance remaining is the one agreed upon: the harmless, pellet implanted by the CenMed authorities to prevent this room’s door from opening. In exchange, the authorities have agreed to permit the injections of these.” *

A small plastic pack containing three vials filled with a glowing purple liquid appeared from one of the wavering gray forms. It was deposited lightly upon my chest.

“What are these?”

The gray shapes drifted to form a group at the foot of my bed. Tor took the vials and put them on the bedside table.

“If Lord Chrome chooses to join our Master, Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum, and become one of us, the ancient arts and wisdom of the Warrior Race Immortals will be applied to him. Certain changes will render him ageless, at least by earthly human terms.”

My mind faltered at this ^prospect of Eternity opening its doors so unexpectedly. One part of it raced to keep up with what Tor was explaining, though. Physically and mentally I would remain at my present stage of evolvement. I could always continue to learn and retain knowledge, to “grow” in that sense, just as I could with practice increase my strength and develop new physical skills. But there would be no further—Tor hesitated, seeking the word.

“Maturing?” I volunteered.

He held up his hand and listened to the immortals.

“They feel you are deeply troubled and ask if it is because you are not yet ready to join us.”

I looked levelly into Tor’s dark eyes as a secondary thought crowded through to express itself.

“You know you’re right; we could pass for twins.” I returned to the point. “Not yet ready, Tor? I was ready seconds after I first entered the Cabin that night. No, I hesitate only for his sake.”

My pondering of future problems was broken by Tor’s sharp intake of breath. He brought the footstool closer to the bed and looked at me in awe and wonder.

“What is it, Tor?”

“They are going to—to let you talk with Vortex through them! I have heard of this, but it is a thing never seen before!”

He hurried me out of bed to sit on the cushioned stool, and the Immortals drifted over to surround me.

“Put your arms up and then relax. They will support you.”

As the wavering shapes enfolded me, all became gray mist, cool with a slight welcome dampness. Beneath my hands, a rough texture, the covering of a tremendous tree. The forest after a rainfall, filled with the fresh clean smell of ferns and wet wood.

“Speak now of what you will, Lord Chrome,” Tormlad H’Korr said from a great distance.

Then, so close as to be within me, came the deep quiet heart-piercing voice of Vortex.

“Yes, speak, for I am listening, beloved Chrome.”

The flood of emotion nearly choked me. My arms tightened around whatever held them. I fought for steadiness; inner voices warned me time was very short and it was important that Vortex know.

“M-my King, if you stop my aging now, my reactions will always be those of a certain nineteen-year-old Cadet who went to the Cabin to complete his Academy training. The foolish boy who thought he knew everything, but in reality knew all too little.”

I paused and cool mists eddied about me.

“Vortex, I think of the limits this will place on me. I look ahead to the time when you may grow weary of the many childish impulses and qualities I still have. It could cause you to turn away from me. If that should ever happen—”

Impossibly, Vortex’s mouth pressed warm upon mine and stopped my speech. Then his lips touched my ear.

“Never, Chrome,” he breathed. “I want you as you are now. I always will. Forever!”

There was a sudden rift in the forest mist, a parting of the gray around me, and I tumbled backward into Tor’s waiting arms. He helped steady me as I climbed back into bed. The Immortals withdrew once more, and Tor started translating the vibrations.

“They answer your doubts. From the beginning, because of characteristics used in your formation, you had a maturity of thought and reasoning far beyond your years; no further aging will be necessary.” A faint smile appeared at the nest. “Perhaps it is true, yon do talk too much at times, but firm exercise of self-discipline can be of definite aid in controlling this tendency.”

I suspicioned the last part to be Tor’s own invention.

“No, truly, Chrome,” he laughed, “don’t narrow your eyes like that. The Immortals spoke so; I added nothing.” The vibrations began again and sobered him. “The first injection immediately!”

He gestured to Rond H’Lokk who had been waiting impatiently in the corridor. Ron grabbed something from the refrigerated sterilization unit and hurried to my bedside. He eyed me as he expertly filled the disposable hypodermic pistol he held with the contents of one of the vials Tor had gotten out of the pack.

“No pain. I do this well.” He winked. “Please turn over, Forever-Friend.”

Smiling at the implication in his tone, I did. Ron lifted one side of my hospital gown and slapped me hard on the buttock: The age-old trick of releasing the injection at the same time. It worked perfectly; I felt only the sting of his palm hitting me. He rubbed the spot with antiseptic-moistened cotton and muttered something tinged with pretended regret.

“The finishing words of an old joke,” Tor murmured, amused. “A compliment I cannot translate now.”

Reaction to the injection began, and my vision started to take on the colors of the rainbow, slowly, in proper spectrum sequence. Red through orange to yellow and on through green to blue, then a fascinating purple and back to begin with red again.

“Oh,” I breathed, “that’s beautiful!”

“The rainbow?” asked Tor.

At my nod, he murmured a translation to Ron.

“I know ‘rainbow’,” Ron said with pride. “It can be made by primson.”

“ ‘Prism’,” corrected Tor.

“Primson,” Ron repeated, eyeing him calmly.

“They ask, what do you call them?” Tor relayed from the Immortals.

I looked at the gray forms for a beat or two until it came back to me.

“They are ‘Forest Giants,’ and I thank them deeply for their goodness to me.”

“And what do you call us?” asked Ron.

I pondered, realizing this rainbow drug affected more than just one’s vision, and again an answer came.

“Hard to choose between!”

Ron and Tor broke into hearty laughter, and in my state of altered awareness I seemed to sense amusement coming also from the Immortals. After a moment, though, the Warriors sobered again.

“They say either one or both of us must test everything brought to you,” explained Tor. “Food, drink, there can be no exceptions. Now they bid you goodbye and tell you they are grateful for the experience. Please do not detain them by replying. There seems a sudden need for haste.”

Even as Tor spoke, Ron opened the door and barked an order to the honor guard. The gray shapes glided into place between the pairs of guards and moved out of sight down the corridor. I peered after them dizzily; the rainbow spectrum changes were coming faster, blurring things. A wave of weariness swept over me, and I sank back onto my pillow.

Rond H’Lokk and Tormlad H’Korr, still moving with their overly-muscular Warrior bearing, hurried to stand one on either side of my bed.

“You will sleep now, Lord Chrome,” Ron reassured. “A good sleep, given by the Immortals.”

“No worries,” smiled Tor. “We are here, guarding you like seven-headed Fire-Dragons.”

“Hmmmm.” I managed a show of interest while stifling a yawn. “Where do you find them?”

“Just behind and a little to the left of the Goat Star,” Ron volunteered with genuine earnestness.

“Now, sleep, Lord Chrome. We welcome you as is our custom.”

Tor took hold of my arm, one hand on my bicep and the other around my wrist; Ron did the same across from him with my opposite arm. Quietly they began a ritual chanting in their golden language, its pulsing inner rhythm echoed by gentle pressing and relaxing of their hand contact. No sooner did I identify the reason for the tremendous comfort this brought—the rhythm was being coordinated with my own heartbeat—than I had to let my leaden eyelids close.

The whirl of colors halted at that rich glowing purple; the chanting grew deeper and more resonant; the beating became one with the heart of the Universe.

Guarded by my own private Fire-Dragons, I accepted the legacy of sleep left me by the Immortals.

XVI

I came to consciousness filled with the nearly forgotten cheerfulness which had once always been mine upon awakening. I stretched every-which-way as hard as I could, savoring a tremendous sense of well-being. There was throaty feminine laughter and a soft sigh.

“He really is a gorgeous specimen, isn’t he? What a stupid ruling to bar us from—oh, look! He’s finally waking up!”

My lids popped open. A pair of violet eyes stared down at me. Ruby lips, parted in a smile, displayed small, perfectly formed, gleaming white teeth. A shining mass of deep reddish-auburn hair flowed into gently breaking waves. And there were twin creamy mounds as young generous breasts strained to be free from the confinement of an unusually revealing nurse’s uniform.

The glamorous vision ran cool fingertips lightly from the pulse beating in the hollow of my throat, downward over my bare chest toward my navel. I could feel I was naked, and myriad thoughts tumbled about my brain as she hesitated just above my genitals, tracing a small inviting circle. Even as the warmth began there, she drew the bedclothes up as far as my waist and sighed again.

“I’d much prefer you, Lord Chrome. I really would, but—” she shrugged philosophically, “you are forbidden, so...”

She touched her perfumed lips to mine, and, with an easy laugh, tossed her hair back and joined Tor in the corridor. He shook his head in joking reprimand; she took his arm, and they hurried away. I pulled myself up and leaned forward to observe her provocative hips willfully ignore the white uniform as they moved against it. A moment of Tor’s crimson cloak billowing to alternately reveal and conceal that voluptuous white shape, and the red-clad Warrior and his prize were gone.

“Her name’s Londra. Pretty little thing, isn’t she.”

I whirled to find Matron Trenter standing by my bedside table. Beyond her, glaring through half-closed eyes. Ron slouched in the armchair.

“But stupid,” the Matron continued. “Despite everything she knows of you, she’d be willing to bed with you this very moment if it weren’t forbidden.”

The new chemical combinations swirling through me reacted to the underlying disdain in her tone.

“Forbidden? Still the old superstitions? Still afraid there’ll be some ‘slip’ and one of us will father a monster?”

“That was never anything but hysterical rumor,” Trenter replied coolly. “Robots were sterile; always, all of them. That is, until you came along.’ ” She eyed me with barely controlled disgust. “Your little escapade among the young host-females that summer—the pack you spawned then—changed a lot of people’s plans in a hurry.” Her glance went to Ron. “Help the patient into his clean gown, please; it’s on the stool there beside you. I have more important responsibilities to take care of.”

With a wintery smile, the gray-haired Matron bustled from the room. What did she mean by “the pack” I “spawned”? How did she know about that summer’s ambush and bondage—what was it now, four years ago? I looked questioningly at Ron who shrugged and shook his head as he helped me into my hospital gown.

“Who knows, Lord Chrome. Turn, I will fix this tying in back.” He gave me a slap on the buttocks. “Now, into bed!”

He hunched down again into the chair and stared into space. Some moments slipped by in silence.

“Uh, Ron . .. ?” Tell me, Forever-Friend, how long has it been?”

“Na-H’Va?”

“That is, how long have I been ‘sleeping?’ ”

“I understand. You have had the last of your rainbow medicine; the true way of being now takes over within you. So,” he counted under his breath in his own language. “Hmmm, yes, six. Two days for every shot—so, six days.”

He lapsed back into his stare.

“Thank you, Forever-Friend.”

I stressed the last a little harder.

“Pardon, Chrome. My mind flies away on its own,” he said, as he started a restless pacing. “We have been here for too long. You saw—”

He flung a gesture in the direction Tor and the gorgeous young nurse had taken.

“You mean Tor and... what’s-her-name?”

“Londra. Yes. It is as if he has lost his mind. He no longer knows his own name or the time of day!”

“But, Ron—”

“It does not matter that she is stupid, Chrome. The other kind, ones with brains in their heads, are hard to find. But what is there in this one to want? Cannot he see she is a near-Robot?”

Ron quickly held up a warning hand.

“Hear me well, friend Chrome: I say and mean Robot, not ‘Free-man.’ That, Free-man, is a most honorable name. No, no, she is a made-up thing. Different pieces of matter, like a machine. Maybe human, but she is put together like a Robot. Her face, all cut and changed; her hair and teeth, not real; these—” he punched at his well-defined pectorals, “—are not real. So many shots of strong sex chemicals, she sweats them out when she moves or bends! Can Tor not see the marks of all the doctor-work on her, the lines and joins? Or has this Londra-thing made him blind? Put magic on him?”

Caught unprepared for this outburst, I countered as gently as possible, saying how Tor had told me of the very great affection and loyalty and respect he felt for Ron. How much he admired him and valued him as his comrade and brother Warrior. However, I said, as we both knew, Tor was not for men, so didn’t it seem the natural thing for a healthy male to be attracted to a female like Londra—for a momentary release if nothing more?

“But she is all false. Nothing is real; it is all made-up,” Ron explained earnestly, sitting on the foot of my bed. “Understand me, Chrome. I know I have no right, I have not even wish to hold him from females. Never that. But this one is dangerous. You think I speak as a thing from jealousy, Chrome, but it is not, believe that. This Londra is dangerous to all of us. I know it! Oh!”

A conspiratorial glint came into his bright blue eyes as he drew out of his cloak a folded sheaf of papers.

“By chance, one time I saw the big book of your records sitting out on the table. The old woman was gone and Londra was on duty there. When she came in here to excite Tor by making a show of playing with your parts as she bathed you—”

“God!”

“Nothing, Chrome,” he brushed it aside. “Either of us could have done it a thousand times better! So anyway, I left and went out to the hall and saw the book there. I went through it with all the speed I could and took these out. They look as if they speak of your—your coming to be.”

Unfolding the sheaf, he pointed to photographs and diagrams of a fetus. I flipped through pages of calculations, equations, formulas, then went back to the beginning pictures and explanatory text. The section labeled “THE METHODOLOGY” bogged down immediately as it divided up the credit in minute detail and at great length, with bowings and back pattings in all directions. I made an impatient noise and got a quiet “Na-H’Va?” from Ron.

“Nothing. Just everyone wanting to be sure they got their names in. I’ll skip ahead—yes, here’s a synopsis. That means making it quick and simple.”

The text told that after many failures, it was decided some factor or factors had been omitted in the culturing and development of the previous T-men. A new theory was advanced, its basic idea: Engineer the genetic setup as before, to arrive at the desired combination of character traits and physical attributes, but then transplant the embryo into a living human female for the gestation period. During this time, it was felt the missing “humanness” might somehow be supplied.

The method formulated to implement this new development is partially paraphrased in the text that follows:

The host-recipient is brought to a state of pseudopregnancy by our predetermined equivalent of the ovarian hormone progesterone. Her serum level of estrogen is greatly elevated, and her lymphohematopoietic system is, for a rigidly controlled time, broken down with injections of an immunosuppressive drug, a near relative of the cyclophosphamides, but properly buffered so as to avoid possible premature loss of the subject host. This procedure creates a climate in which the sac of embryonic tissue containing the partially, formed fetus can be implanted into the recipient without its being rejected. (NOTE: As further insurance against rejection of the transplant, the thymus gland of the parent-host is removed. The problems of immunological deficiencies and subsequent parent-host loss arising from this thymectomy are dealt with elsewhere.) The “healing in”, of this fetal graft, and its uniting with the maternal tissue of the host-body’s uterus, is accomplished by a layer of specially formulated Syntheskin, which is placed between the maternal tissue and the embryo’s sac. Created to simulate the layer of embryonic cells usually referred to as the trophoblast, it enables the embryo to invade the lining of the uterine cavity (the endometrium) and interconnect with its blood vessels. Naturally there is still no direct connection between the circulatory systems of the host and the fetus, but there is a still-to-be-discovered process, an interchange, a filtering-through of “something” between the two. It is our conviction, based upon the since-documented evidence of the behavior of the subject in question, that this something is the mysterious matter which causes the Robot to become a “caring entity.”

A glimpse of the lovely sunlit girl smiling at me flickered in my mind. Was she my “host-mother?” Had I clung so tenaciously to her memory for this very reason? Ron grasped my outstretched hand and I continued reading.

The host’s final, normal rejection of the implant after the ninth month (“birth” as we call it) is, postponed by massive injections of the retardant drug, fluocinolone acetonide. This is supported by dimethyl sulfoxide therapy, which in most cases sedates the host very satisfactorily through the twelfth month at which juncture transference is made into the Jovanthian-Leodarnich mechanized host by means of Cesarean section. During the prior three “free” months of maturation in the human host, the by-now-fully-developed being is supplied with the full spectrum of hyperpotentiated amino acid groups in the form of a methylacetaide cyclophexen solution, again appropriately buffered, introduced directly into its separate circulatory system. This, coupled with—

“My goodness, what fascinating reading you two must have stumbled upon!”

Ron uttered a near-subliminal growl as he leaped up and reached for some weapon under his cloak. The deceptively pigeonlike form of “Mother” Trenter moved toward us.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk! You should both be ashamed of yourselves.” She extended a small well-scrubbed hand and took the pages from me. “Enough reading for tonight. It’s ‘way past bedtime. And besides, the ‘lending library’—” she glanced at the papers—“is closed. Permanently.”

“I thought you’d be angry at my learning of my life’s beginnings.”

“It doesn’t concern me in the least, my dear,” she countered with that false sweetness. “What difference does it make how much you learn now? The outcome has already been decided. And anyway, the only important thing in these papers is the Propagation Formula, something you’d have no way of comprehending.”

“Propagation Formula?”

“The equation for the genetic-activator coding and suppressor-coupling index. It’s expressed in terms which can only to be understood and acted upon by CenMed’s laboratory computer.”

A thin smile as she sorted the papers and folded them neatly together.

“You see, my dear, each test-tube entity has a different propagation formula, spelling out the random variations of each of the reproductive strains used. Although there’ve been many propagations since, your formula is the first and only one to yield an entity having the capability of reproducing itself. So, naturally, your formula is very valuable. Far too valuable to allow this nonsense; the mighty Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum choosing you as one would a pet—a pet, my dear, and nothing more!”

Matron Trenter had become quite agitated during this last and paused to compose her ruffled feathers.

“But never mind all that,” she continued more calmly, “it’s rapidly coming to an end. Your hands and body are completely healed now. No awkward aftereffects to explain to the blanked-out newly awakened Cadet who ‘failed.’ So, my dear, the Restoration Procedure can take place any time now at the discretion of the Scientific Advancement Committee. Yes, you see—”

I clapped my hands over my ears, vainly attempting to shut out the rest.

“...tiny metal probe... no pain at all... only a moment, my dear, and that troublesome part of the past... gone forever. Now, now, now! Stop that noise, you silly boy! Stop it, I say!”

At my howl, Ron jerked around to read my face for a translation of what was going on. What he saw caused him to uncoil the gleaming metal chain in his palm. Whipping, whirling, it became a glittering saucerlike scythe which advanced whining before him as he moved toward Trenter.

I pounced on him just in time to keep him from deploying the streaking metal around that soft fat throat. My proximity to the door snapped it shut before Trenter could get out, though. There was a ludicrous moment of me wrapped around Ron shouting at him to stop as Trenter struggled to push free of us. Then I managed to pull Ron far enough away with me so my influence on the closing mechanism was nullified. The door opened; Matron Trenter dashed through; it closed and Ron and I tumbled to the floor.

We untangled ourselves and, still cursing the poisonous old woman, Ron helped me up.

“She is a liar and worse. Believe that, Chrome. I know.”

I got back into bed just as Matron Trenter’s voice broke in over the communications system.

“The central desk tells me something of interest. In only seconds a very important visitor is arriving. I’m sure he will fill you in on what the truth really is.”

Ron and I looked at each other and then to the hallway in time to catch the arrival of the person whose name I yelled out in pure joy.

“Jamison!!”

The surprise of this sudden reunion left me immobile long enough for Jamison to clear the door. I bounded up to grab and hug him, and my greeting set off the alarm gong. The door zipped shut, nearly catching Matron Trenter who’d officiously ushered in my visitor.

Even as part of me observed how great was the deference shown Jamison by Trenter and how Ron H’Lokk snapped into rigid attention, another portion of my mind registered startled disbelief. It had been only two months, maybe three at the most, since we’d seen each other, since this final phrase of graduation had begun for the two of us, and yet here before me were seeming years of aging! Rapidly thinning hair, with a generous amount of gray in it, added weight to that always chunky body, the brow lines and signs of stress around the eyes. Even jowls beginning on either side of that once-firm jawline.

We stopped spinning around and broke into laughter. Both of us had been talking so hard at the same time that neither had gotten any of what the other had said. Jamison pushed me back, holding onto my shoulders.

“You haven’t changed a bit except you’re even stronger and louder and bigger! And, oh, Gods! You’ve broken my—” He felt his jacket, brought out a pair of old-fashioned eyeglasses and put them on. “No, still in working order.” He winked. “Have to wear them; getting blind as the Goddess of Justice. Didn’t want to give you too much of a shock all at once, though. Now then, rest a bit while I arrange things here.”

As he walked me back to bed, a small enamel-and-gold object pinned unobtrusively to his lapel caught my eye. Three black dots pyramided together and outlined in red: The insignia of the S.O.R.A.’s Governmental Security Agency! And he’d just spoken of not wanting to give me too much of a shock!?

“Best protect your equipment, Matron,” Jamison said motioning Trenter back to her station. “This is a full-security session, at least for the moment.”

He let the door close and addressed a long complicated-sounding sentence to Ron in the Warriors’ language. Ron gave a loud guffaw and slapped his thigh.

“They tell me I have an awful accent and make a real hash of their grammar,” Jamison explained. “So when I throw in a little homemade swearing, they love it. Besides, he and I are old friends. Right, H’Lokk-Chond?”

Ron murmured something about Trenter, or so I gathered from their glances in her direction. Jamison nodded, took a small cube-shaped object from his pocket, and stuck it to the wall covering behind which the intercom system was housed. At the same time, Ron reached up under his thatch of reddish-gold hair and brought forth an earphonelike arrangement. Snapping open a tiny compartment, he emptied out power chips and nodded his go-ahead. Jamison twisted the cube which lit up with a bright red glow. Ron winced and placed the mechanism he’d taken off, along with its components, in the lavatory cabinet.

“Those haircuts aren’t just for looks, you know, any more than their cloaks are,” Jamison said as he dragged the chair nearer my bed. “Ooops.” He caught himself before sitting and produced another cube which he placed on my bedside cabinet and twisted to glowing red. “Best not take any more chances than we have to.” He sank into the chair with a grateful sigh. “Ah, that’s more like it! Almost like old times, the two of us sitting together for a talk. Only this time I’m afraid I’ve got to do most of the gabbing. Come on, H’Lokk-Chond, you’re part of this, too!”

He motioned for Ron to sit on the foot of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Ron who was frowning and rubbing at his ears.

“These cubes knock out any surveillance systems,” explained Jamison, “and are also quite uncomfortable for our Warrior friends like Rond H’Lokk. He knows the effect’ll diminish soon though. Your mouth is open, Chrome. Your ears hurt, too? Or do you just want to say something?”

“Uh, why do you put ‘Chond’ on the end of his name sometimes?”

“A slang sound-cluster they have. Add it on the end of the last name if you’re old friends or want to show an informal comfortable feeling toward someone you work with; that sort of thing. Now we’ve got to settle down to business. It’s very important and, as usual, there’s no time.”

“Wait, Jamison! First I have to know something.” I indicated Trenter bent over her desk out in the hall. “She says they’re going to blank out my brain, erase everything and send me out of here, another ‘failed’ Cadet!” My voice was becoming unsteady. “She said it can happen any time the Committee wants it to now!”

“Lies, Chrome, all of it, believe me!”

Jamison pushed the way clear to sit beside me on the hospital bed.

“Let them perform a Restoration Procedure on you? I’d never permit it. Never!”

His quick consultation with Ron ended with the Warrior growling and glowering anew at Trenter as Jamison turned back to me.

“That’s not surgery; it’s butchery. When they fail, which is often, the damage is complete, beyond all help or repair. No, Chrome, that’s part of why I came here. To congratulate you and tell you the Committee has unanimously voted to release you. They’ve only been waiting, as I have, for your complete recovery. No other reason at all.”

“Then Vortex was right when he said I’d be free? Free to choose, free to remember everything?”

“Right, Chrome, absolutely. Forget that fool Trenter; she’s crazier than a space mouse. So now you know the Committee’s decision, and I congratulate you, Free-man Chrome.” A little awkwardly, but hard, he shook my hand. “Free-man Chrome,” he repeated. “You can’t possibly know yet how fortunate you are to officially bear that title.”

“Are you a Free-man, too?”

“Unfortunately no. Not a Free-man or a free Man, not ‘free’ in any way.”

He brought his chair closer and sat down with a bitter smile.

“No, I was sorted out of the Acceptables very early, tested, found suitable, and destined from then on for the Security Force. The Agency has been my life, Chrome; I’ve dedicated myself to serving its needs, upholding its laws. I could never turn my back on it, or ignore the duties that are mine. Which is why I was assigned to you during your schooling here at the Academy.”

I felt my heart sink.

“You mean our friendship was just another part of—of the programming?”

“No, I don’t mean that,” Jamison said quietly. “Naturally at first it was a duty, a piece of work—important, but only because of its genetic implications. Then I grew to know you and admire you and we became friends, good friends. It took no acting on my part. My affection for you was and is quite genuine, Chrome, even though I am old enough to be your father.”

I stared at him, trying to understand, to make out if he were joking now or serious.

“Have been for quite some time now, of course,” he continued wryly. “I’ve just always been able to hold on to the young years much longer than this before.” A small private shrug. “At any rate, Chrome, no, there was no ‘programming’ of the events that took place at school, either. The chest hair-pulling wasn’t suggested, it was real. Thought up by those rotten little animals, and it was agony. When you finally broke through what had been blocking you and leveled the whole bunch, well, the gratitude I felt couldn’t begin to be expressed.” A smile was starting. “It was good for me to be able to be your rescuer from the summer’s bondage-orgy. As a kind of repayment, you understand,” he chuckled, “even though your ‘torment’ was a bit different from mine!”

Through his humor I sensed a guarded quality and spoke what came to mind.

“Jamison, does that have something to do with what Trenter said? She told me I ‘spawned a pack’ that summer.”

My friend looked at me hard for several moments.

“Trenter told you that,” he finally said slowly, weighing the words as he turned to study the gray-haired Matron at her desk outside.

“Yes. ‘Spawned a pack.’ Ron heard her, too. What did she mean?”

“Her twisted way of wording the truth, Chrome. You fathered twelve of the most beautiful children a man could ever hope to have.”

“What?!”

“Give me a moment, Chrome.”

Jamison, deeply troubled, sat lost in some private thought-maze. I tried to figure; my children—they’d be how old now? Almost four. And he’d said there were twelve of them? Gods! Finally he sighed and looked up at Rond H’Lokk. He addressed a quiet phrase to him in that alien tongue. Ron nodded. His fingertips touched his heart, then his forehead, and finally rested on his dagger’s scabbard.

“I asked his oath of silence,” Jamison explained, “because until now the children have been the most carefully kept of our secrets. They and the fact that you are not sterile as all those before you have been, this must be hidden from the government no matter what the cost. S.O.R.A. is paranoid in its fear of Free-men and the potential power they could wield. If S.O.R.A.’s leaders discovered that their new ‘caring’ genetically programmed being can also reproduce itself, they’d kill the lot of you.

“My sources have heard nothing of an information leak, have spotted no evidence of any outside knowledge; the Committee has approved wholeheartedly of your being released; and yet now—” He gestured toward the hall and Trenter. “This means the secret is somehow out, at least covertly within the confines of the CenMed complex here.”

“Jamison!”

I pointed to Ron who was pacing now, frowning and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Do you want to listen with the cubes turned off, H’Lokk-Chond?”

“No. It is something not near us yet. Maybe never.” He kept moving. “I only let go of energy I cannot use.”

I caught Jamison’s eye and indicated that flow of caged animal grace.

“A race of panthermen,” I murmured.

“Avenging angels comes closer when you know them better. But we must get on, Chrome. The authorities . were highly pleased to hear Vortex had sent down Immortals to confirm your well-being and to begin your indoctrination. Officially, you see, it’s the most important point for them to confirm—that, being free at last, you indeed have elected to join Vortex and become a Warrior.”

“Of course. No question of it.” Because he hesitated I went on. “There never was any doubt in my mind. From the beginning, even when the ‘why’ wasn’t clear, within myself I pledged my life to him. Now, of course, it’s obvious. That’s what I was designed to do.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Let’s not argue over words, Jamison. ‘Formulated then, or ‘constructed’ or ‘orchestrated’ or whatever term you want to use. The fact remains—”

“But you weren’t, Chrome. You may feel that to be so, because of the Tightness of your relationship with Vortex. The truth of the matter is, though, you were given shape and form and being as the first of the new breed of Man. A race intended to mature into intelligent, thinking, caring human beings.” He gestured for me to wait for my interjection. “A moment more, Chrome. So, yes, if you have an urge to classify yourself as a packaged product, do it. But remember, that product was created to be called ‘A Successful Human-Being.’ And also remember, a great effort and many prayers of hundreds of dedicated men and women were involved in the project.”

An imagined echo of that unseen, unknown girl’s whisper came to me.

‘Please understand, Free-man Chrome—this is also very sad for us!’

I asked Jamison about it. Had she and her companions suspected I had “failed,” and with me, all their labors and sacrifices?

“I’d say she belonged to a faction that’s very strong amongst the young idealistic orderlies and others. They’re the ones who originated the term ‘Free-man,’ and they’ve developed a—well, I suppose you could call it a cult around this new method of propagation. From what we can find out, they’ve pinned their hopes and prayers on the Free-men entities to come; they claim to see in them the possibility of Earth’s being regenerated.”

“But that brings me back to the original ‘why?’ What’s wrong with us—uh—I mean, with Man as he is right now?”

Jamison regarded me for a long moment with what I could only read as sadness.

“What I tell you here cannot be spoken of openly, Chrome, ever. Remember that. Our friends the Warriors know it, of course; the underground of rebellious young people realize it; but it must not be discussed or referred to in any way. The government tolerates no opposition, and my life is given to enforcing its laws.”

“If you’re asking for my pledge of silence, Jamison, you have it, of course.”

My friend nodded and then looked past me unseeingly, as he chose his words.

“If it weren’t being used to refer to our World—our mother, Earth, if you will—the term might be found amusing.” Jamison looked back to me with bitterness. “You see, this is a garbage planet, Chrome. That’s what they call it. In any language, by any means of communication, it always translates back to the same meaning: Garbage Planet!”

Ron stepped aside to give room for Jamison’s pacing.

“Only a few generations, that’s all it took. First, a few years of our damnable S.O.R.A.’s meddling—”

“Jamison!”

This disloyalty from him was unimaginable!

“Yes, the damnable Society of Restructured Americas, Chrome. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do; better listen and learn.

“First came S.O.R.A.’s lowering of all standards, its insistence that all were equal in everything. Next, its vast propaganda campaign urging indiscriminate mating. Finally, the enforced mixing, the deliberate, carefully programmed couplings demanded by its new laws. Then it was over.

“Centuries of excellence, Man’s priceless heritage, his treasure house of everything noble and fine—all were wiped out. And in their place? A new kind of Man, a homogenized population in which the lowest intelligence, the dullest of imaginations, the weakest of personalities were made to flourish. A residue race, unfit to care for itself, unable even to keep control of its own wastes, incapable of protecting the very planetary conditions which sheltered it!”

My friend looked even older and wearier as he nodded at my stunned silence.

“That in capsule form is the answer you asked for, Chrome—what’s the matter with Man as he is now.”

“S.O.R.A. did this? Purposefully?”

“Very purposefully and with almost complete success.” He forced a grim smile to accompany the next. “We’re just about as low on the scale as you can get and still be accepted into the Galaxies. You know the only thing we can peddle in exchange for being protected by its Covenant? The supposed cream of our youth, the Space Cadets!” A short sardonic laugh. “And the best of them usually are only fit for shuffling papers and filing forms!”

We stared at each other. Circumstances had obviously made this exchange imperative; I had to believe him and he knew it.

“So you see, Chrome, rebuilding our race through the creation of Free-men has become imperative if Mankind here on Earth is to survive.”

Ron respectfully murmured something in his ear.

“Yes. You should know that, of course.” Jamison resumed his pacing. “He reminded me of the Covenant and their relation to it. The Covenant is an instrument of the Confederated Galaxies, a treaty binding together worlds with sentient beings upon them. It pledges them to peace amongst themselves, gives protection against marauders from pirate worlds, invaders from the anti-galaxies, forbids any form of destructive activity.

“In charge of this guarding operation is the Protector Class, headed by a friend of yours, Vortex, Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum. Your calling him King hit directly in the target-center. He is King, of his own planet and its Warrior-race. Almost without exception our Protector Force is made up of his people. Part of the importance, you see, of your joining Vortex.”

Jamison suddenly speeded up his rate of speech, running it together, making it difficult to follow.

“I won’t pause or turn to look at you, because I want to slip this through by shaking off at this point our mutual companion here for an infinitesimal instant. Although they’re all of them devoted to you and me, never fall into the error of forgetting that they’re incredibly efficient, utterly implacable dispatchers of life. Remember the meaning of their leader’s given name; apply it to all of them. A warning should be stenciled across their foreheads: ‘Always Handle With Care!’ “

Jamison’s pause and smile at Ron gave me time to recall my Forever-Friend’s translation: “The Master-Bringer of Death.” But why emphasize what was already so clear? If they were so completely devoted to us, was he trying to say they still might turn against us?

Jamison clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“If there’s ever any emergency, always let the Warriors give you the protection of their cloaks; these they wear for guard duty. Ever felt one?”

Ron made a quick half-turn, deftly throwing his cloak so a section billowed over to blanket my head and chest. It settled down flexibly enough, but turned out to have the bulkiness of a heavy carpet.

“Gods!” I breathed, exerting no little effort in my struggle to get out from under it.

“The weight comes from an interwoven cross-ply, thick protective strands of a substance we can hardly comprehend. A link between the living and the inert, capable of absorbing incredible amounts of energy. And, like all good magicians’ cloaks, they also hide other surprises. Any dragons in there today?”

Frowning, Ron rummaged beneath the crimson folds. He shook his head.

“There was a little one. I think it ran away now. But look what it left!”

He brought out his closed fist and flung something away from us. An instant silent flash of billowing flame followed, so bright it was momentarily blinding. I applauded as if this were a show of professional magic.

“Fun, isn’t it?” Jamison agreed dryly, “except for the opponent who gets that in the face—it’s lights out for him or, if he’s lucky, artificial lenses and a cane for the rest of his life! And this brings the illustrated lecture to an end for today, class!”

Jamison bowed with mock gravity, then smiled at me.

“I do have to leave though, Chrome, now I’ve accomplished my unofficial selfish purpose in seeing you. Can’t tell you how happy I am to find you so well!” He gripped my hand and shook it hard. “And we’ll have a lot more time to talk after the ceremony tomorrow.”

“Ceremony?”

“The one officially signaling your release by the Committee. Just a formalized routine matter.”

“Will Vortex be there?”

“Of course. Vortex and all the rest.”

“Gods! Why didn’t you say so!?”

Jamison looked sad and embarrassed and a little confused, all at the same time.

“I’m sorry. I—I guess I forgot.”

“Forgot what? That even if they don’t break, we do have them? Hearts, that is?!”

I meant to give lightness to it, but the jest somehow went flat. Jamison started a reply but substituted a smile and a wave of his hand instead, then left without a backward glance.

A strangely abrupt closing of a thought-provoking reunion.

XVII

Upon Jamison’s departure Rond H’Lokk planted himself in front of the door facing Matron Trenter’s desk, arms folded on his chest, blue eyes fixed in a steady glare upon her. My attempts to engage him in conversation brought forth only low growls, so, having much to mull over, I feigned sleep.

Foremost on my mind at the time, I suppose, was my dismay at Jamison’s revelations about our government, S.O.R.A. The implications were staggering to say the least, and I tried to reason things through. True, I had never seen S.O.R.A.’s leaders. Only their representatives at the Space Administration’s Desert Academy, but that was easily understood. S.O.R.A. had not only the weight of Earth’s management to bear, but also that awesome burden of Interplanetary Exploration and Colonization. Or at least so we were told, and so we believed.

Yet even that, our service as Space Cadets in S.O.R.A.’s Outer Space Concept, seemed shaky and insubstantial in the face of Jamison’s references to our lowly position in reality’s scheme of things in our Universe.

Many hours later Tormlad H’Korr came back alone from his activities with the gorgeous auburn-haired nurse, Londra. At Tor’s cheery greeting, Ron gave a sardonic reply and immediately curled up on the lounge to sleep. Tor shrugged and shook his head, so I moved on to matters more pressing to me.

“Tor, my friend Jamison was here while you were gone.”

“A good man, Chrome, one of the few you have left on this planet!”

“He told me many things but left so many others unanswered, I wondered if we could talk, you and I.”

Tor looked at me in amazement.

“Are you relapsed into madness again? You know we can talk, at any time, about anything!”

“No, no, Tor, I meant...” I let my voice sink to a whisper and indicated the intercom system, “...is there any way to keep others from hearing us?”

“Oh, interfere with its listening operation? We already do, automatically and continuously, with our ear-armor.”

He reached up as Ron had done and removed his earphone mechanism.

“If you want to see something of amusement, watch the old space-mouse out there.”

As he spoke he flicked some tiny protrusions into a different pattern. Suddenly Matron Trenter, mouth open wide in a unheard squawk, leaped into the air as if jabbed with a white-hot needle. She batted frantically at the control switches in front of her, then, fuming, rose to shake a warning finger at us. Her unheard lecturing was cut short as Tor pantomimed that no sound was coming through the ear-armor’s protection.

“Now, my friend,” he smiled, “what would you like to know?”

“Well, first about Jamison—”

I hesitated, at a loss as to where to begin.

“We’ve known Jamison ever since being assigned your Planet,” Tor said. “He became head of the Security Agency’s branch here at the Desert Academy several years ago. I haven’t seen him in recent months—none of us has because of his work load—but I’ve talked with his very—ah—impressive assistant, Jill.”

Ron smiled appreciatively and sat down on the foot of my bed.

“Not as physical perhaps as Londra, but Jill when she speaks is worth the listening time. That Londra—before I get her uncovered and occupied with the important matter at hand, I sometimes think her talking will drive me to violence of another nature entirely! Never mind that now, though. This Jill is Jamison’s aide at Security’s operation command post here. People around them say nothing, but it is taken for fact that our friend Jamison and Jill are also very close in other ways. Only I can say to her in private that she is like a battle-companion for him, and then she pretends anger, of course, but secretly I feel she is pleased.”

“But—but how is that possible?”

Tor looked vaguely puzzled.

“Why should it not be?”

“I mean, for Jamison to be head of Security here?! We were in school together, Tor. True, he was older, looked older—but not like this. And now he’s told me he’s old enough to be my father—and spoken of not being able to hold on to the young years as long as before.”

Tor sobered and nodded his head thoughtfully.

“I understand now what you mean. We’ve wondered if it would begin soon. You see, the Immortals tell us CenMed injects its officials with a serum to keep them young, a poor version of the ‘rainbow’ medicine given you. The effects, in any real sense, are said to be very brief and carry with them great penalties.”

“Does Jamison realize that?”

“Of course. But he still refuses to give up his fight to save this . . .”

Tor looked away and cleared his throat. I felt he’d been about to say “Garbage Planet” and prodded him to explain.

“Very well. But understand, Chrome, you’re now a brother-Warrior. I wouldn’t speak ill of your place of birth under any circumstances other than this, your insisting.”

Tor’s brief tale came from indoctrination material provided the Warriors when they were first assigned to guard us. Ironical in tone and made up from facts rather than opinions, it was hardly flattering but certainly enlightening.

‘When our production of atomic energy and our fumbling at space exploration had been detected, closer inspection of the planet was initiated. The resultant reports covering the development of its inhabitants were dismal. Nowhere near discovering a star-drive system, we could only hop and skip and drift aimlessly about in our own tiny solar system—a child splashing with a floating plastic plaything in its bathwater.

Tor’s contempt was as apparent as Jamison’s had been in reference to the Society of Restructured Americas. With S.O.R.A.’s rise to an all-powerful position, the end came to any hope of intellectual growth. The fact became increasingly plain: What we so proudly hailed as the finest creation of the Universe, Man, was falling into a madness which would threaten not merely its own planet but those of its neighbors as well.

At this point the governing body of the Confederated Galaxies, the Greater Council, convened to consider a prudent course to follow. The Galaxies’ by-laws and rules of conduct were so carefully constructed, so wise and logical (as well as so incredibly detailed) that deliberation by its Greater Council was usually unnecessary. Its policy was to interfere as little as possible with a planet’s normal development, however abnormal that development might be.

But in this instance, Man, if left alone, would soon present a dilemma. Its horns: Either he would finally blow himself up in such an inept and messy way as to consume a good deal of material around him and seriously unbalance things, or his defenseless planet, a ready plum for plucking, would be swooped down upon and plundered by some pirate world. Once devoid of whatever riches its conquerors fancied (Tor explained the rebel planets had an extremely varied dietary range), the planetary husk could be made into an excellent armed base for further forays and skirmishes.

No. It must meet and did, this Greater Council, with Earth’s leaders. And by free choice, they reached an agreement. Our planet’s atmosphere would be regenerated, the balance of natural forces would be renewed and restored as much as possible, and a few observers would remain to report on what sort of progress was being made.

No, we would not be given the star drive. That technology (though “technology” was in reality a completely misleading term, Tor said) we must discover and develop for ourselves. Yes, we would be given the sheltering force of the Protector Group. In return for this membership in the Confederated Galaxies, at least a token contribution should be made to serve as a discipline, a reminder not to drift further on down into driveling idiocy.

For this purpose the Council suggested the creation of what we know as the Space Cadets and their Academy. The best of our youth would be sought out, nurtured and cultivated to produce a crop representing Man at his finest. It naturally would fall under the supervision of the Society of Restructured Americas, since by then S.O.R.A. had a stranglehold on everything. And S.O.R.A., with smoothly executed flourishes, pledged that the new Space Administration would be guaranteed everything it needed to fulfill Earth’s obligation to the Confederated Galaxies—to turn over its best young men and women to serve as aides in guiding the affairs of the civilized Universe.

The idea was quickly accepted by the greedy S.O.R.A. leaders; anything to maintain themselves in power and bid good-bye to these unwelcome outer-space visitors. It was just as quickly adopted by the Greater Council.

Signatures. The equivalent of handshakes wherever a similarity in bodily equipment made such motions of agreement possible. General good-byes, most sincere and deeply felt by all, and the ships were off.

Although the Space Cadet Program was brought into being immediately, the results were dismal indeed, and getting worse. Tor, on the bed’s edge, ticked off on his fingers some of the reasons why.

“First S.O.R.A. tells your women that they’re the equals of men in every way, that all females of true intelligence must, and will, fight for their rightful place. So these women, most of them, stop being mothers. Their semen, yes?, is lost to your race, and this loss—the loss of their intelligence—cannot be made up. It’s gone forever. Sadly, this loss keeps growing as the women, lied to by S.O.R.A., become hungry for more power. They struggle against men to get it, to dominate. Only the lower brain levels of your race continue to reproduce, with S.O.R.A. all the while speeding up the incorrect matings—wrongly, on purpose, so as to control the planet’s people completely. Soon you have nothing but...”

He spread his hands, lost for words. I nodded my understanding of what he’d said.

“Try looking up ‘genetic hash’ in your dictionary, Tor.”

I spelled the words out for him, and, after leafing quickly through the little book, he clapped me on the shoulder.

“Exactly, Chrome. In the breeding kitchens of your planet, its bedrooms, S.O.RA. has structured a genetic hash. Precisely why your world’s scientists had to band together, first in secret, then in the open. They gathered here at the Desert Academy under the direction of the Scientific Advancement Committee, to work in the Committee’s laboratories searching for a way out of the genetic dilemma—trying to unmake the hash, to fit the pieces back in place.”

“S.O.R.A. permitted this?”

“Of course, at least on the surface. Scientific groups all over the globe raised such an outcry there was no choice for S.O.R.A. but to give the Scientific Advancement Committee dominion over the creation of Freemen. Within the Complex here, though, there are so many counterfactions and the area is so shot through with spies and counterspies, and plots and counterplots, it’s impossible to trust anyone.”

“But what about the representatives of—of the Greater Council, did you call it?”

“The ones supposedly left behind to monitor activities here?” Tor shrugged. “Who knows? They may have existed at one time. Now, however, that authority has been delegated to S.O.R.A.’s Governmental Security Force. And within this empire of the Desert Academy, the power rests with Jamison.”

Tor watched me as I pondered the burden which rested on my friend’s shoulders.

“Yes, Chrome, now you begin to see the forces pulling at Jamison. His very real affection for you; his loyalty to his country’s law even in the face of hating the way it has debased its people; and, over all, this tremendous responsibility to the Greater Council as its representative here, solely, directly, and completely answerable to them.”

In the uneasy silence which fell between us, I think Tor sensed the turmoil produced within me by these revelations of—the truth, or could one pin that term to anything solid in my circumstances?

A sudden thought, a prompting popped into my mind, for diversion if nothing more.

“Tor, your ear-armor. May I try it?”

“For you, Chrome-Chond, anything.” He grinned and I basked in his first calling me this. “There’ll be discomfort, since they’re molded to each individual’s shape, but nothing will be harmed.”

He eased his earphones into position on me. Nothing fitted directly into the orifice of the ear itself; the mechanism merely cupped closely to its outer, back surface. From the connecting bands, several projections with nodes on them extended out to lie perpendicularly along the muscles leading upward to the medulla. He cocked his head questioningly.

“What do you want, Tor? I hear nothing.”

“I know that. Is it comfortable, firmly fixed?”

“The fit of a fine glove. Now what does it do?”

“Continually monitors our surroundings. If your hearing extended as ours does further into the upper vibrations, you’d be aware of approaching objects, of their direction and speed; that’ll be compensated to conform with your range. There’s the automatic blocking of spying devices we spoke of before. Also, continuous master-monitoring of the battle frequency—”

I gasped as the incredible tingling of a silent alarm raced into the base of my brain. A deep resonant voice spoke that golden language; the ear-bone conductors seemed to carry it to the center of my being.

“Vortex!” I cried out.

Ron awoke and sprang to his feet watching me. There was a ringing sound in the instrument, its pitch ascending to an agonizing tone. Then silence. Nothing. I quickly handed the mechanism back.

“There was a tingling, and after it I heard Vortex. I think it was urgent. Suddenly there was a ringing tone and everything stopped.”

As Tor donned his earphones, Ron hurried to get his set from the cabinet. With muttered curses he assembled the parts and tested the controls. The Warriors engaged in tense consultation which broke off as Ron spat out an oath at the sight of Trenter. She rounded her desk toward us with something in her hand.

“Wait, Ron! If you don’t want her in here, let me do it.”

I slipped past him directly to the door. Matron Trenter caught herself just in time to keep from running into its polished surface; my proximity to it would keep it shut no matter how close anyone else got. A grim glance down the hallway in either direction and she went back to her desk.

“I simply was bringing you a pill,” her voice came over the speaker, “to give you a nice night’s sleep for tomorr—”

“No more medicine!” Ron yelled. “Not from this place!”

“Stop that shouting,” Trenter fretted. “I can hear you very well, and if I want to come in there I will!”

“Matron Trenter, listen—” I began.

“I have a switch here to override that pellet of yours!”

“I said to listen, Trenter. You may be immune to Robots, but you’re not to Warriors. One of these is ready to kill you; I’m trying to keep that from happening.”

Her reply was cut off by Tor’s pointing to where gauze-masked orderlies had begun to appear and drift down the corridor to gather near Trenter’s desk.

Eyes on the enemy outside, the two Warriors held a murmured consultation. Tor came back to me while Ron faced the door, his cloak spread to shield us from view.

“Take these.”

Tor handed me some small green capsules.

“They’re those dragon eggs Ron used to make the fire-flash. Hide them under your coverings now and practice this with me.

“Open your left hand; pretend one is in the center. Begin counting time in seconds: One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and—Again: One-and-two-and—Like that, yes. Now, pick up the pretend-egg between your thumb and third finger on ‘one.’ Pinch it hard on ‘and.’ Lift it and take aim on ‘two.’ Throw it on the next ‘and.’ Close your eyes and put your face down on ‘three-and-four.’ That’s when it flashes into flame. So, count and pretend now: One-and—”

The numbers slowly changed, but the rhythm stayed the same as I practiced: Pick-pinch-aim-throw-hide-your-face—pick-pinch-aim-throw—But what would happen if I pinched the capsule too soon or didn’t throw it fast enough, I wondered.

“Don’t worry. There’s an added result of our rainbow injections,” Tor reassured. “The dragon eggs’ outer layers sense our changed vibrations and will not explode near enough to harm either you or us. Don’t count on having them function any closer than, say, the length of this bed.”

Ron’s exclamation brought our attention to the corridor; the orderlies milling about there fell back respectfully to make a path for Jamison.

Dismissing Mother Trenter with a curt gesture, Jamison shot the group a cool appraising glance as he awaited the door’s opening. His pause to attach a cube and light it at the intercom gave me a chance to cover my dismay at his appearance—face putty-gray and covered in sweat, strands of hair stuck to his forehead, the rest disheveled as if from violence. In a disquieting way he seemed slighter, sunken in upon himself. Quick glances to Tor and Ron and a flow of silent agreement amongst us: Notice nothing unusual.

“Well, now here are three healthy specimens if I ever saw them!”

Smiling, he deposited the second cube on the cabinet-table beside me. Upon his twist to activate it, I thought I could now detect a high-pitched whine; or perhaps wishing only made it seem so. Ron and Tor grimaced in unison, however, and Ron muttered—no doubt to their favorite, the Goat-God.

“Still no response from the—?”

Jamison used a term I didn’t catch, obviously referring to their ear-armor and the blockage. They shook their heads.

“Hmmm. Well, that’s very annoying, I know. Don’t worry though.”

I gestured for him to sit.

“Ah, wouldn’t I love that, Chrome. A little moment’s rest!”

He was about to drink from the plastic water cup he had filled. Instantly, neatly, Ron had it away from him. A sniff, a sip which he finally swallowed, and he returned it.

“You’re right, H’Lokk-Chond.” Jamison slipped something into his mouth and washed it down. “No use trying to keep yourself going if someone else is trying to stop you, is there!” He regarded Ron warmly before fixing a critical eye on Tor. “If you weren’t such a Blunn-H’Zukking-son-of-a-H’Trullber you’d marry him!”

The phrase, close enough in its sounds for me to grin at, brought real laughter from the two Warriors, and even a snort of reflected enjoyment from Jamison His color seemed to be improving as he gave his face a quick going-over with a wet washcloth, toweled it off, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said easily. “Just the Committee, shoving us forward to make room for something of a higher priority, they claim. A calculated jab to say, ‘You Security and Military aren’t as important as you think!’ Only business as usual, Chrome, nothing more. So off we go.”

“N-now?” I stuttered, caught by the suddenness of it.

“Best be right on the dot. The Committee reacts like a bunch of irritable old virgins if they’re kept waiting. Does he have a robe and slippers? Anything for his feet?”

Tor was already returning from the closet with both requests.

“Today’s uniform, little Brother,” he beamed as he held the robe up for me. I slipped into it, depositing into the robe’s side pocket the dragon’s eggs I’d palmed. “And tomorrow’s?” he continued, “Gods, how splendid you’ll be! Just to see it in imagination makes me jealous!”

“Look, Lord Chrome, the dogs have brought you a throne!” exclaimed Ron.

“A welcome surprise; wonder who had brains enough to think of a wheelchair!” Jamison mused, then with more volume to Ron and Tor, “One on either side in back, guiding and pushing. One hand on the chair, one hand free. Chrome, both hands folded in your lap, very quietly. And a final command for all of us. Betray nothing, neither pleasure nor displeasure, at anything. Understood?”

To make sure, he asked Tor to translate.

“I know the words,” Ron stopped him with bitterness. “Best of all I know betray. It was the first word I learned to understand on this place.”

He patted his dagger scabbard and winked at me as he looped his cloak up across his loins in the ceremonial manner. As Tor arranged his uniform in like fashion, Jamison gathered up the surveillance cubes and signaled Matron Trenter to lock on the override switch so we could all pass through unimpeded.

In the hallway Jamison swept’ his eyes over the crowd. When he spoke his tone was mild, the listeners’ silence absolute.

“Our Warrior friends here are on edge. Justifiably so, I believe. If you’ll all bear that in mind and give us room? Matron and nurse, you also, just a bit of breathing space. As a matter of fact, you two will lead the way. Our guests, Free-man Chrome and his honor guard, will follow you. I will follow them, and our eager young orderlies will act as rear guard. Yes, that’s best, I think. So, now, if we all get in that order as rapidly as possible, we just may be on time. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing indeed!?”

The last, with its underlying iron and irony, brought a flurry and rustling of starched gowns, and the marching formation was quickly, if raggedly, established.

“Will you begin, Matron Trenter.”

Just short of a brusque command, it moved her immediately.

As they rolled me along, Jamison filled in details, his tone chatty and casual. Only a little way actually, just down a few corridors. An operating amphitheater, converted for the ceremony! Typical of the Committee’s usual bad judgment and poor taste; anything as long as it was cheaper that way. And where in heaven’s name did they spend all the money gouged and scraped off every unprotected surface of each new project. Where did it go?! No one could find a clue.

“But never mind, as long as you’re not alarmed at the setting. Imagine it as it was meant to be, out in the sunshine and open air, with flags waving in the breeze and perhaps even a few desert birds fluttering...”

The scene slid and blurred into muddy blackness.

In the cave once more, I looked down at the rigid forms of those lovely birds who had saved and comforted me. Something had closed their bright jewel-like eyes, stilled their iridescent, plumed grace forever. I started to lean over and touch their soft feathers, but a sudden agonizing pain in my shoulder pinioned me upright. The hospital corridor spun back with a jolt.

“...what I mean, Chrome?” Jamison’s voice was saying.

I shook my head to clear it and patted at Ron’s hand in hopes its grip would loosen before my clavicle fractured. (Pain such as that does tend to pluck at one’s attention!)

“My Lord Chrome’s thoughts were elsewhere for the moment, Jamison,” Tor chuckled. He bent to whisper, “Be strong, little Brother!,” straightening again to report, “But he is now with us once more.”

A cloud of Londra’s perfume, cloyingly sweet and almost as overpowering as the spice-gas anesthetic, wafted back to envelop us.

“You were speaking, Jamison,” I said loudly, “of natural things, like the open air. Fresh, clean, open air. Gods, how I wish for a breath of it now!”

“I join you in your wishes, Chrome!” he answered and in his tone was veiled amusement and understanding.

At that moment an unnerving thing happened. Our procession turned a corner and there, suddenly, was a gathering of hospital workers. Immobile, almost like a life-sized hologram mounted on the corridor wall, they stood; without the concealing gauze masks usually worn by orderlies, their faces were shown to be young, almost those of schoolchildren, with expressions of awe-struck wonderment.

Movement broke the stillness as two of the figures stepped forward, a blond, brush-cut Cadet and a slight dark-haired female orderly.

“Free-man Chrome,” the girl said softly with a tentative half-smile.

I recognized the voice instantly; it was she who had confided that it was sad for them, too. Before she could say more, there was a flash of white nurse’s uniform and Londra had dealt her a vicious slap.

“Get away from him, both of you!” Londra said in a sharp steely voice that hardly matched her glamorous perfumed image.

Then there was Matron Trenter shooing and scolding, as well as scowlings and gestures from Tor and Ron, and the young people were quickly pushed away by our orderlies. As we continued on, I saw the blond brush-cut Cadet comforting the small girl, and I remember wondering about a Cadet’s being in with such a gathering, questioning in my mind if they were all part of the young rebellious group said to have formed around the Free-men.

“Steady as you go,” Jamison said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. “The amphitheater is just ahead, and I’m sure its atmosphere will be much better!”

It wasn’t.

Unperfumed, maybe—but better, no.

XVIII

“Amphitheater.”

A word from a language long dead, meaning a place for people to watch and perform plays and other actions. For me to hear it spoken, even now, brings only memories of a monstrous nightmare.

The huge oval operating-room we now entered, its banked benchlike seats surrounding a central arena, did indeed resemble its ancient counterpart. The only light came from theatrically brilliant shafts knifing down through the darkness. Three hospital beds were at the near end of the central oval, at its far end, a long table covered in white cloth and lined with high-back chairs on the side next to the spectator benches.

None too gently, Jamison elbowed Matron Trenter aside to inspect the empty hall. He glanced at the orderlies after a pause.

“This is to be a happy occasion, not the secret gathering of some Demon-Cult! Give us all the lights up full. Damn the cost!”

Several figures dashed off into the darkness in different directions along the curving aisles.

“The flowers and the sunlight, Chrome,” Jamison smiled wryly, “and the pretty girls gaily waving their—uh—whatever it is pretty girls are supposed to wave. (It’s been so long since I’ve seen any I’ve forgotten!) Anyway, you are imagining all that, aren’t you! Now, where are those two going?”

Londra and Trenter were picking their way carefully down toward the amphitheater’s center.

“Probably angry at not being included in your reference to pretty girls.”

The lights all came on at the same time and an overly amplified voice boomed out:

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—”

“Gods! Turn it down!” yelled Jamison.

The volume was quickly regulated to a bearable level.

“—the event scheduled for this time is about to commence. Will all those authorized please take their places. All others are now asked to leave. Immediately. Thank you.”

“Progress!” Jamison exclaimed in mock amazement and extended an arm downward toward Trenter and Londra fussing with the beds. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

“I must start walking sometime. Why not now, with our friends helping?”

Accepting Ron and Tor’s steadying arms, I stood up.

“Great idea. It’ll please the Committee not to be charged for the use of the wheelchair any longer!”

I was glad for the Warriors’ aid; the incline was steeper than it looked and its covering deceptively slick. Trying in vain to spot Vortex or any of his men amongst the crowding orderlies, I noticed a few members of Jamison’s Security Force in their subdued gray civilian-cut uniforms dotted about in that field of hospital-white.

Clucking and fluttering despite Jamison’s obvious annoyance, Trenter set aside her plump-pigeon image for that of mother hen, as she fluffed pillows and plucked at nonexistent wrinkles to settle me into my new nest. Satisfied at last, she stationed herself to my right at the head of the bed and Londra opposite her to my left. Jamison shrugged and nodded to Tor, who stepped into guard position in front of Londra. Ron, almost spitting his disgust, walked stiffly to stand in front of Trenter. Jamison went to the foot of the bed and leaned casually against it.

Slow dimming of illumination left only the garish white shafts from above which cast puddles of blackness in disquieting places. A pause, then the discreet clearing of a throat over the amplifiers. The voice which followed was bland, colorless, with a curious sedated quality.

“It is with extreme regret that the Scientific Advancement Committee is forced to announce the rescinding of its order permitting the release of Cadet 8738-61-965.”

Jamison, directly in my line of vision, straightened to attention.

“Circumstances of gravest importance make it mandatory the subject Cadet be returned at once to maximum security conditions.”

Ron drifted nearer the foot of the bed with a deep-throated growl. Londra’s hand stole forward to pat Tor’s shoulder gently.

“Colonel Jamison is hereby ordered to deploy his forces in the manner he deems most expeditious to accomplish this, taking all necessary precautions to insure the subject’s complete safety and well-being at all times. If any further military aid is needed, it should be summoned immediately upon the conclusion of—”

An override cut in and a harsh down-to-earth voice blared throughout the amphitheater.

“Attention all personnel! Attention all personnel! A royal visitor is on his way to level five. He has ultimate clearance. Honor it at once! Repeat, ultimate clearance!”

As an uneasy stirring began, Vortex, silver-clad, burst through an upper doorway. He streaked down, pausing only to deal a chopping blow to an orderly stupid enough to step in the way. Leaping atop the table at the far end of the oval arena from us, he flung out an arm.

“The Cadet is mine!” he shouted.

A movement at my left caught my eye as Vortex vaulted to the floor and ran toward us. Tor had stepped forward out of Londra’s reach, and, in a split second, from out of that tightly packaged bosom, she produced a palm-sized atom-pistol.

I covertly watched her bring it down and flick off the safety. As it came within reach I lunged, grabbing for her hand and the gun. I got both and yelled, “Tor!” At that moment Trenter jammed a pillow into my face and Londra wriggled free. I fought the pillow away in time to see Londra stride forward, raise both arms and take aim at Vortex.

Twin streaks of Warrior-red as Londra squeezed the trigger. Tor spread-eagled himself directly in the vicious violet-sparked path, took the hit full in the belly, and doubled into a tight cloak-enfolded ball. Ron, cloak outspread to its fullest, flung himself upon Tor and dug into the floor-covering as he clamped them both down hard against it.

Backhanding Trenter, I started for Londra who was about to fire again. Jamison beat me there, kicked the gun out of her hand, but was taken down by an orderly. From behind, someone got a neck-hold on me. I struggled to free myself, and one of Jamison’s men made a leap for Londra. He fell short, but anchored her firmly in place, both arms around her ankles, as Vortex charged in with a mighty blow.

My unseen captor wrestled me backward; in our struggling we tripped and fell. Slammed down by another blow, Londra landed only an arm’s length away. Her head hit near mine with such force I clearly saw her violet contact lenses flick off and spin across the floor. Exposed was the faded nondescript blue beneath, as she stared unseeingly upward. My captor must have witnessed this grotesquery, too; his grip around my neck loosened momentarily. I lashed back, broke away and groggily made it to my knees.

Battling to reach me in spite of the mass of orderlies which clung like white leeches all over him, Vortex locked eyes with me. A force of flames-and-strength-and-passion literally pulled me to my feet and drew me toward him. Then two more accursed orderlies landed on me, and a wave of them broke to cover Vortex completely.

One side or the other gained possession of the light switches; the place was suddenly plunged into blackness. I heard Vortex call out my name and yelled his in return. Fighting with the madness which sometimes possesses me, I clawed and bit and grabbed and broke anything my hands fell upon.

Freed, I spun toward the yell of animal rage I heard come from Vortex, this time further away. I ran in that direction only to crash to the floor as I stumbled over a body. My outflung hand closed around—I fingered it, carefully tracing the outlines—Londra’s pistol! Flattened to stay clear of the forms racing about the darkness, I tried to figure the right direction to take.

The sounds of fighting quickly diminished, and abruptly one of those overhead spotlights flared down.

Londra’s body, its neck at an impossible angle, lay nearby. No sign of Trenter or Jamison. I shielded my eyes against the light’s glare and peered upward for some sign of Vortex. Emptiness all about except for a small group of orderlies huddled together near a top exit. Also a few white-gowned corpses sprawled…

It is hard even now to put the next sight into words.

The two red-clad Warriors...

One had managed to prop himself up against the first row of benches. In his arms, head cradled against his chest, he held the other one.

I could not... deal with this.

How long I knelt there staring I will not face even yet. When finally I staggered to my feet, Ron lifted his head and looked at me calmly.

“He has left us, Lord Chrome.” He indicated Tor who lay nestled as if in sleep. “I will follow him soon.”

The awful thing I can never make anybody understand is that nothing looked wrong with either of them. Nothing.

The atomic needle-bullet left no mark on Tor; its burst of radiation inside his body killed instantly. Already relaxed from his last contortion—tightening into a ball around that unholy fire to save Vortex—he now could have been a weary little boy napping after play.

And Ron, who had further shielded his King, the damnable invisible radiation had riddled him also, working its swift terrible poison in his every cell. Yet there was no sign, no mark, no flaw.

And so, perhaps, a chance!?

“You up there.” I pointed my gun at the group of orderlies. “Get this man over to a bed. Send for help!”

“Please, Lord Chrome,” Ron said with a quiet smile, “it is far too late for...”

His eyes closed and my heart rose into my throat. Kneeling, I saw and felt his breathing. Brushing Tor’s hair back from his face automatically, I then wondered if I’d done it to keep it from disturbing his now eternal sleep. Maddened anew, I got up too fast, but managed to catch my balance.

“Dogs!” I yelled at the orderlies, “did you hear me?”

They jittered about like unstrung beads. My trigger finger was tensing—

“Do what Lord Chrome commands!” a voice shrilled. As the orderlies still hesitated, it screeched, “Now! This moment! Do his bidding, idiots! Move!”

Capless, hair flying every-which-way, her uniform a blood-blotched mess, Matron Trenter emerged from the upper shadows, and the orderlies sprang to life. Carefully they lifted Ron’s sagging body onto the bed I indicated; then a wave of my pistol sent them falling over each other in their haste to scuttle away. Ron lay so still on the sheets that I touched his wrist to seek a pulse. It was there, barely. With tremendous effort he moved his head in my direction, opened his eyes and focused on me.

“The pain, Ron, what can I get to help?”

He forced a smile after several breaths and tried to shake his head.

“Have told it... not welcome here. It soon goes. Please, no worry...”

The effort brought beads of sweat to his forehead. I blotted them with the cuff of my robe.

“There’s a towel—”

I spun with my gun ready. Trenter, slightly nearer, sat all askew on one of the benches.

“—under the pillow, but use the one from the other bed. The less you move him the easier it will be for him.”

My gun wavered as I tried to keep it trained on her and still find the towel she’d spoken of.

“If it helps you, Chrome, shoot me. It really makes no difference.” A feeble wave of her hand dismissing everything. “I’m sick to the center of my being. Slaughter, killing, dying... all of it useless. Completely... Oh, my poor Charles!”

She began crying softly to herself and gave no sign of hearing the voice which came over the speakers to fill the amphitheater. It was Vortex.

“Lord Chrome, my message must be brief.” He sounded calm and in complete control. “I am their hostage until you surrender the pistol. For now we have lost, so kill no more.”

I didn’t know whether he could see me, but I nodded, flicked the safety on, and tossed the weapon away. It clanked against the far side of the arena where an orderly stealthily retrieved it.

“Good. Now there is this: These people have given their word, if it is worth the noting, that they will leave Rond H’Lokk with you. Comfort him as his on-going journey begins; he is one of our bravest and best. I go now for aid and counsel in—”

Nothing more came through from the darkness beyond the spotlight’s glare. The orderlies began leaving silently. One approached Matron Trenter to murmur something; she batted at him weakly, and he went away. There was a white robed group gathering around Tor.

“Handle the body with respect,” I said hoarsely, “or I’ll—”

A wave of dizziness hit me. One of the smaller orderlies dashed over to help me back to the bed next to Ron’s. The gauze-masked head bent close to mine.

“Free-man Chrome, we are caring for him with respect.” The voice, by now so familiar, that of the dark-haired young girl, was so quiet as to be almost a whisper. “And we’re trying to find a way to help. Please believe in us—as we do in you!”

She rejoined the others, and they all bowed slightly to me. I watched them transfer Tor’s body to the stretcher they had unrolled and make their way through the gloom up the slippery ramp. The exit door opened; Tor and his bearers faded into that deeper darkness. Ron fixed his eyes upon me. I had a feeling he was past the effort of speaking. Trenter, slumped backward like a fat, broken doll, was snoring quietly. Someone dimmed the lights down, until only a faint glow was left.

“That’s better, isn’t it, Ron.”

I touched his brow with the towel, managed a smile for him as his eyes closed, then got into the other bed.

* * *

How long I slept I couldn’t calculate. Nothing had changed, except—Slowly I angled my head to look down to where the cold metal of Ron’s dagger now rested against my hand! I covered it with my robe and turned. Eyes bright with pain, he stared at me.

“Use it. Free yourself.” His whisper was a barely heard rasp. “Fight out of this death-place... little time... coming soon”

A long silent moment The death-glaze began to film over those eyes locked upon mine.

“Forever-Friend,” he murmured.

From somewhere he summoned the strength to turn his face away as his life-force left him.

Slowly in the silent amphitheater I worked Ron’s dagger through my robe’s fabric into its lining. After as long a period of pretended sleep as I could manage, I yawned, stretched and “awoke” to rub my eyes and peer around me. Matron Trenter was gone; no others were visible. I got up and went to Ron. His eyes, so blue even through Death’s dullness, were open; I closed the lids.

Back in bed, pillows propped to allow me a sitting position and blanket pulled around me, I hunched up partly for warmth from the chill of the darkened amphitheater and partly to place Ron’s dagger by my side where I could reach it quickly. Exploring deeper in the pocket, my fingers found four dragon’s eggs, so there was still a chance to stand my ground against these dogs and win. I thought.

Slowly the lighting was brought up to flood the entire place. Groups of orderlies and underlings began straightening things with unusual efficiency and near silence. First to be tended to was the removal of Ron’s body. The ritual-like dignity left no room for complaint. Four specially garbed attendants in light yellow uniforms, with gauze masks, gloves and shoes of the same color, carefully arranged his body and meticulously straightened his uniform, placing its cloak across him in ceremonial folds. A heavy, yellow velvetlike blanket was brought forward and unfurled to cover the entire bed and the body it held.

“Where is my friend Colonel Jamison?” I asked the figure nearest me during the pause which followed.

“We have no information, Lord Chrome.”

The attendants flicked off the bed’s caster locks, rolling it the length of the long arena to where others were dismantling the table. Double doors were opened; the yellow-canopied bed and its matching entourage passed through.

(The foregoing wasn’t the gracious ritual it seemed; I later learned the yellow garb signified atomic shielding. Those removing Tor’s body the night before had been distracted into forgetting such precautions, and two had already died from the lethal radiation which lingered in his corpse.)

Londra’s body was heaved onto flexible plastic sheeting, rolled up in it, and deposited with others on a large trolleylike container. An orderly, my small unknown friend from times before, sweeping the debris-strewn floor, came closer.

“Please give no reaction, Free-man Chrome,” she said, pretending to work industriously. “Jamison cannot help us. He’s seriously ill, receiving every possible treatment, but can know nothing for several days. We’re doing all we can without him.”

(I’ve wondered since if her assisting me back into bed and whispering to me the night before, if those few moments away from Tor’s body had spared her the death its radiation dealt others.)

Another gauze-masked figure approached, and she hurried off. This new form, tall, lanky, with raw-boned ungloved hands hanging well below begrimed sleeve edges, cleared its throat and gave a spastic bow.

“Your pardon, Lord Chrome.” The male voice cracked with fatigue. “Head Matron Trenter sends apologies for not being here at the moment to attend you. If there’s anything I can do to make you comfortable, you’re to order me to do so.”

I slid Ron’s dagger to safety beneath my robe only a moment before the gangling youth snapped the blanket up and shook it out. He threw it haphazardly over me again and started shoving it along my side, fortunately opposite the dagger.

“I don’t want it tucked under like that!”

Both of us fumbled with the blanket at the same time. As our hands met beneath it he shoved something metallic into mine, roughly closing my fingers around a shape thoroughly familiar from last night: Londra’s atom-pistol!

“Oh, sorry, Lord Chrome!”

“No harm done,” I grumbled for any who might be observing from among the increasing numbers of white-gowned figures drifting in. “When will Matron Trenter be back?”

“Is there something else I can do?”

“With the audience we’re drawing I don’t suppose it’s possible, but I have to urinate.”

“Certainly. Only that?”

“Specifically, and only that, thank you.”

Within seconds my bed had been surrounded with folding screens and I’d been handed an appropriately shaped plastic vessel. After using it with great relief, I carefully rearranged my under-the-covers arsenal. Atom-pistol on one side, dagger on the other, and dragon’s eggs tucked securely into their pocket-nest. Then I called the orderly back.

“More comfortable now, Lord Chrome?” he asked, taking the plastic vessel from me.

“Everything in order.”

Another jerky bow and he, my “specimen,” and the screens were gone. Very good timing: I could give complete attention to Matron Trenter as she came toward me from the opposite end of the arena.

But what was being assembled down there? Objects caught the light. Chairs, were they, of glass and silver and white porcelain? Before I could see more, the Matron reached the halfway point and thin white curtains, strung on a wire about an arm’s length above a man’s height, were drawn closed shutting off the activity behind her.

In a fresh, crisp, white uniform, Trenter was once more her plump motherly self. Only, as she got closer, she wasn’t. I could see it. And somehow feel it. It wasn’t so much the swelling on one side of her face from the backhanding I’d dealt her—black-and-blue, I’d wager, under the layer of cosmetics. No, the distortion was of a different kind and made itself known, if not clear, almost at once.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt too much,” I said, indicating the puffiness.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk! Naughty boy,” she smiled a bit lopsidedly, “hitting Mother T. when she was only trying to help against that awful man! But, never you mind, Charles. Mother understands!”

“Wh-what?!”

“That’s what mothers must do. Understand that it’s for the best. For you, and for Mother, too, Charles. They say it doesn’t hurt at all. Only takes a moment.”

She peered more closely at me and frowned. The gangling orderly came forward.

“Would the Head Matron care to rest?”

He indicated a chair another orderly was placing some distance away.

“Hmmm? Oh, yes, nice to rest a bit. Call me Mother T., though; everyone does and I don’t mind it.”

She sat down with a little sigh and patted the hand of the one who’d brought the chair. The tall orderly got between us.

“She is unwell.”

“Crazy, you mean.”

“Yes, but others don’t know that, and need not.”

We spoke softly, barely moving our mouths.

“What about surveillance?”

“Knocked out, Lord Chrome. The place is in panic. Fear of retribution from Vortex for not relinquishing you as agreed. Morale, discipline, logical thought, all swept away. And still the Committee will go through with it.”

“With what?”

There was a pause of several seconds.

“The Restoration Procedure, Lord Chrome.”

“Oh... Gods!”

“That is why the gun. When we roll the bed down to the other end—”

“Here, so soon?!”

“Any moment. They’re almost finished setting up the pneumo-encephalogram equipment. It generates continuous three-dimensional X-rays which are immediately transferred onto video tapes and displayed for the implanting of the electrode probe. They allow it to be accomplished exactly and perfectly, usually the first time.”

“Your electronics lecture is making me sick. What about the gun?”

“Uh, sorry. When we move the bed, we’ll both be occupied with guiding it. At about the center of the arena, where the curtain is closed now, show the atom-pistol and grab Trenter. Use her as a shield and hostage; they’ll be unable to touch you. We’ll push the bed through, breaking a path for you to follow. More help is just outside the large doors down there.”

Suddenly that tranquilized neutral voice filled the amphitheater.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your places immediately.”

Barely allowing the scurry for seats to cease, the lights dimmed.

“Cadet 8738-61-985...? A nod will suffice to signify your perception.”

I did so.

“Thank you. A word or two of explanation. We cannot accomplish this particular undertaking with the necessary precision if you are under sedation of any form. However, a minor local anesthetic will be applied to your scalp as we move to complete the first part of the procedure. That is, creation of a small aperture in the cranium to act as entrance for the probe.”

There was a pause. I nodded.

“As you probably know the brain itself has no sense of pain, so the insertion of the probe and our subsequent techniques cause no discomfort whatsoever. A series of questions and answers assist in locating a precise and particular point. You must remain absolutely motionless, though, for the procedure to be successful. Is that fully understood? no movement whatsoever?”

Again I nodded.

“Good. We’re only after one small area and are not interested in turning you into a vegetable or coagulating your cortex. So, no thrashing about, please!”

A note meant as humor was in this last. I made myself smile.

“Excellent,” the voice concluded. “Begin.”

The two orderlies came to either side of the bed and released the caster locks. Matron Trenter got up stiffly to stand at my right by the headboard, with the puffed side of her face nearest me. Going to get hit again, I thought, right on top of the one before; why not move to my left and even it up?

Abruptly the curtains across the middle opened. Through the blackness above, blades of light slashed down. They revealed the glittering glass and silver metal and white porcelain of a chair enveloped in ponderous devices; the complex array of video equipment; the giant monitoring and display screens. And that mob of technicians all garbed in a mouldlike shade of green.

My mind raced, opening levels I never dreamed existed. Mighty young Vortex, muscles naked and gleaming in the forge’s firelight, labored with hammer and anvil to create a bond which nothing, not even Time itself, could sever. But ahead of me, cold, metallic, wormlike, lay hidden the thread-probe, designed to seek the bond which Vortex had wrought and burn it out of existence forever. In a flickering millisecond, the universe of my allegiance to Vortex would be replaced by a festering microscopic ash.

My eye caught movement amongst the white forms lining the arena. The small frail orderly, held fast by others around her, clawed frantically to break away.

“Free-man Chrome, betrayed!” she cried even as fists clubbed viciously down, “Free-man—!”

She sagged forward, silenced, and the two orderlies started my bed off with a sudden jerk. Bending to fix the pillow, or to prevent my seeing the incident which had just occurred?, Matron Trenter was thrown off balance and grabbed the headboard.

“Sorry, Lord Chrome!” the tall orderly said as he shot back a glance of quick appraisal.

I shook my head that it didn’t matter, and we continued on our way.

The two different forms of address tugged at my mind. Vortex had used Lord Chrome over the public address system; this orderly with his gift of an atom-pistol and a plan of escape had also called me that. But just now the girl had cried out “Free-man,” coupling it with “betrayed,” the first word Rond H’Lokk had learned on our planet.

And I was to hold Trenter hostage and escape? Absurd. If the Scientific Advancement Committee would risk Vortex’s wrath and that of the Greater Council, why should they care about a demented old woman? They couldn’t be less interested. So she was valueless, especially as a shield. Probably only part of a counterplot, a ploy to distract me so the orderlies could overpower me more easily.

Nearing the half-way point now.

My hand closed around the pistol, flicked off the safety, and angled it into the mattress. I squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Sweat broke out across my forehead as I squeezed and squeezed again the empty atom-pistol given me to serve as an escape weapon. Escape from this? I almost laughed at the hopeless thought. Escape? Never.

Never... The word seemed to turn with the wheels as they carried me closer to the mold-green technicians with their attitude of waiting spiders.

Never? Never more to know there’d been a magnificent godlike King Vortex? Or valiant Warriors such as Ron and Tor? Or an enchanted dwelling like the Cabin and its oasis and marvelous jewel-eyed birds and a magical catlike creature whose blind farewell had brought tears, unknowing, to my eyes? Never more to know these things? Lose even the memories of them forever?

The wheels rolled me closer to the sterile stink of the Restoration area. And now, now the answer turning with them was truly “Never!”

My fingers tightened around the handle of Ron’s dagger. Fight my way free from this place of death, he’d said, but how, when there was no way? I could dispatch a goodly number of blundering orderlies before they subdued me, but escape? Impossible!

‘Not impossible,’ an inner voice argued. ‘Escape. Take Rond H’Lokk’s dagger, his ceremonial dagger, and do his bidding: Escape!”

Becoming very still inside, I asked. Waited. Asked. Again waited, and again asked.

All at once what he meant became clear to me. Yes, and it must be done now, before the rolling wheels had made another circle.

As if attuned to my thoughts, the bed’s wheels jolted to a halt, jammed and tangled in strips of adhesive meant to hold flat an electronic cable which crossed our path. The orderlies both stepped to the foot of the bed and struggled to lift it clear as a suddenly very lively Trenter fairly flew to aid them. I brought out two dragon’s eggs, pinched and threw them, then ducked with eyes squeezed shut. Flashes of heat against me, a trio of shrill screams in my ears.

With Ron’s dagger clutched tightly in my hand, I vaulted free of the bed and whirled to face the sea of orderlies which foamed up over the edges of the arena.

“No!” The yell tore itself from my throat. “Never!”

A quickening courage came to me. I turned Ron’s dagger upon myself and plunged it into my chest.

In. And sharply up.

Choking, shuddering pain. Gouts of blood, strong and bright, spurting from my mouth to stain the floor, spreading out there like a cloak.

“My Warrior’s cloak... of my own blood... but mine at last!”

As I struggled for breath enough to utter “Vortex” one last time, I choked again and crumpled down upon that crimson cloak.

Everything darkened and the world spun away from under me.

XIX

So it was that Death came to me.

Scoff if you will, but in truth, that is what happened.

Using time-tested methods of hypothermia, my temperature was lowered immediately, drastically, with packs of cold cubes and a refrigerated couchlike support. My brain arteries were force-fed mechanically until my metabolism had slowed to a near standstill. A solution of potassium ions was then injected to stop my heart, which up to that point had still been valiantly beating. With no heartbeat, or circulation, or reflexes and no electric signals coming from my brain, I was legally dead.

The progress of the operation was governed by a series of checks and balances. On the positive side the main factor was the rainbow injections, plus whatever fortifying the Immortals had done while dipping into my interior. On the negative side was my use of Ron’s dagger as an escape route. Its metal had been saturated with radiation from Londra’s needle-bullet, so each surface sliced by the dagger had to be dealt with first as an atomic wound before being coaxed back into the jigsaw puzzle which was once a heart.

Jamison, a fellow patient in the next suite of the preferential-care unit, was also recovering from heart surgery; replacement of the aortic valve and installation of a nuclear-powered pacing device. The price exacted by CenMed’s “youth-serum” was considerable!

Before well enough to have the movable wall separating our rooms taken away, though, I had a lonely period in which to think. No Vortex with soothing, alien words this time, nor, something said, would there ever be again. Only my interior voices, stronger, surer of themselves, questioning, criticizing, telling me to stop being a pawnlike object in an unknown game. A new attitude began, forceful enough to make me wonder if die Immortal’s ministrations had taken proper effect.

Typical was the first exchange between Jamison and me, after the folding panels had been removed. Our beds were repositioned so we could regard each other without strain, and my doctor cautiously set in motion the mechanism to raise me nearer an upright position. Jamison’s did likewise. We each lifted a hand to the other in greeting.

Jamison spoke first. His heart, he humorously claimed, with all its new artificial hardware, probably was in much better shape than mine, reconstructed as it was from those shreds I’d left them to work with. When I made no reply, Jamison struggled to raise himself slightly. His doctor and attending orderly leaped to support him.

“Colonel Jamison, please!” Readjusting the pillow, the doctor counseled, “I’ve warned you, sir, this kind of exertion simply cannot be tolerated. Not as yet. Rest and quiet conversation only. Nothing more.”

“But Chrome must understand, Doctor!”

“I do, Jamison, very well. You’re trying to use your condition to blackmail me into doing whatever it is you presently want. Well, don’t bother; it won’t work.”

Jamison and the others watched me wide-eyed.

“Those children of mine, so carefully kept from S.O.R.A.’s knowing, they’ve been discovered, haven’t they. They’ve given away the secret: I am not sterile—this new breed of Robot does just that, it breeds. That’s why the sudden refusal to sanction my release. It also explains the daily, greedy draining of my semen during the healing period last time.”

“Chrome, please! It’s so important—it’s...”

His doctor pressed a button on the bed’s headboard. Jamison’s eyes closed, his face calmed as they eased him into a restful position. I noticed then the tiny wires running from his scalp, felt for, but found none attached to me, and looked at the doctor.

“They’re only temporary. They influence the sleep centers, an emergency measure. This isn’t a game, Lord Chrome. You must not overtax him.”

“He overtaxed himself,” I said coldly. “If you don’t like the results, put the wall back up.”

“But you must understand, Lord Chrome, what you’ve stumbled upon—”

“Stumbled upon?!”

“—is the truth. S.O.R.A. will never permit the Committee to release you. Never.” He held up a hand. “Please listen! But they will leave your brain alone, your memories, and let you live in great comfort, even comparative freedom, here at the Desert Academy.”

“If they can use me for breeding purposes, correct?” My harsh laugh came unbidden as he nodded. “I used Rond H’Lokk’s dagger on the wrong organ; to escape this filth I should have castrated myself! Or can your womanly, nimble-fingered stitchery repair even that?”

The doctors muttered angrily between themselves. An interior voice, though amused by my newly found manner, cautioned not to waste energy on this.

“Now you’re overtaxing me. Not my heart but my stomach. Get out before I throw up!”

They had no choice but to go, leaving me to lie back and resume my pondering.

And not all my thoughts were angry questionings or bitter plottings. The primitive self awakened by Vortex that night at the oasis demanded his thought-time also. To appease this hungry, savage Chrome I would recall the texture and taste of Vortex, the ardent seeking of his lips and tongue, the feel of his supple skin, his magnificently muscled body moving beneath my fingers, his innate enormous capacity for thinking in pleasure terms, the nearly unbearable sensual excitement his hands brought as they explored and discovered and caressed what they found.

In my hospital bed, in retrospect and far removed from the overwhelming ecstasies he decreed for me that night, I’d remember each detail with awe and wonder, aware that all other experiences dwindled to pale fire before the lightning-filled furnace Vortex commanded.

Why speak of this? To picture my pride in the fact that a being such as Vortex had chosen me. “Arrogance,” a harsh word, describes what was being added to my character. It has since tempered and calmed, I trust, to a more seemly component. At that time, though, still healing from my attempted escape and faced with what I knew to be inevitable for my survival—yes, arrogance was what often served to form my actions and thoughts.

* * *

I had a visitor, the nurse said, a Dr. Fineschriber. Even spelled out, the name meant nothing to me and so, having shrugged and nodded my assent, I expected yet another pretentious white-frocked medical personage with probing fingers and vacant mind.

The tall, gaunt middle-age woman ushered in wore the deep blue robe of a High Court lawyer. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was swept severely back and held with a plain metal clasp. We no longer have ready phrases to describe women (or men, for that matter!) of tremendous individuality, those rare people whose personal stamp is on all they say or think or do, but I remember my first and most profound impression of Irene Fineschriber was one of sorrow—sorrow which had been surmounted with supreme dignity. Was she physically beautiful, I’ve since been asked, and the answer is no; yet a split second after encountering her, when the inner truth of her became clear, she was one of the loveliest women I’d ever known.

I had automatically gotten to my feet somehow (by this time I’d progressed to sitting in an armchair during the day) and both my visitor and the nurse made me feel foolish as they rushed forward to settle me into a seated position again. After having made Dr. Fineschriber comfortable in a chair nearby, the nurse extracted a promise there’d be no more gymnastics from me and left the two of us to look at each other.

I’d never before felt comfortable in a silence between people; always there’d been the urge to fill it with talk of some kind. The quiet now, though, left me completely at ease, and when I finally spoke, it merely seemed the continuation of a conversation already begun.

“You’ve come to help me. How, Dr. Fineschriber?”

“Perhaps you won’t think of it as help at first, but hear me out. And my name is Irene.” She smiled and indicated her blue robe. “Don’t be put off by the formality of my work-clothes. I came by without changing because I wanted to talk with you as soon as I found out I’d be your representative.

“You see, S.O.R.A. has granted you a closed trial before its Court of Appeals. Actually, ‘demanded’ one would be more accurate. They feel such a trial will squelch the outcries of the young people who witnessed the amphitheater outrage.

“Please realize, though, that their use of the term ‘trial’ is purposely misleading. The meeting is a mere formality. The negative outcome, the ruling against your release was decided even before the convening date was scheduled, or the presiding personnel notified.”

“That’s why Jamison left for separate quarters this morning, isn’t it.”

“Yes, because, of course, Colonel Jamison can have no part of such an action or its preparation or proceedings. His duty, dependent upon its conclusion, is to carry out the Court’s decision and impartially apply its rulings.”

I thought back and realized this must have been partially responsible for Jamison’s withdrawal during the last few days.

“He’s been deeply troubled,” Dr. Irene continued, “as we all have been, by the evidence his people have uncovered. Matron Trenter turned out to be one of S.O.R.A.’s agents, and after your attempted suicide, she broke completely.”

I had wondered how Rond H’Lokk, so ravaged by radiation, had gotten his dagger to me. Dr. Irene now explained that Trenter in her confession told of putting it there; she thought my use of it in attempted escape would be yet another discredit to my “humanness.” Instead, I had turned it upon myself, and some last defense within her was shattered. Under oath, Trenter revealed the recruiting of Londra by S.O.R.A. and their concerted convoluted plotting to kill Vortex, using me as bait, hopefully to dishonor Robots forever. Hopefully, also, to cause turmoil in our planet’s dealing with the Galaxy Confederation; perhaps even a loosening of the Covenant’s bounds, and so more freedom for the exercise of S.O.R.A.’s power-greed.

“But with evidence like that, why can’t Jamison bypass S.O.R.A. and go directly to the Greater Council?” I asked.

“The Council has said he must work within Earth’s laws; it will have no further part of this planet’s primitive squabblings. So he must do the best he can to preserve justice, to guide S.O.R.A.’s dictates into something vaguely approximating the course laid down by the Covenant. If he pushed too hard or rebels too far, though, S.O.R.A. will simply find a way of destroying him, perhaps from within the ranks of his own people.”

“So if the Council has withdrawn its authority and Jamison is powerless, what help can you offer me?”

Dr. Irene regarded me with a fondness I didn’t comprehend at first.

“Perhaps fresh insight or another point of view on the decision S.O.R.A. will hand down. You see, I am also in charge of the nursing facility which the Scientific Advancement Committee created to house and protect your children.”

There was a world of warmth and compassion in her gaze.

“They are very like you in so many ways, Chrome,” she said quietly. “Through working with them, I feel I know you—better, perhaps, than if you and I had been friends for years.”

“How...”

For some reason my throat tightened, and I got no further with my question as to the children’s state of health. Dr. Irene misinterpreted my croak as wondering about their quantity.

“Nine little girls,” she smiled, “and seven boys.”

“Gods! Jamison said twelve!”

“No, sixteen. And such loving bright little beings, Chrome, each of them a separate and singular delight.”

My head swam with the dizzying concept, and I couldn’t help smiling as I saw myself surrounded, hopelessly outnumbered, overwhelmed by this swarm of mischievous tumbling progeny. Where would one begin? How could order and reason be established? I felt my grin fade, though, as Dr. Irene returned to the subject at hand.

“And S.O.R.A. has made them part of the arrangement. If you agree to remain a donor, a source of genetic supply, S.O.R.A. pledges that your children will be left untouched, allowed to remain here at the Desert Academy to grow up in an atmosphere of love and affection.”

“Actually there’s little choice left me, is there? If I were to refuse, they’d merely blank my mind out and proceed with their using of me as they wished.”

“They’re less anxious to resort to a Restoration Procedure now than you might imagine, Chrome. There’s a growing body of thought that the subject’s consciousness, which produces his personality and individual characteristics, may also be partially responsible for some subtle alteration in the transmission of genetic choices. S.O.R.A. is wary, too, of the rebellious young people within the Complex here; any further attempts at tampering with your mind, and they’re likely to rise in a riot that will bring this figurative Temple of Science crashing down around everyone’s ears.”

* * *

The actual trial was an anticlimax, indeed; merely a hearing held in a shabby office, its mismatched, scratched furniture not even very well dusted. And as for S.O.R.A.’s officials, five females, five males, who made up the Court’s personnel, well, they were obviously subject to all of Man’s usual frailties—the warts, wrinkles, and obesities of body, mind, and spirit—and I think “ordinary” is the kindest word to use in describing these people who sat in judgment on me.

When I remarked on this to Dr. Irene as the officials filed in, she nodded and gave a slight smile.

“They appear ordinary and are ordinary,” she said quietly. “Men and women no different than any others. Except that they must have power; they must command and manipulate. They are certain beyond all doubt that their destiny is to lead, to rule, to govern; they know that they alone must dominate, must overcome all others. They, of course, are quite mad. But then, so are most men and women on this planet.”

The gathering was called to order, and the proceedings were verbally anointed to guarantee their being of the greatest significance. After this, a pallid clerk read aloud the governmental decision to forbid my release. Would my representative give any reply? Dr. Irene would and did. First, a long and highly detailed report of my “caring” behavior, most of which I had long ago forgotten or taken for granted. Then she pointed out how, legally, I had died and so, unwittingly, had proven myself a Free-man. Robots fought to the end to preserve themselves; I had very nearly succeeded in killing myself, in full view of a throng of fanatic ideal-filled youths.

Dr. Irene placed the written verification of the above on the table in front of S.O.R.A.’s officials. She looked each of them carefully in the face as she spoke. That impression of great sorrow I had felt upon our first meeting returned at the emotion which welled up to color her words.

“S.O.R.A. has almost succeeded in completely breeding out all those characteristics which you believe might cause you problems in your domination of this globe. But in doing so, you must acknowledge something else, your destruction of— What shall I list? Love? Devotion between individuals? The loyalty of a dear friend?

“Oh, yes, you still insist that your artists write about those emotions and sing of them and mimic them in entertainment, but in actuality they’re disappeared from human life. People don’t care any more. Just as once you told us Robots were incapable of feeling the value of life, now it’s humans who lack the capacity to care.

“Here in front of you is an entity whose ability for concern is proven, whose capacity for self-sacrifice is documented, and yet you refuse his freedom. Why? What is it you fear? Or do you really dare to face that truth?”

It would be reassuring to be able to write that some slight trace of emotion registered on those faces. But none did; the blanks were unflawed by any sign of feeling and remained that way, as the clerk blandly read the Court’s closing statement.

“Although the subject Cadet has been proved a caring genetically programmed being and therefore the possessor of those worthwhile human traits representing Man’s humanity at its best, he is still a created entity and subject to S.O.R.A.’s wise and judicious reasonings and restraint. He cannot be allowed freedom which at some undeterminable later date might endanger human beings and/or other fellow signators of the Covenant. However, as evidence of S.O.R.A.’s magnanimous nature, the Cadet will be permitted to range unfettered within the Space Administration’s Desert Academy under Colonel Jamison’s pledge guaranteeing that he remain there.”

After the Court had officially absolved and dissolved itself and departed, the grubby clerk handed out a final proviso. To escape the vengeance of Vortex and to give legal evidence should the Confederated Galaxies’ Greater Council ever require it, the “success” of my suicide attempt must be officially proclaimed and so well substantiated as to be completely convincing. Deceived, Vortex would withdraw, leaving me with my mind intact and the Scientific Advancement Committee with the freedom to resume its tinkerings as it sought to rebuild Earth’s mangled genetic stockpiles.

“Substantiated, they say. But how?” I asked. “I must witness this magic!”

“If you insist, Colonel Jamison will arrange it, I’m sure,” said Dr. Irene a bit grimly. “But it will mean a return to a rather unpleasant area, the amphitheater.”

I tried to hide the nausea I felt at the mere mention of that word.

“How dull,” I countered. “I promise not to yawn.”

Dr. Irene put a comforting hand on my arm.

“You are a child of the Immortals, Chrome, and have been ever since their work in preparation of your joining Vortex’s Warrior Race. As you have chosen not to abandon your children here, you must realize that, just as surely, the Immortals in their own way will never abandon you.”

Those words, had I heeded them, could have brought me great solace in the days to come. My mind was on the substantiation of my suicide, though, and I scarcely listened to her.

* * *

Vortex in his Command Ship orbiting far above, how did he take the news when my “suicide” was released to the yammering propaganda outlets? The rumors were confusing and varied, the most ridiculous being that he wept. Kings do not cry; even these fools knew that. I secretly chose as closest to truth a version which had Immortals bringing him the report. Vortex had gone ashen, it was said, and stood as if frozen for many moments. Then the Immortals swirled in, bearing him off to their quarters from whence he did not emerge until it was time for the Ceremony.

* * *

This last time I saw the amphitheater (and, thank the Gods, it was indeed the last), the arena had been divided into three sections. The two ends were arched over with intricate electronic traceries which transformed the entire space into a hologram projection-transmission studio. In the middle was the bier—closed, of course. On a line with it, in the midst of the first rows, a special visitors’ box with concealed entrance was set up, completely enclosed in one-way viewing glass. From the mirrorlike exterior there was no knowing whether or not the box was occupied.

It was. By me and two men from Jamison’s Security Force. I asked them to be more comfortable by sitting down with me in the chairs provided; they refused politely and stood, weapons drawn, next to the twice-bolted entrance. My wondering if this was to keep me in or intruders out was interrupted by the gasps and muffled exclamations relayed over our booth’s speaker from the crowd outside. Flanked by their honor guard of red-cloaked Warriors, two Immortals had entered the amphitheater.

“Sent down by Vortex to witness for him,” volunteered one of the Security men.

I looked straight ahead and kept my voice steady.

“He will not be here?”

“It’s our understanding, he’s vowed never to—uh—to set foot upon this planet again.” The man cleared his throat. “His image will be projected from his Command Ship into that empty end of the arena. The images of those seated at the opposite end here will be beamed up to him. Both transmission points see and communicate with each other, just as if they were together in the same place.”

At a raised platform at the arena’s end, the Immortals and their guards were greeted by high-ranking officials with a flurry of bowing and scraping and shown to chairs of honor. Some kind of confusion ensued. From the crowd at that end Jamison came to act as translator. A consultation with one of the Warriors and Jamison waved the chairs away. The Immortals, evidently, did not sit. Another exchange and Jamison called up to a technician perched on the transmission scaffolding.

“They’re not bothered by light,” his voice carried in over the speakers clearly, “but they say the less you get on them, the easier it’ll be for your equipment to handle their images.”

A whining complaint came down from the technician; Jamison shrugged and shouldered his way into the crowd again.

“Free-man Chrome, the other end, quickly!” said one of the Security guards and I turned just in time.

In the darkened empty space, projector beams were coming on to form their hologram image. Just outside the edge of a cone of light appeared a massive chair, a perfect three-dimensional illusion of reality. Lounging back in it, chin resting on an upraised hand, was Vortex! Even in the reflected light, his image was clear and real. Clad in silver, he had a cloak of royal purple clasped at each shoulder and thrown carelessly over his outstretched legs. His gaze was straight ahead to some unknowable future horizon, and the fingers of his other hand tapped slowly, rhythmically on the arm of the chair.

Suddenly, still in the shadows, he arose. I followed his stare to what he saw being projected before him, which, in reality, was in front of me here in the amphitheater. My scalp tightened; a breath of frost seemed to brush by me. The top of the bier had divided and opened, allowing the slab beneath to rise. As it did, the body of the uniformed Cadet it bore came into view. There was a slight jolt as the slab locked into its uppermost position.

“Gods!” I breathed, for the body was me—or mine, I mean.

Then a remembered voice echoed in my mind, “Death, for me, will come two times. The second time, I die for you.” Tor! It was Tor’s body they were using!

“But the Immortals will know!”

A Security man was already shaking his head as they eased me back into my chair.

“We’re banking on their not knowing. The body has had so much additional hard radiation, plus flushing out and replacement of all fluids, plus the usual organ removals—and this time they really cleaned everything out. No, that’s almost a shell there, but from a real body. And that’s all they’re here for, to make sure it’s flesh and not plastic.”

“Look at the face, Free-man Chrome,” pointed out the other. “Only minor insertions were needed to make him a perfect double for you. Especially with the eyes closed and the hair curled like that.”

The wavering gray shapes of the two Immortals flowed to the bier, hesitated next to it, then slowly moved along its length, one on either side. Another pause at the head, a bow to where Vortex’s projected image stood, and they returned to their places.

Thick transparent panels half the height of a man rose on all four sides of the body. A massive blocklike form of metal suspended on cables from the ceiling was lowered and clamped itself onto their top edges.

“Stop!” Vortex’s voice rang out over the amplifiers. “The signal is mine to give!”

All became still. Vortex stepped from the shadow into a powerful light source; his uniform suddenly seemed woven of flowing, glittering quicksilver, dazzling the eyes. Slowly he looped the heavy purple cloak across his loins.

‘Gods’, I silently prayed, ‘let me always remember him so. Let other memories fade if they must, but please leave me this!’

He appeared to study the faces and figures displayed in front of him by the transmission. His face was calm, but when he spoke his voice was filled with cold fury and utter contempt.

“It is said I came to buy this Free-man as one would a pet.” His eyes raked across his audience. “Listen and remember well, dogs of a doomed, degraded race, for, believing that, you must know this. There was no buying here, but there could have been a begging. Yes, dogs, a King begging, because my race would have been the better with this Free-man as its brother. However, he is gone now. Lost to us, and well rid of you and your planet. After this brief time is done, my Warriors and I will also leave—to let you rot, misshapen clots of scum upon an earth no longer beautiful. An earth which never was unique in any way. An earth transcended by at least a million lovelier planets, whose very particles are forever in harmony one with another.”

He let the echoing of his words end in the shocked silence, then pointed in the direction of the bier and nodded once.

Blinding radiance shown down from the mechanism clamped upon the heavy transparent walls, and violet flames enveloped everything within. Dancing and whirling and roaring with a violence which seemed on the verge of shattering its bonds, the energy feasted upon what it obscured.

Abruptly it was finished. The blinding force vanished; the brilliantly glowing walls faded once more into clearness and sank out of sight. The slab, its mirrorlike finish covered with a faint powdery film, was empty now, save for a small metallic object lying near the center. I recognized at once the whistle given me so long ago by Vortex; its material had been impervious to the holocaust which had consumed the body and all else. S.O.R.A.’s final touch.

One of the Immortals drifted closer to the bier. Vortex spoke in Warrior language, which was translated woodenly by some unseen interpreter.

“Examine it—for authenticity—if you wish—then leave it.”

“Oh, please,” interjected a fat official, “if The Master would desire it as a keepsake, we’re more than happy for it to be taken to him!”

A terrible silence as Vortex glared at the greasy fool. The hologram’s distortion, or a trick of light, made his eyes into orange flames. Vortex shifted his attention past him.

“The decent human of your planet, his friend Jamison, I wish to look upon him. Jamison, are you present?”

A stirring in the crowd close to my booth, and Jamison stepped clear to let the scanners and vectoring beams focus on this unexpected area. He was in profile to me, and I could see his jaw muscles working. Vortex turned a searching gaze on him.

“You were his friend and will understand. In all the eons to come I need nothing to serve me as a reminder of Free-man Chrome. Nothing.”

Jamison’s hands clenched behind him, and bright drops of blood began as fingernails dug deep in his struggle to return Vortex’s look. He went chalk white but remained steady. After a long moment, he spoke in a voice so barren of life I would never have recognized it.

“Vortex, I—I am ashamed of my race...”

There was to have been more, but the pause lengthened; Jamison shut his eyes and bowed his head. Vortex studied him intently. A curt gesture to an unseen technician, a flashing of prisms, and his image was gone from the amphitheater forever.

* * *

To make sense out of senseless things, to find reason in the midst of madness, I started keeping a notebook about this time. It tells that Jamison left the Cenci complex immediately after the Ceremony with orders his whereabouts be revealed to no one. It also says what I remember vividly: Later when taken to my luxurious new quarters, I found a small box on the desk of the study. In it was the whistle Vortex had commanded be left behind. It had a new chain of a golden metal; the note with it was brief.

You were there and heard the truth I spoke:

I am ashamed of my race.

It could act as a symbolic defense; something to keep at bay this “real” world in which I was now a hopeless exile.

I put it on and have kept it around my neck ever since.

Part Three:  EXILE

XX

Believing me dead and having vowed never to set foot on our planet again, Vortex had gone. From our solar system, from our galaxy, probably to his own planet, was the best our intelligence people could relay, leaving me to fill in the rest. Yes, I nodded to myself, there to regroup and rekindle his inner forces, to forget me and choose another, to get on with the only truly important action: being the Warrior King.

Or so I assumed (with a characteristic leap to obvious conclusions) and promptly felt the utmost compassion for him. Vortex had been through the disturbing experience of setting a tremendous emotional trap, only to have it spring and be caught in it himself. I was clearly his first “quarry,” and to have this stolen from him by treachery and deceit would be well nigh intolerable for a Warrior King. Also what of our language’s trash-catcher verb “love”? What if for him, as it had for me, that emotion had become inextricably interwoven into our encounter? Better for Vortex some terminal illness rather than this agony of longing for the unattainable superimposed and on his destined duties as Warrior King.

And I?

Well, I was free to come and go as I pleased within the sprawling reaches of the Desert Academy installation. So, having made such sage assumptions and neatly doomed myself to eternal exile, I wandered out into a winter world. Though it was Spring in our place on the globe and those around me saw the flowers budding and bursting into bloom, I saw only frost-blighted wastelands where nothing would ever grow again. They felt the delicate sensuous urging of Spring’s breezes; I detected nothing save the dirge of far-off moaning winds.

What was necessary and fitting I did. They came to me about the disposition of Rond H’Lokk’s body; I requested it be cremated and his ashes scattered over the desert sands beyond the oasis. They looked vague at my question about his dagger and stuttered that Jamison had ordered it taken for safekeeping. I nodded and waved them away. I didn’t want it, especially not for what they feared, another suicide attempt. I’d only felt it deserved a place of security.

When I made discreet inquiries about my children I received a quick reply, a warm though guarded note from Irene Fineschriber, saying that thoughts of meeting with her should be postponed. After the Court of Appeals trial she had told me S.O.R.A. still hadn’t discovered the secret location of the nursery. Now I realized Dr. Irene was asking me to wait until the glare of notoriety around me had faded a bit before I came to visit the children in their hiding place.

The aimless tours I began of the CenMed complex were like my nature walks at the Cabin. There was an endless variety of things to be seen, none of which interested me, but going through the motions of living seemed proper exercise.

I had developed an almost pathological dislike for the “humans” around me. Meaningless to say, I owed my very being to them; at that point I saw them only as responsible for my eternal exile from Vortex. My commitment to him was total; I could think of nothing else. Now, because of human treachery, Vortex was lost to me forever and with him all that made life worth living. Taking care to make my feelings clearly known, I soon was left completely alone. If I had need of anything it was provided, if I questioned, the answer was given; if a difficulty arose it was smoothed away. All quietly and politely, with a minimum of effort.

An irritation remained, though. Small groups of medical students and younger Cadets tended to collect—at a proper distance, of course, in respect for my desire to be alone, but their continual peripheral presence became aggravating. Jamison had given me top clearance, promised there’d be none of his staff stalking around in guard of me, and he’d kept his word. I had only to use the whistle around my neck, and aid would be mine instantly; there were to be no other security measures. So what were these untidy gatherings of children? (In those days I felt older than the Gods themselves, only wishing for their wisdom to use in escaping this life.)

One day after making a purchase of peanut butter, one of the few things left which I had any taste for, I turned a corner only to bump into four student orderlies and a young Cadet. They started to melt away at once in different directions. Fed to the teeth with being trailed this way, I lost my temper.

“Cadet!” I barked, and the young man froze. “Come here. The rest of your companions as well!”

They returned to face me uneasily as I looked them over, the Cadet, three male orderlies and a young female.

“Well, what do you want? Help with your logarithms? I doubt it. Looking for the seams and joins? They don’t make us that way. So, what is it?” Silence from all of them. “Do you want Colonel Jamison to pack the lot of you off to the cobalt mines? Answer!”

The Cadet raised his eyes. They were amber color and, like that certain breed of cat, gave a hint of being slightly crossed. After exposure to Vortex and Tor and Ron, the looks of other males meant little, but I realized that in spite of his eyes this was a fine featured young man.

“There are no more cobalt mines, Free-man Chrome,” he said quietly, with a ghost of a smile. “Nor are my friends looking for surgical marks. Their fathers and mothers helped create us.”

I stared at him as his last words sank in.

“I, also, am a Free-man,” he said proudly. “From the next controlled propagation after you; there are less than thirty of us. When the Scientific Advancement Committee was forced by your proven humanity to free you, we were told of our heritage and given our rightful name. We don’t want to intrude, Free-man Chrome. Only to thank you and tell you we wish there were some way to help.”

A glance at his companions, and they moved a few paces away. As he took off his Cadet cap and smoothed at his blond, brush-cut hair, I remembered where I’d seen him—the hospital corridor, with the group of other eager young people. Now, those amber eyes studied me and brought to mind a notion that if he spoke in the Warriors’ golden language it would be a perfect matching. He continued, however, in our tongue.

“You of all men should not be lonely. I would never think to take another’s place or to obscure the past. But if you were to find me acceptable as an aide, a guide or companion I’d be most honored to serve you.”

Those were the words; his tone and warm gaze said a great deal more.

“Serve me how?” I countered to hide being thrown for a loss.

“In whatever way you ask.”

Again that steady look going to the very heart of things. No games, only truth.

“They’ve given you much courage.”

“No, great good taste, Chrome.”

He smiled and I was glad for the training I’d had in dealing with smiles. One could not be angry with this young Cadet.

“Robot’s hearts cannot break, as you and I well know,” I smiled back. “Mine, unfortunately, has been lost, so I’m unable to avail myself of your kindness.”

“Your pardon, Free-man Chrome, for the imposition.”

He bowed and returned to his friends. As they moved away I saw a patch of colors on the ground, a bunch of flowers.

“Did one of you drop this?”

The girl came back and took them from me a bit awkwardly using the hand farthest away. The near one, her right, hung motionless.

“Thank you, Free-man Chrome,” she murmured, face averted.

“Wait. Would you mind looking at me?”

She hesitated, then turned, small and frail under the orderly gown. Her light brown hair was curly and close-cropped. She might have been pretty with some rest and—what? Care, perhaps? There was something about her eyes.

“Have we met before?”

“Please, Free-man Chrome, we’re late. We must go now.”

That voice and its well-remembered near whisper, those wide staring eyes, no longer above a gauze orderly’s mask; this was my unknown little friend from the amphitheater! Hard upon that recognition came the echoing of her frantic cry, “Betrayed!” But both arms, both had been outstretched to warn me then. And there had been those brutal chopping blows. And now this one arm was hanging useless at her side—

It hit—all of it at once—awful cold awareness of what had happened to her because of me, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realized how, here, I had turned on her group in petty annoyance, irritated that they dare to look at me even from a distance .. .

One of the orderlies waved a cotton-cocooned ampule under my nose. The acrid vapor stabbed me back to alertness.

“You were getting white,” he said, giving me the damp packet to sniff.

We all stood there and looked at each other, they worried I might fall over if let alone, I not wanting to let them go after so long a time without someone to talk to.

“Were you all really going somewhere?” was the only question I could come up with after some moments. They nodded. “With the flowers?” More nods. More silence. “May I go with you?”

That brought a gasp from the .girl and a hurried consultation amongst the males, which the Cadet ended.

“He’s been given top clearance from Colonel Jamison. What more can they ask for!” He turned those disconcerting amber eyes on me. “Please, Freeman Chrome, we’d be honored for you to join us. I’m Donald and the girl is Ann. The others don’t remember their names, so why should we.”

The lightness of tone could be gloss over something more serious; I nodded politely, as they had to me. The three of them and Ann set off in the direction of CenMed Tower with Donald and me following.

The Tower, tallest structure of the Complex, rose from the center of a plaza only minutes away. As we walked down the broad avenue which led there, I realized the orderlies ahead were somehow warding off any show of recognition from those coming toward us. It was as if I weren’t there, no staring or startled second looks or covert peering; such a marked relief from always being the focus of attention, I must have made some sound. Unobtrusively Donald put a hand to my arm in support.

“Are we going too fast?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m reminded of an ancient myth about a cloak; its magic made the wearer invisible.

Your friends ahead have given me something like that; in truth, a most welcome change!”

“You’re as close to a folk hero as this ruined planet can provide. It’s difficult for us to leave you in peace. Just as it’s hard for me to take my hand from your arm now, though I know I must.”

As we continued toward the Tower, I wondered if it might not have been a mistake to grasp at momentary companionship with this group. Donald, beside me, had a vitality and directness which should have set at least one interior voice to lecturing. Not a murmur to be heard, though.

“Where are we headed?”

“Below the base of the Tower. You see, the Academy’s site is the remains of Tri-Unity Space Center—”

“Destroyed over a century ago, during the last Earthly War. Gods, Donald, I learned that with my Cadet number!”

“Then you know why we bear flowers? whose resting place is there?”

“Whose resting place? What are you talking about?”

“Our mother’s.”

With mouth shut for once, when it should have been, I followed this golden-eyed Cadet and his friends past the saluting guards and through the portals of the Tower.

* * *

The elevator’s descent was disquieting. The length of time, yes, but more than that, the cold. Bone-chilling, telling of unnatural conditions, unknown elements, it pierced the electronically heated thermal-cloaks we’d been given.

Then there was also the legend of the CenMed Tower. It told of ghosts which haunted the corridors of its lower levels many years ago. Unwary technicians and student orderlies were caught by the ghosts it was said, and having somehow been coerced into obeying strange commands, suffered a sort of amnesia afterward. Now, on our journey downward, I irritably tried to dislodge the remembered tale, labeling it mere indulgence in superstition and suggestible hysteria.

When at last we stopped and the doors slid open so slowly—their lubricants, too numbed?—the view was of a long corridor. Harsh white light from unshielded Astatine-vapor bulbs placed at regular intervals intensified the feeling of cold. Concrete walls and ceiling bore the rough imprint of the molding used to form them. The openings of the metal grill-work floor were too close together to see what lay beneath or how distant the bottom was.

“We mean no disrespect by it, but the technicians call these our version of ‘The Immortals.’ “

Donald indicated the squares indented on either side of the corridor as we followed after Ann and the others.

“Behind each is an individual, placed there long ago, in what the records say is a state of suspended animation. What the process was, what cryogen was used is unknown, but the entire system is self-sustaining, and so it has been let remain.”

As his companions gathered together far down the corridor, Donald halted, hand on my arm.

“Listen for a moment, Chrome. It’s important for our human friends ahead there that you understand.

“Material from each of these individuals was stored separately several levels above; some of it survived and was used in the Scientific Advancement Committee’s experiments. One in particular, a female, had a marvelous fertility about her. I don’t know terms, but the life-force of her genetic material was practically indestructible, would survive incredible mishaps and ill-use, and so was used in the breakthrough which formed you and those of us who followed. She’s been the prolific hardy ‘mother,’ partially or in total, to all successful Free-men.

“In the great excitement at their first success, though few believed in the old religions any more, it was felt that tribute should be paid. The student technicians took to bringing flowers, a courtesy extended to her memory. It’s frowned upon by the Committee and referred to as superstitious nonsense, unworthy thinking for those possessing truly scientific principles; which, translated, means they greatly fear the strength of the cult which already has sprung up around her. The practice continues, of course, and will not be put off.”

He nodded toward Ann and the others, silent, motionless ahead of us.

As I glanced their way, I felt a sort of psychic stirring, an overlay of secondary sensings, of counter-rhythmic tuggings at imagined garments. In annoyance I told myself that the explanation for this, if indeed one were needed, could lie in the dizzying effect of the intense cold, coupled with the glaring Astatine-vapor bulbs. Or possibly pockets of the nerve gasses used in the Last Earthly War had been trapped in rock formations and were now escaping slowly in minute quantities to unsettle one’s senses and distort perceptions.

We joined Donald’s companions quietly, and I studied the indented square they were grouped around. At an angle across its textured metal surface the words “Mother Mona!” were scrawled in white marking crayon.

“Done by the students after the first success,” explained one of the orderlies. “Beyond happiness at the triumph, they were. It’s been left to mark part of the new beginning.”

There was a small metal plate on the left-hand corner. I stepped closer to make out the engraved legend:

M. PEASE — 1997 — S57546Y

“The name and date of emplacement,” another orderly explained. “The serial number is cross-filed with the records and cellular material stored above. That made it possible to identify her to begin with.” He pointed to the crayon scrawl, “And learn her first name. We also know she was—uh—or is, I mean, twenty-six and a worker at the Tri-Unity Space Center, as were most of the others here.”

“There’s the possibility that she’s still alive behind there?”

“We hope,” he shrugged. “It’s beyond our knowledge.”

“She is!” Ann’s firmness echoed down the corridor. “I know she is.”

As if part of a rehearsed procedure, my hand went out for the flowers she held. She gave me the bouquet and removed the withered blossoms from the ledge beneath the crypt door.

No, not crypt. For, placing the fresh flowers in their place, I thought of the entity beyond that metal barrier and...

“Please!” I gasped and, coughing, pushed away the second biting ampule an orderly had snapped beneath my nose.

“But, Chrome, you’ve gone white again!”

Donald’s amber eyes searched mine as I collected myself.

“I put the flowers down,” I explained. “As I took my hand away, the door said ‘Cold,’ clearly and distinctly. It spoke in a woman’s voice.”

The others looked at Ann who shrank away from us.

“I said nothing!” she breathed. “I would never do such a thing. You all know that.”

I put my palms against the door and silently gave respect. There was an acceptance then restiveness. I offered whatever assistance was within my power.

‘Heal her,’ the female said silently to me in my mind and then withdrew.

With that command came the realization of how obvious it was. Enough of my stumbling around in an imaginary Winter’s snowdrifts of self-pity; I must be of some use. Ann had sacrificed to save me, as had so many others. Now, in return, I must use my Gift, my knowledge of healing, to help her.

I turned around to find the group watching me as if I should be carrying, at the very least, inscribed tablets of stone in either hand.

“There’s nothing further,” I lied. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

I gestured toward the waiting elevator at the far end of the corridor. After an uneasy pause, they moved in that direction. I glanced down at the small metal plate of the indented square next to Mother Mona’s. There was no name engraved on it, only the date, 1997, and an identification number, G02045E.

As I started to move on, something mentally reached out and stopped me—or, more accurately, something requested that I wait. I did. In the pause there was a sense of benign curiosity, of searching and evaluation. I closed my eyes and concentrated.

First, and most surprising under these circumstances, was the wry sense of humor which made itself felt in connection with the complicated rearrangements that were having to take place for me to be able to understand as much as possible in my present state. In the darkness, an impression was given to me, a schematic visualization of mental processes far too elegantly complex to be rendered by mere written symbols. When I had begun to comprehend, the flashing interplay slowed; the electronic fireworks dimmed and collected into more mundane thought-clusters. With civility, these clusters grouped themselves into neat lines from which they stepped forward, one at a time, to present their suitability and usefulness to me.

There came the knowledge that the being beyond the metal panel was well pleased. A radiation of great parental pride, and then the thought-form, “A fine Warrior.”

Even as it took place, I was aware that somehow all the tremendous emotional impact of this sudden confrontation had been masked off and put on “hold” for examination ages later. I was left only the quiet calm certain knowledge that behind there was my father! There’d been no deft genetic juggling involving dozens or more of unknown donors—only one, this male before me here!

A hundred questions whirled and clamored for answering. The healing power, the foreknowing-to-be, had they then come from him?

‘From us,’ came the definite and dual answer.

‘Be still for now. Go, quickly,’ continued the male, ‘and say none of this.’

‘Heal her,’ reminded the female.

I opened my eyes to find Donald watching me closely. How long had the foregoing revelation taken? There was no telling from his expression. Those eyes, now hot amber and a bit more crossed, scanned my face; his hand went to my shoulder.

“Chrome...?”

“Please listen,” I quieted his husky eagerness. “Tomorrow, at a time convenient to you both, bring Ann to the therapy pool in my sector.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” His arm slacked as he shook his head. “You’re kind, Chrome, but it’s been tried by all the specialists. The damage is beyond repair.”

The mixture of disappointment and courtesy in his voice was somehow touching. A spark of former humor, mostly at my own expense, flickered briefly.

“A wager, then, my golden-eyed comrade,” I smiled. “If I’m unable to help her, it will be your turn—to help me!”

How he grasped my hand so fast I couldn’t follow. No difficulty, though, to read the message which burned in those eyes.

“Unfair, Chrome. But accepted!”

* * *

Alone, back in my quarters, I mulled over these happenings. The male entity had been most firm in his caution to “say none of this,” and in any case with whom would I be likely to discuss such an amazing occurrence? Jamison was far too immersed in governmental turmoils and intrigues; Dr. Irene had asked that more time be allowed to pass before contacting her; I had cut myself off from any other contacts.

If only there were some way of finding out about the entity down there next to Mother Mona, learning something of his history. Donald had spoken of data being stored with each individual’s genetic material separately in levels above. Perhaps I could ask him to see what records might be left dealing with—But no, that would only serve to draw attention to an area already too vulnerable.

It was now that I realized the real reason behind S.O.R.A. and the Scientific Advancement Committee’s refusal to relinquish me; they’d found my Propagation Formula had been falsified, probably by using it and learning it yielded nothing. And they had no knowledge of who my true paternal donor had been, or they would have long since been turning out my siblings by the platoon. No, Mother Mona they knew about full well, but my father’s identity was a blank—and must remain so, for them. For me? Well, I could only wait and watch, and in the meanwhile, take heed of the opportunity to heal.

* * *

Even though I was early the next day, my new friends’ imaginary Cloak of Invisibility spread about me. The therapy pool was empty of people and the regulation-sized training pool beside it had only a few occupants doggedly swimming back and forth. In the men’s changing room conversation between two Cadets came to a ragged halt as I chose a locker and stripped. By the time I had my swimming trunks on, the place was deserted.

I joined those cutting through the water in slow training laps, and the tensions and strains began easing away. The rhythm became hypnotic, to the point where I was startled by a light slap on my back as I rolled into a turn. On the edge above knelt Donald.

“I didn’t know how else to do it. Yelling your name didn’t seem too wise!”

He offered a hand; I scrambled up and saw him eye my baggy trunks. He had on the briefest of coverings. Vivid yellow which echoed his eyes and blond brush-cut hair.

“Say it please, Chrome. You look like you’re biting your tongue,” he smiled.

“When did they begin making Synthaskin in colors?”

“I race in competition.” The smile faded. “These cut down on water resistance. Ann’ll be out in a minute, I’m sure.”

He looked away toward the therapy pool, his sleek long-muscled swimmer’s build tightened. No way to begin; it must be fixed—now. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t say that well, Donald—guess I’m out of practice. I was trying for a compliment, and it didn’t work.”

“Compliment? Exactly what I was trying for with these racing briefs.”

He said it with that honesty which left no place for evasion. His look to my hand on his shoulder should have warned me but didn’t. Those eyes came back to mine, puzzled, wondering.

“I—I find it hard to think when you touch me, Chrome.”

A flickering.

Still a pool of water, but there was darkness now, lit by the glow of the oasis fire pit and electronic torches. And the magnificent face of Vortex close to mind. Gods, how could one look upon those features and not touch them, not stroke that heavy, silken hair. “The wine has made us dizzy—” Had he said it or had I? I leaned back against the boulder and closed my eyes. “Deep breaths—”

“—Free-man Chrome.”

I was propped against a tile bench near the therapy pool once more, listening to Ann’s urging.

“That’s right, as deep as you can. Now put your head between your knees.”

When things settled back into place, I lifted my head. Ann and Donald knelt on either side of me. In the distance, several figures were frozen at the end of the training pool. As I laughed, they came to life and moved on without looking.

“At least neither of you had those ampules to snap at me!” I patted them reassuringly. “Nothing to worry about, believe me; it only happens occasionally now.” I gave Donald a wry smile. “Faulty genes, you know!”

“Maybe it would be better—”

“No, Ann. As a matter of fact we’ll begin right here. It’s your other shoulder, isn’t it.” I moved to her right side. “Rest your back against the bench the way I was, and loosen your robe enough for me to touch you. I promise to be proper.” I kept my tone light and teasing. “Do you think Donald is here for his manly beauty alone? Of course not. As chaperone, dear, to preserve your good name and whatever’s left of mine. To keep Scandal’s wicked tongue stilled and show our actions to be above reproach.”

Ann glanced at Donald who knelt beside her, the picture of earnest confusion. A smile began, but suddenly with a small helpless sound, she was buried in my arms. I held her tight against me as the sobs wracked her thin body.

When the hand she could use freed itself and pushed gently at my shoulder, I let her lean back against the tiled bench, raggedly catching her breath and wiping her face with the sleeve of her robe.

“I—I really should rest now.”

She arranged her arm across her lap. The bathrobe had loosened enough for me to slip it partially from her shoulder and cup a hand above her collar bone in front. I slid my other hand to oppose it in back.

“You spoke of resting, Ann,” I said as she tensed beneath my fingers. “Do just that. I’m not going to massage or press or manipulate in any way. Give your other hand to Donald and then relax, both of you. Talk to each other if you want to, or be silent. Leave the rest to me.”

I closed my eyes to review the ancient healing prayer-thoughts but was interrupted by the realization: It had never occurred to me to use them when working with Vortex. Within me had I known even then the deception, that there was nothing there to be healed? Something threatened to open and let in that endless desolation.

‘No, Chrome, shut that away; there is a healing here, now,’ I silently told myself. ‘Use what you know and give thanks for it.’

In my mind I commenced afresh. Though the prayer-thoughts origins seemed lost forever, it didn’t matter. They worked; the healing power could be summoned and would flow. Silently, I started.

It was well I’d been trained into absolute calmness, because an incredibly wonderful thing began: The Immortals, I felt them joining me! Not as I’d experienced them before, of course, and not visibly. No, I mean their—echoing, I guess, is the only way to put it—was with me, somehow adding their powers to those I’d already called upon. A beautiful hint of that fresh mist-filled forest touched my brow and lay against the back of my neck for a moment, and then was gone.

Even as I silently offered thankful devotion, the tingling sensation gathered, flowing down my arms and into my hands. Stronger than ever before, as if new pathways had opened, the feeling coursed through me. There was an interior movement within the flesh between my hands and I heard Ann’s gasp. I opened my eyes and smiled.

“You know you’re free to speak, Ann. What is it?”

“A burning. I felt a burning, like coals, but— No, not that. It didn’t hurt.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. I looked at Donald beyond her, holding her uninjured hand in both of his.

“Nothing is ever lost,” he said.

Even as he finished speaking he looked puzzled, as if the words had come from someone else. I motioned to him to let go and pulled Ann’s robe up to cover her shoulder again.

“We’ll meet again tomorrow? Good. I’ll see you in the changing room, Donald,” I said, taking the edge off the pointed dismissal with a smile.

“Hmmm? Oh. Oh, all right,” he agreed and quickly left.

“Ann, the nicest part of this healing is that there’s nothing you have to do. In fact the only thought I’d like to give is a very simple one: Let go of the past and reach for today!”

I helped her up and straightened her robe, tightening the belt a little and giving the collar...

The memory flared up at me. I faced it, but forbade any flickering or sliding back into it. Tor, my incorrigible twin, as he proudly got me ready for our trip to the amphitheater, setting the collar of my robe at just the right casual angle.

“Like a cloud across the sun,” Ann said softly. “Something took your smile away, and now in your eyes—” She studied me. “Why is there no way for you to do as you’ve asked me?” Her hand reached up and touched my cheek. “Let go and reach for today?”

Her eyes questioned for another moment before she left abruptly.

The changing room was deserted except for Donald toweling himself in front of a locker next to the shower room. He gave no sign of seeing me come in. The locker I’d taken was behind the next row; I went to it, shed my trunks, got a towel and headed for the shower room. By the time I passed him, Donald had his head covered, vigorously drying that blond brush cut. I smiled at his frenzy with the towel, possibly what kept his hair so short!, but thought better of a friendly poke at his ribs. No point in risking a misunderstanding. I weighed choosing a shower out of his line of vision. That might be felt as a deliberate rebuff, though, since I’d said I’d see him in the changing room—

“Gods, Chrome, wash yourself and have done with it!” I muttered, flung my towel over one shower head and adjusted the next one to a strong warm spray.

Once thoroughly wet, I stepped away long enough to work up a lather using the orange iodide-base soap from the wall dispenser. Donald, Cadet trousers on and boots in hand, stood looking at me as I glanced his way. I smiled and waved a soapy greeting. He nodded slowly in return but didn’t move.

Turning away to rinse off under the shower, I thought it’d do no harm to lather my hair once more; might help to tame the curl a bit. I moved to the dispenser, soon had the suds foaming, and again rinsed off in the spray.

When I wiped the water out of my eyes and turned around, Donald hadn’t changed position. Or had, for the boots were on the bench next to him and his arms hung at his sides in a loose sort of readiness.

“Everything all right?”

I asked it with more ease than I felt. This time there was no sign of reply, only those steady golden eyes moving over me. An absurd moment of wondering whether or not anger would seem the proper emotion for the situation. Then I closed my eyes and, still facing him, took a step backward to stand motionless in the soothing spray.

‘Let him look as he wishes,’ I thought. ‘It’s harming no one, least of all you, selfish Chrome. Count yourself fortunate once more to be desired. It will not happen again.’

After a time, I turned away, flipped the temperature selector to cold, and shuddered in the icy spray for several seconds before shutting it off. Drying myself briefly, I cinched the towel around me and headed for the door where Donald stood as before, blocking the way.

“Enough for today.”

I made it direct and pleasant. He brought his hand up and touched the scar left by my use of Rond H’Lokk’s dagger.

“You can hardly see it,” he said.

“Witchcraft, CenMed variety, Donald.”

His fingers moved gently over the area.

“I wish I knew how to heal. Is it difficult? Will you teach me?”

“You have very little to learn,” I said dryly, stopping his fingers’ caress by grasping them and turning the grip into a friendly handshake. “Congratulations. Now, let me by. It’s late and—”

“May I come with you, Chrome?”

Those golden amber eyes insisted although his voice was quiet and its tone polite.

“No, I’m busy.” I matched his tone as I tried to get my hand back. “I’ll see you and Ann tomorrow.”

He was shorter than I and less heavily muscled, but a tug-of-war would be ridiculous. I let my hand go limp and waited.

“I’m stronger than I look,” he said stubbornly, still holding on.

“And you’ve proved it. Now show me you’re intelligent.”

His look as he released my hand and stepped aside was that of one mortally wounded; he was gone by the time I had dressed. I hoped he wasn’t going to be a problem.

* * *

That the Immortals came to join me as I worked at healing Ann should have made me realize I hadn’t been abandoned, should have made me remember Irene Fineschriber’s telling me that I was now one of their children. The Immortals were clever, though. (Blasphemous, the use of so common a term to characterize these Knowers of Eternity!) They let no stray hint through to jog my imagination or cause speculation; just as they had let no hint come through at the transparency, for them, of S.O.R.A.’s using Tor’s body as mine in the cremation ceremony. Of course they had sensed, had “known” the deception immediately, and they had communicated the knowledge to Vortex in their bowing to him. Watching, we in the amphitheater had interpreted that bow as an affirmation that this was indeed Chrome’s body; actually they had been signaling that, yes, as they had already foretold, this was a ploy—a feeble foolish attempt on S.O.R.A.’s part to delude Vortex into thinking me dead.

In truth, upon the Immortals’ advice, Vortex had already appeared before the Confederated Galaxies’ Greater Council, his terrifying fury now a congealed block of frozen vengeance. He pointed out that by its attempt on his life and the slaying of his Warriors, S.O.R.A. had forfeited its right to any further protection. No longer would he or any of the Warrior Race acknowledge Earth as a party to the Covenant. Moreover, Vortex claimed, he had the right to rescue me.

The Greater Council quickly agreed. Earth had become a bore; charity was not the Galaxies’ purpose; and the Master-Bringer of Death was hardly one to cross when filled with righteous wrath; however— And, since the Council did not believe in instigating or unleashing utter annihilation per se, there followed three stipulations: 1) retrieving me could take place only if I truly wanted to leave, 2) the rescue must be accomplished without bloodshed of any kind, and 3) Vortex could not disturb any of the events which S.O.R.A. so foolishly had engineered”. When walls of darkness tottered and fell upon the Earth, S.O.R.A., not Vortex, must be responsible.

XXI

Ann and Donald were seated quietly like two well-behaved children by the therapy pool when I arrived the next day.

“She had the most wonderful dream, Chrome!” Donald beamed as he got up to pump my hand and quickly let it go.

“About anyone I know?”

I sat down on the tile decking and motioned for Ann to take the position she’d had the day before.

“I was using both arms, and in the dream I didn’t even remember that I hadn’t been able to before!”

Her excitement was a delight. So was the color beginning in her cheeks and lips.

“What were you doing?”

“Well, that’s the part I don’t understand. Lab work and mixing formulae were always my hardest subjects. And in the dream I made a chocolate cake!”

“A what?”

Donald’s disbelief echoed and bounced about the hall’s tiled surfaces. Several distant heads checked us briefly.

“A real old-fashioned chocolate cake like you see holograms of in the museum library.” Ann turned to me as if to keep from further upsetting Donald. “Then it exploded and woke me up.”

“You didn’t say any of that to me,” Donald accused.

“I didn’t have a chance. But, Free-man Chrome, what does it mean?”

“Stay away from kitchens,” I smiled, “and maybe laboratories, too! Now, let’s get started.”

She undid her robe and I placed my hands on her shoulder. Donald looked questioningly; I nodded and he took her hand in his as before. Ann closed her eyes and sighed.

“Ann, dear, please don’t.”

“But I was only mentally trying to help.”

“Don’t ‘try to’ anything. No matter who the subject is, it only gets in the way. As a matter of fact, the more preoccupied you are with other things the easier it is for me.”

“What may I do, Chrome?” Donald asked almost before my glance had reached him.

“I was wondering, are you sensitive about your eyes?”

“Not any more. I was a long time ago, but then something happened, and I found out it didn’t matter.” He smiled at the memory. “My sight’s perfect and I never notice anything different. They seem to get more out of line when I concentrate on a problem or get angry.”

“You know, I love cats, Donald,” Ann confided, “and there’s a kind from the Orient...”

I shut my eyes; the children were occupied now and I could begin. Donald’s explaining faded, something about a recessive gene which had shown up unexpectedly and couldn’t be traced to any of the donors recorded in his Propagation Formula. I let my mind calm itself and close out the surroundings.

Again as I began the prayer-thoughts, an echoing of my beloved Forest Giants settled upon me. Their soothing mist touched my imagination, a voice from some far memory called out, “Always!” and then made way for the gathering healing power.

Never before had there been an interior visualization, but now tiny points of gold glittered fleetingly in my darkened field of concentration. Random in the beginning, then drifting into clouds and moving around either side of my head, I could feel them clustering in back of me above my shoulders. The accustomed tingling sensation built up. I relaxed and welcomed it and soon felt it coursing down into my hands.

The sharp prickling in my palms and fingers pressed against Ann’s skin reminded me of that cold buzzing sensation when the Immortals had examined me. Now, however, there was great heat, or the illusion of it. Ann’s flesh felt fever-hot over a quivering of nerves and muscles. Some commotion or disturbance was going on outside us, but I’d let it have no part of the work at hand. Moving my lips in concentration, I repeated the thought patterns, silently made word clusters to focus them. I sensed the need for even greater isolation and went over the word clusters again, now even gave voice to them, willed that all else be ignored, blotted out. At last the energy departed; I took my hands away and let the world around us come back again.

We had been joined. The thin young man in trunks like mine, I recognized as one from our trip beneath the Tower. The two girls were about Ann’s age. Each had a nurse’s insignia patch sewn on her civilian type bathing suit above the left breast. They were both a bit overweight but attractive looking.

“Friends,” Donald said with difficulty.

I started to ask what was the matter with him, when I saw Ann. She leaned against the tile bench with her eyes shut, her breathing shallow but regular.

“Who did that?” I asked Donald, pointing to her hands which were clasped together in her lap.

He stared at me in a daze and swallowed.

“Ann did,” volunteered one of the girls. “We’ve been guarding. We heard a noise and saw her with both hands in front of her. When we got here she had them closed together like that. She started to faint, so we put her back against the bench.”

“You still had hold of her shoulder and the Cadet said to let you alone,” said the other girl. “I’ve taken her pulse. It’s a little rapid but shock would account for that.”

Gently I separated Ann’s hands and massaged the injured one. It felt warm and supple; already the flesh was firming and looking normal. One girl murmured something about “Mother Mona” to the other.

“All of you!” I said briskly. “Sit down and listen to me.”

The male orderly checked the area casually, then knelt into place beside Donald as the two girls moved in.

“Now, if you are ‘friends,’ as Donald told me a moment ago, that’s the last time you’ll say Mother Mona’s name in connection with this.” Puzzled looks from all of them. “You know the Committee’s already afraid of the cult that’s formed. They don’t even want you visiting her—going there, I mean. If they hear of this healing and you link it with Mother Mona .. .”

“The whole area will be off limits,” the male orderly said glumly.

“Or worse. What if the Committee starts meddling with the power source down there? or breaking door seals to investigate? All in the sacred name of Science, of course.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Donald breathed.

“Nice of you to join us,” I said dryly.

“They wouldn’t!”

“After what they did to Vortex?”

“That was S.O.R.A.,” the orderly said. “That whole plot came from them, against us!”

“What about the Restoration Procedure scheduled for me? and when that failed, my ‘cremation’? Where did those ideas come from?”

Silence.

“Think about it, friends,” I said after a moment. “If you feel anything at all for Mother Mona, you’ll keep still. Guard her, don’t betray her.”

A bit stiffly, I got to my feet.

“When Ann wakes up, she’ll probably faint again or try to. Amongst you there surely must be at least one of those ampules.”

The orderly pulled one from an inner pocket of his trunks.

“Good. Give her my gratitude for permitting the repayment of a debt. Tell her to come here each day, accompanied by at least one of you, and exercise in the therapy pool. Pretend to regain the use of the arm gradually. In private, of course, she can use it constantly.”

I bowed slightly and left the group to begin whispering amongst themselves. There was no need to shower, so I had on my trousers and boots as Donald came racing into the deserted changing room, dripping wet.

“You were saying goodbye to me!” he panted. “Please, Chrome, the orderly will be here any minute. He wanted to race; he’s right behind me.”

“So?”

“Please let me come with you. I—”

“There’d be no point.”

“Only to talk, Chrome. I swear it!”

He grabbed my shoulders, those amber eyes pleading harder than words.

“Careful,” I murmured, catching a change of light from the entrance.

Donald swung quickly away into the showers. As the noise of the spray began, the orderly came in holding his side gasping. He peered around the lockers.

“Little demon becomes a streak of lightning!” He managed a grin. “Where is he?”

I nodded toward the showers and turned to busy myself with dressing. The closings on my shirt refused to obey, and I became intent on not losing my temper with them.

“He would be whatever you desired.”

The quiet voice next to my ear caused me a whirling leap.

“Gods, man—!”

The orderly, his breath strangely recovered, regarded me. His eyes and voice were impassive.

“If you had any sense you’d take him.”

Abruptly he seized his side, panting again as he moved to meet and pass Donald coming out of the shower.

“By the Goat-God, Don, next time!”

He whacked Donald and went on in.

Ann’s urging me to heed my own counseling and let go of the past echoed in my brain. Lost in thought, or rather wishing I could lose all thought for a while at least, I completed dressing.

The orderly still splashed in the shower. Donald, his back to me in a far corner, was drying himself. I made enough noise going over so as not to startle him.

“The things we were going to talk about.” I made it sound casual as he turned to me. “Do you know the way to my quarters or shall I wait for you?”

“Uh, why not wait? It’ll only take me a second.”

His haste in dressing made it difficult not to laugh. Through the flurry of Cadet uniform components came his voice.

“May one risk asking about the smile?”

“I was always late for parades and inspections. It got so my platoon leader would assign two members of my squad to be responsible for seeing I was ready. Usually all they did was sit there and laugh at me.”

“What about Colonel Jamison? I thought you and he were—I mean—” Donald stopped and stared at the floor. He looked thoroughly miserable.

“We’ll save the answer to that. Now, close your locker door and your trousers and let’s go.”

He checked his front.

“Oh, Gods. All I’d need!”

The short walk to my sector was completely devoid of people. I envisioned this group using a gigantic vacuum machine which operated with a quick whoooosh to rid whole areas of their normal occupants. I thought it better not to mention it to Donald, though. His strides a near march, he glowered straight ahead in silence. The elevator whisked us to the fourteenth level and discharged us with a sigh. I felt like echoing it, but, as usual, the situation was of my own making, co best get on with it.

Donald stood surveying the entry hall and room beyond, as I closed the door behind us.

“There’s a guest bathroom, the door to your left. Sleeping quarters to the right. Straight ahead is the living room.”

“This is all yours?”

“It’s called ‘Elegance in Exile,’ ” I replied wryly, stepping past him. “Come on in. Let’s see now, I know better than to say, ‘May I offer you something?’ How about, ‘Would you like a drink, Cadet?’ “

He shook his head. I moved to the false fireplace, flicked it on and watched for a moment as the flames danced amongst the fireproof logs. Indicating an armchair to Donald, I dropped into the one opposite and propped my feet up on the low wooden table between them.

“The only thing I asked for, furniture one can use and be comfortable in and not worry about scratching or scuffing it.”

Donald, glaring into the fireplace, gave no sign of having heard me.

“Ahem. You are, I believe, in what could be described as a towering rage. Why?”

“Because I’m a fool! I spoke before I thought. In the changing room, about Colonel Jamison, I ruined everything!”

“Uncover your head indoors, Cadet,” I said mildly.

The amber eyes blinked at this change of subject. He whipped off the cap, tucked it in his belt automatically, then ran a hand back and forth over his blond brush cut.

“Speaking before thinking,” I mused. “I seem to have spent most of these last years the same way. Do you suppose it’s anything to do with the genetic heritage we share?”

Donald looked around distractedly, then sat on the arm of the chair I’d offered to begin with.

“Good. Now, about Jamison. He’s my best, my only friend in this world, but as for anything further—it never entered our minds. Wait a minute.” I held up a hand. “Is there a book devoted to my life distributed during history classes now? This wealth of misinformation everyone seems to have, how detailed is it? For example, Donald, what are you expecting from me sexually?” He sat there stunned. “Speak up, man, what have you heard and what are you after?”

Though exasperation had surfaced, the basic absurdity of the situation bobbed up along beside it. As Donald stared at me, I chuckled and, in the darkening afternoon, seated myself cross-legged near the fire as if to use its illumination.

“The earnest young Cadet-researcher, pornographic Academy text-book opened in front of him, paper in hand,” I licked the point of an imaginary pencil, “about to make a list of desirable items. Let’s take a look here now,” I adjusted nonexistent glasses, peering downward, “what do we have? Anal? Oral? Something with animals, perhaps?”

“Stop it, Chrome!”

It was unexpected and so near Vortex’s roar of rage at Cabin massage area as he hurled the table that I whirled and ducked automatically, almost swept back to that moment. Then, braced against the floor, I rejected the memory, counted the squares making up the carpet pattern, fought the images which threatened to engulf me.

“Oh, Gods, Chrome—I didn’t mean to yell that way!”

Donald flattened himself to me, chest against my back, saying softly how sorry he was, repeating how he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. Silence for a moment as his heart pounded against me.

“But you see, sometimes it’s enough only being with a person, just talking to them.” Another moment, the heart pounding harder by the second. “I’ve always thought that to be true.”

“But now, Donald, we find it’s not enough, is it.”

His lips were brushing my neck as he whispered my name. He loosened his grip to lie against me, awkwardly stroking my arm, making no sense, the words blurring and at last coming to a halt. Trying to count the idiotic squares of the pattern beneath me seemed pointless.

“Donald...?”

No answer, only the pounding heart and his hand moving along my arm.

“Will you listen to me? Let’s have done with this; leave things as they were.”

“I can’t, Chrome, not now,” he whispered, tightening his hold again. “Please. I’ll do anything—”

“Let me up for a minute. I think my boots are on fire.”

A total lie, but they were pointed that way and fairly close to the fireplace, and it worked. He gave a startled exclamation and got up, leaving me to move back and gingerly feel my boots.

“Hadn’t even started to melt yet. Good.”

I got back into my chair again. Donald stood self-consciously with his hands crossed in front of himself.

“You sit there and shake your head,” he said, “and smile and find me funny. I guess your heart is lost, because if you had one you’d know how this hurts now inside.”

“If there was a smile, it was a bitter one at myself.” I stood up. “I’ve only been trying to save us both embarrassment, maybe salvage something to start a friendship with. You won’t settle for that, though, will you. All right then, let’s get it over with.”

At the entry hall I turned back when there was no sound of his following.

“I know the firelight’s romantic, but the floor’s hard and that carpet has become a bore. Come on, Cadet.”

XXII

A punch at the wall sensor of my sleeping quarters flooded the room with light. The cleaning service had already turned down one side of the bed. I snapped the other side back to uncover it all, sat down and methodically undid my boots.

Rid of them and the rest of my clothes, I went into the bathroom, relieved myself, showered briefly but pointedly—why not at least be courteous about it?—dried off and went back to lie on the bed, arms crossed behind my head.

Donald had watched me at first but now was looking out through the floor-to-ceiling thermal glass at the unobstructed panorama of the darkening desert.

“Well?” I asked pleasantly.

“Could—could we turn the lights out?”

“Why? No one can see in.”

“There’s going to be a sunset.”

“Saw one just the other day, Donald.” I kept it conversational and polite. “No, it’ll be more instructional to leave them on.”

“If that’s what you want.” His eyes avoided mine, as he headed for the bathroom. “Excuse me a minute, please.”

A pause to shed his clothes, then the noise of the shower. Another pause for drying and, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, he reappeared.

“Hardly the time of place for modesty, Donald, but—” I shrugged and closed my eyes.

There was a shifting of weight as he came to sit beside me. His hand caressed my chest and slowly moved downward. When it reached my groin and stroked the limpness there, I felt my cheeks beginning to burn. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

“Yes, you see, Cadet, it was found soon after his capture that the subject was quite unable to fulfill his part of the agreement. His sudden sterility was thought due to radiation overexposure during the fight in the amphitheater, or perhaps the business with the dagger afterward.”

“Chrome, the sterility had nothing to do with—”

He caught himself and looked away.

“So that’s common knowledge, too? Well, at any rate, along with that news came the—uh—relaxation you were fingering only a moment ago.” I grabbed his jaw and jerked him around. “Look at me, Cadet! I’m impotent, no use now even to myself! Or are you here to confirm that piece of rumor as well?!”

The utter calm of his look to me was so unexpected a reaction I let go of him. He rubbed at his chin absently.

“I tried to find Depilagel in there. I’m sorry about my beard, Chrome.”

‘The boy’s mad,’ I told myself. ‘He’s understood nothing of what I’ve said!’

I reached to clamp that jaw again, but he deftly parried my thrust. Those honey-amber eyes fixed on mine.

“You will look at me, Chrome, into my eyes, all the way.” His voice was insistent. “Even deeper than that, listening to me and relaxing and understanding. My eyes, Chrome, into them farther and farther...”

The hypnotherapy sessions in earlier years should have conditioned me to put up defenses, but the boy was expert—perhaps, hypnosis was part of his Gift—and I found myself caught. Relaxing, listening, as his amber eyes filled the whole world...

“You know I won’t hurt you, Chrome.” His voice took on that flowing quality Vortex had used to lull me to sleep. “You feel it spreading through you... warmth and trust... feeling your eyelids getting heavier and heavier... Yes, that’s right, closing them and understanding I can help you, Chrome, and will…  Remember that... let it sink deeper and deeper into your mind...”

He got up, pressed the wall sensor, and the room darkened. I felt myself sigh and frown as he returned and sat beside me.

“Relax and rest; I have no desire to try to seduce you this way.” There was humor in his voice. “Anyway we both know that doesn’t work. But I am going to touch you lightly on your forehead, Chrome, and when I do, you’ll let go of all the tension there. A frown has no place on your handsome face, so let it leave.”

His fingers brushed lightly across my brow and I smiled as I felt it smooth out.

“Good. Now I’m going to explain something, facts, truths, which consciously you won’t remember until you’re told to. This valuable knowledge will sink deep into your subconscious, though, and immediately be put to good use.”

There was a pause.

“So now you can wake up feeling wonderful. Open your eyes, Chrome, and enjoy the last of the sunset.”

I blinked and raised myself on my elbows to see purple and orange and pink flaming in the sky. Incredible. Yawning and stretching, I wondered what Donald said during that pause; surely something important and right to make me feel so good. I looked at him and realized, in truth, I could confide in him. He could be trusted; his sincere and sole desire was to help me. I thought.

“Donald, remember the day you took me to Mother Mona? There’s an unnamed person next to her. See what you can find out about him.”

Donald’s face was a blank.

“You said there were records,” I prompted, “stored with matching genetic material on the levels above.

You could trace him by using the identification number engraved on the metal plate.”

Donald regarded me for a long moment and then nodded.

“Of course. That person—he’s important to us, isn’t he. Of course I will, Chrome.”

He waited, watching me as if the next move still should be mine. I lay back, yawned, and stretched again. How good it was to savor that almost tantalizing inner feeling of complete well-being.

“Come here,” I said and gave him a slow grin. “I want to feel something.”

Pulling him down to me, I ran a hand over his head a couple of times. The closely cropped hair was damp.

“I thought so, still wet. You can catch cold that way.”

“I—I was in a hurry,” came the husky whisper.

I moved my fingers more slowly through his hair noting its texture.

“You’re plagued with curls, too.”

A small sound and his mouth covered mine. The barely controlled passion, his trembling to temper his kisses, to make them gentle, reminded me of Vortex trying not to crush me. I felt no pang at the comparison; though my King was lost to me, I’d been fortunate to have him for even that little while. There was a sense, too, that he’d approve of Donald. The boy’s awkwardness in trying to handle the engulfing emotional storm was touching. I stroked his head soothingly, and let my fingers move through the grain of its brush-cut hairs. He stopped his kissing to mumble something.

“What?”

“I’m not a cat.”

Propping myself up on an elbow, I eyed him.

‘Donald, no one said you were a cat. Get your oxygen supply up to operating level.”

“You were petting me like a cat.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“No, no, it felt wonderful.” Those honey-amber eyes had the hint of mischief. “Will you kiss me? I’m not very good at it, and I’ve run out of ideas.”

“You’ve just about covered it,” I smiled. “The only thing is—” I closed his eyelids and kissed his forehead. “—it doesn’t have to be so much of a wrestling match at the beginning.” My fingers traced his lips. “And when someone has as sensuous a mouth as this they can be told about it first.” I brushed my lips against his. “And complimented before you—”

With something between a purr and a groan he pulled me to him, and for a time I let savage Chrome have his way, reining him in only if he seemed about to be too rough with the boy. Then a sudden recognition of the heat which pulsed in my groin came to me. I broke away and lay back, breathing hard.

“Chrome...?”

Donald knelt above me anxiously.

“There’s a legend. Of a man, a God of some sort,” I ran a hand through his hair, “who could raise the dead.”

“Oh, no, not this Cadet,” he smiled. “Something’s only been asleep inside that beautiful head of yours. And now it’s awakened.”

His hand traveled down and closed around my hardness. The next words seemed unsure.

“You’re—you’re bigger than I am.”

It didn’t sound like he meant it, as a compliment; I studied him for some clue to his tone.

“What difference does that make? This isn’t a competition, Donald.”

“I know. It’s only that they told me—I mean, the older Cadets—I’ve heard them saying it. How if a man is too big he can hurt a person badly.”

“What’s that got to do with us?”

Silence. I pushed myself up and knelt facing him.

“Answer me, Donald. What has my size got to do with hurting someone?”

He swallowed and cleared his throat.

“I was at the amphitheater, and I was one of the guards at the cremation ceremony. And later, when they brought you in for those tests, I was on duty then. I realized all the terrible things that had happened to you, that someone had to make up for them. I swore an oath to myself that I’d help you if I got the chance, no matter what, that it didn’t matter whether or not—”

He stopped himself and frowned in thought, then nodded, as if at something remembered.

“So now I want to know how I can serve you. You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. Now you’re over thinking you’re not able to— Well, if it means you’ll get pleasure from me, tell me how to serve you.”

I closed my eyes and pushed clenched fists against my knees as hard as I could. A nameless rage was forming within me, but at what? Surely not at this boy. Although his words—what was it I felt when he spoke of “serving”? I knew not, and Donald’s calm voice continued as though from a great distance.

“You look like an anatomy chart, every muscle bunched up like that.”

The unexpected touch of his hands on my shoulders caused me to jerk. They stayed there lightly.

“I wish you’d lie back down and let me put my towel over you. You’re perspiring.”

I touched my chest. It was slick with sweat. Better do as he said. Golden-eyed demon of some kind. I undid my leg muscles with difficulty and stretched out.

He pulled the towel loose from around his waist Covering me with it, he patted at my chest and legs. A pause. He took my hand and rubbed the back of it against the side of his face.

“It’s—it’s not my fault, you know.”

“That you’re not for men?”

“I love you. I want you to be happy.”

“Not quite the same thing, Donald.”

There was silence. He traced the lighter marking of the scar below my heart, then bent and put his head against me there.

“Don’t tense like that, Chrome. Spare this little time out of all the years ahead.”

It was hard to keep my breathing even. Tightness had begun in my throat.

“When you’re young you think you can solve everything.” His voice was quiet. “But you can’t, not always, no matter how hard you try. It’s better for me to find out early like this. Some people never do.”

Taking the crumpled towel, he got up and went into the bathroom. Its lighting came on to cast a soft glow through the doorway. No sounds of showering, and all too soon he was back, dressed.

“A small request, Chrome. Put your arms behind your head as you did at first—yes, like that.” Two golden lenses could have been registering every detail as his gaze traveled down me. “You’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

An unworthy voice within me pleaded to ensnare the boy, to use his youth and warmth against the empty echoing future. This must be ended while I could.

“What of the Warrior King, Abd H’Lokk-Mond H’Zum?” I countered.

“A race of Gods, perhaps,” he shrugged. “I speak of reality.” He ran both hands over his head, then cupped them to his face. “Your scent will stay with me all this night.”

I slid up against the bed board, arms resting on my crossed knees. Casually, I thought, until his eyes dropped to linger on the area so miraculously reawakened.

“Donald,” I said hastily, “a question I haven’t yet had courage to ask. How old are you?”

“I’ll soon be eighteen and old enough for marriage.”

My head slumped forward onto my arms. Not yet eighteen; the Gods help and defend me against the golden-eyed little fiend!

“You fight so hard, and against a cloud.” His fingers slid through my hair to massage my neck. “If I didn’t know you’d finally tell me...”

“Tell you what?”

“Of how I may serve you. Tell me how to serve you.”

Again that phrase. The words seemed to prod at a secret maze deep within my mind. Something hidden there stirred in protest. I raised my head to stare at him.

“Ah, a sign of returning intellect. The narrowed eyes. Yes, Free-man Chrome?”

The boy’s gentle mocking was filled, in truth, with love, and I knew it full well. But still there came that rage, a blurring tide of redness which rose to cloud my vision. A fury overwhelmed me, exploded, and in a flash, Cadet jacket seams ripped asunder, Donald was collared in my grip.

“What about my children?”

That animal grating couldn’t be my voice.

“I love you, Chrome,” he whispered, holding the side of his head. “Tell me how to serve—”

“What’s become of them?” Some thing within me shook him, insisting, “The children I fathered; I want to see them!”

The enraged madness that had come upon me vanished, and now in its place a frozen craven fear gnawed at me! An awful moment as I flung him from me, turned, clawed the bed in a futile attempt to burrow into it.

As he darkened the room again, my mind searched desperately for reality.

“Chrome, I’m going to rub your back. I just wanted you to know so it wouldn’t startle you.”

He began work on my knotted shoulder muscles, patiently kneading at them, moving slowly from one set to another with an expert sureness. I drew a breath to find out if my voice was yet under control.

“No more words from you now.” It was a command. “You’ve given exactly what I need to know. We’ll start the search tomorrow. It won’t be easy; the Committee has the children hidden and well protected, but we’ll do what we can. And I’ll also find out whatever I can about the unnamed male in the chamber next to Mother Mona.”

He worked silently for a while.

“Please don’t be troubled by what just happened. Believe me, you’re not to blame.”

XXIII

Morning.

I awakened late and stretched mightily. A sleep such as that, overflowing with impossibly erotic dreams—

Startled, I sat up to find myself drenched in sweat and semen. The curse I’d formulated turned to laughter at the large towel neatly folded next to me; evidently Donald’s last considerate act before he had departed.

The relief was nearly ecstasy in itself, and in the shower I tried to recall his words, the thought-commands which had caused this deluge. To no avail, of course. They were hidden as completely as whatever other secrets he had implanted.

An uneasiness came over me. This Cadet, I knew nothing of him, not even his number. What if this were S.O.R.A.’s plotting? The sudden urge about my sons; what had forced it so explosively to light? And my babbling to him about the existence of the entity next to Mother Mona!

Dressed and half way through breakfast, I had mulled it to where I was talking to myself, arguing the pros and cons. Impatiently I went to the videophone and fed in the Security Force number. The screen sprang to life; a bland-faced male in civilian shirt and tie looked up from his desk.

“Good morning, may I help—? Oh, Free-man Chrome!” Alert now as his eyes searched his image of the area behind me. “How are you today?”

“Thank you.” I punched the field-size indicator to show him the full room. “Alone, and no problems.”

“A moment, Free-man. I’ll give you the Duty Officer.”

“Please Hold” replaced him; an innocuous orchestra tootled in the background. Seconds later the screen cleared, and a very attractive brunette girl smiled at me. The electronically imprinted identification along the bottom of the picture read “Lance Corporal Jill Thalnoys.”

I had seen Jamison’s top personal aide before, of course, in photographs or from a distance, but we had never met. If he did have a private life, Jamison believed in keeping it, indeed, private. So, should the rumors of intimacy between Jill and him be true, I could only admire his judgment and taste. Now, upon this face-to-face encounter, even though it was via the videophone, I was momentarily thrown off balance.

“Yes, Free-man Chrome?”

The reminder of someone else was so unexpected, so strong. I stood and stared as I tried to make some connection. Who was it? Where had I known the person?

“Have you misplaced the private number?” the girl on the screen prompted.

“Hmmm? Oh. Uh, no, I only used the code once, in the beginning. You wouldn’t have believed the panic around here. Alarms, people coming out of the woodwork, and all I wanted was to see if Jamison was free for lunch that day!”

She smiled and I studied her image, still trying to puzzle out the resemblance. A soft chime sounded.

“Take that, will you?” she directed to someone out of camera range, then turned back patiently to me.

“Have we met, Lance Corporal?” I asked. “My memory sometimes plays tricks on me.”

“No, we haven’t, Free-man Chrome.”

She was pleasant about it, but one felt a hint of weariness at the old “Don’t-I-know-that-lovely-face-from-somewhere?” approach.

“Sorry,” I grinned, “that didn’t sound very original, did It. Anyway, is Jamison free for a second? I want to ask him—”

“Not just at the moment,” she cut in crisply. “These circuits are so unstable today that, if you don’t mind, I’ll send someone over. It won’t be long.”

A smile and the connection ended.

My confusion was only compounded when the buzzer sounded and I opened my quarters door. There, dressed in the gray civilian-cut uniform of the Security Police, stood Donald’s friend, the orderly!

“The Duty Officer sent me to escort you. Are you ready, sir?”

His look was through me, his tone well below freezing.

“You’re one of Jamison’s people?”

“Yes, sir. I have a patrol-craft waiting.”

I thought perhaps his manner was that prescribed for official actions and sought to put things on an easier basis.

“I see. Do you have a name?”

“That’s unnecessary.” He flicked a glance at me, then stared into space again. “The transportation is waiting.”

From what I’d seen at the therapy pool, I knew there was little to recommend him in a physique contest. His air of barely controlled tension now, though, warned and disturbed me.

“Is—is anything wrong?” I ventured.

“No, nothing. Shall we go, sir?”

Impossible to read that bleak face. I shrugged and headed for the elevator. We rode up to the roof-port in silence. It wasn’t until we were aloft in the black two-man copter-jet that the agent-orderly spoke.

“If you weren’t Colonel Jamison’s friend and a supposed hero,” he said calmly, “I’d kill you.” He glanced at me, then back to our flight path. “And don’t bother whining that news to Jamison; I’ll tell him myself as soon as he’s back.”

“What is this? Can’t you see I don’t understand?!”

“When Donald returned last night his ear was bleeding. He’s in the hospital now. Suspected concussion. What did you do to him?”

A flash of that blurred rage came to mind. Something about finding my children. Had he held the side of his head then? But I couldn’t have hit him!

“Where is he now? Go there first!”

He checked the area ahead of us, then turned to me.

“Training is everything, Jamison says, and as usual he’s right. But if you try to see that boy or go anywhere near him again, I’ll make sure you die a dog’s death.” There was the beginning of a twisted smile. “I’m not alone in this, Chrome. Many share my feelings for Donald; he’s a valued comrade to us all. So don’t plan to lose me, to escape for awhile. It would do you no good; a score of others are watching. You make another attempt against Donald’s life, and any one of them will dispatch you with almost as much pleasure as I.”

A contemptuous glance at my loins, and then he resumed his piloting.

“They should give you back to S.O.R.A., resurrected from the crematory flames. Your genes make better foes than friends.” A dry sound near to laughter. “Yes, that’s a good idea: S.O.R.A. must have you back. What a poisoning of the race that will be!”

Something warned that there was too much of the hot-eyed fanatic here to try to argue or reason with, so I went silent. Abruptly the auto-lock flicked on and our craft’s descent fixed into the pattern, swooping down through the tangled traffic to a berth in the Security Force facilities. Seconds later, the orderly, again a bland nonentity, led me into the screening area. Murmurs of recognition. I was whisked past monitors and detection equipment and given over to a more substantial-looking uniformed guard who led me through a short but effective mirror-maze and into an air-lock elevator. We plummeted downward; there was a brief wait in the empty reception room, then a muffled buzz and the guard opened the door for me.

Jamison’s office was spacious. Dark wood paneling, comfortable chairs, a conference table at one end and his desk at the other, with translucent plastic rectangles made into a false window behind it. The light source gave a convincing illusion of filtered sunlight. My usual wondering about how far beneath the surface I might be ended as a door by the conference table opened; Jamison’s aide I’d spoken with on the phone came in.

“Corporal Thalnoys,” she said and extended her hand. “Sorry to have been so short when we talked. X sensed it might be important, and security is becoming more difficult by the minute.”

She sat down at the conference table and gestured for me to join her as she continued.

“The Colonel’s out at the moment, but I’ve been fully informed. Is it anything I can take care of for you?”

In person the likeness to someone I knew was even more striking, but I still couldn’t make the connection. Something nagged at me to find out about Donald; there was the agent-orderly’s threat, though, to think about. I decided on a surface schoolboy candor and gave her a hopeful smile.

“I made the acquaintance of several young people recently, Corporal. Please understand: I don’t wish to interfere in their private lives, but they were most helpful and I have no way of getting in touch with them now to know of their well-being.”

“Their names and numbers?”

She pulled over a pad and pencil from the neat row which lined the table’s length.

“Uh—well, that’s the point. It’s foolish, I know, but I learned only the first names of two of them.” Her eyebrows raised politely. “Jamison said I’d be guarded;

I thought maybe some of your people might know them.”

An image of the glowering orderly came to mind. No, best not bring him up.

“Just a moment, please.”

She murmured into the scrambler-box on Jamison’s desk, came back and pressed one of the buttons set in a slightly raised oblong in front of the presiding officer’s chair. A panel of the opposite wall slid open to disclose a large monitoring screen which immediately flashed on.

“Perhaps some of these may be helpful.”

A greatly enlarged hand came into view, laying out photographs with the crispness of a professional card player. It snapped the last one down and left. I stared at the identification pictures, each in a cardboard jacket that masked out everything but the face. They were all there: Donald, Ann, the agent-orderly who’d brought me here, the other two orderlies from our Tower trip, the two nurses from the therapy pool. Three more males looked vaguely familiar, probably from the changing room or the pool.

“Well, Free-man Chrome?”

Something in the quietness of her voice made me whirl. Of course. Seen like this, it was obvious.

“Ann—?”

“Is my younger sister.”

She studied the row of buttons in front of her with a slight frown.

“I pride myself on being able to follow Colonel Jamison’s teaching: Emotional control must be absolute in our work. But Ann is all I have in the world. Last night she came to my quarters when I got off duty. She hugged me hard with both arms and told me the healing secret. I cried then. Something I am not going to do now. But I wish you knew how much ...”

“First it was Kings. Then it was Warriors. Now it’s Lance Corporals who are above tears. Gods, for someone to teach me the knack of it! Anyway, you know I’d probably be dead if it hadn’t been for Ann’s warning in the amphitheater.”

I looked back at the screen and was caught by Donald’s picture. Amber eyes perfectly aligned, the start of mischief at the corners of his mouth, his hair longer and about to break into unruly curls,

“Those all are your people?”

“Yes, so you see Ann’s completely protected.”

Her smile was too warm and real to be hiding further knowledge. She obviously knew nothing of Donald’s injury, perhaps not even of his visit. I tried to think of how to ask to contact him, what the reason should be with Ann safe now.

“You don’t look very convinced. Is there more? It’s ‘Jill’ if you like.”

“And drop the ‘Free-man,’ please, Jill. Look, can you tell me when Jamison will be back?”

“I honestly don’t know. According to the officer I relieved this morning, a little after midnight a call had come in on the Colonel’s private circuit. About ten minutes later, the emergency carrier frequency lit up. It was for Jamison; he took it in here and talked for three minutes. Then he came charging out cursing in Warrior language grabbed the two biggest guards he could spot and jetted off in the search copter. That’s all we know.”

A soft insistent chiming. The photographs on the screen disappeared; in their place ^Emergency’ flashed on and off against a red background. Jill was up and headed out the door almost before I was out of my chair. I tried to follow her, but was blocked by a large Security guard.

“Sorry, Free-man Chrome!”

Through the opened door of the small waiting room beyond, I saw a brightly lit area and heard the sound of Jamison’s voice greatly amplified.

“—in my office?! Why in the name of—?”

“Jamison!” I yelled and struggled in the guard’s polite, but firmly effective hold.

“Colonel, he came here to ask about some of the guarding agents. It seemed time to reassure him,” Jill’s voice replied.

“Jamison!”

“Sounds like he’s there in Operations with you now!”

“No, sir, but I think he’s trying to get it.”

A muttered curse from Jamison, then his resigned, “Let him—,” and the guard freed me to enter the Security Agency’s center of operations here in the Desert Academy.

A row of control stations and their computer-monitor desks was lined up in front of a giant video projector. Jamison’s image was on its screen; the background showed him to be aboard a large police copter. He reacted as I popped into view on his craft’s small receiver screen.

“It’s bad news no matter what, Chrome, but it concerns you so you might as well be in on it now as later. We’re out at a special teaching facility the Committee’s scientists set up to house and protect your children. It’s just over the dune beyond us here. I came out last night on a tip that there was going to be trouble somewhere in this sector. There is, here. Power for the entire facility has been knocked out. We got no response from them when we arrived. There were no lights, no signs of life. We’ve watched since dawn.”

Jamison peered past the hand-held, tri-video camera.

“Ready? Good; take her up. Now, Corporal Thalnoys, we’re going in. I want you to begin laser-taping the audio signal from my throat mike and the image from the video camera.”

Jill nodded to the waiting uniformed technicians and they sprang to stations in front of their equipment.

“Our information was that this activity is originating from S.O.R.A.’s direction. If that’s true, I want a record of everything.”

He motioned the camera to move past him and center on the scene below. It angled downward; there was a general view of a compound of blocklike buildings as the copter moved toward them. The craft began its descent.

“There may be an uncomplicated explanation for all this,” Jamison’s dry humor came into his tone, “but that’s so rare these days, I doubt it. No point in taking—”

A blinding flash. The operations room speakers shrieked as their audio signal shattered from the overload. There were gasps and muffled sounds of alarm from the seasoned professionals around me, so I didn’t feel badly about the yell I let out. When the visual portion cleared, the camera, obviously still functioning, lay unattended on the floor of the craft, showing us a very uninformative section of seat bracings with a soiled cleaning sponge wedged in them.

The audio came on again at our technician’s coaxing. Over a background roar we could hear Jamison.

“What the hell was that?! No, leave me alone, I’m fine. Are we still in touch with Operations? Jill, do you read me?”

“Yes, Colonel. Are you all right?”

“No personnel problems, but whatever it was it burst the copter’s bubble. This thing’s like a wind-test tunnel now. Hold on, we’re landing.”

“Colonel, we’ve still got a picture here,” Jill said.

“What? Oh. Pick that camera up, ass-head. Can’t you see the signal light’s still on?”

The image swung dizzily up off the floor and centered on a disheveled Jamison who gestured to a portable headset he held to one ear.

“I’ll have to leave this here. Not enough hands or ears! Anything before we go in, Jill?”

“No, sir.”

“Good luck, Jamison,” I threw in quickly.

He winked and gave a little wave. The guard who had piloted the now-still craft handed Jamison a short-barreled radiation rifle, flicked off the safety catch on the one he carried and opened the cabin door.

A moment’s survey of the building and, covered by Jamison, the guard jumped down. After a fast zig-zag up to the entrance with its opened doors, he gave another careful look around and motioned for Jamison and the bearer of the hand-held camera to join him. As they did I marveled at the steadiness of the image.

“No sign of any personnel.” Jamison barely voiced it. “We’ll move in. Slowly, though. I don’t think there’s any hurry.”

And it turned out he was right. The building was silent, deserted. Indications of a struggle in the main office, overturned chairs, desks askew, and opened, rifled file cabinets, but no sign of personnel until—

As they turned the last corridor’s corner leading to the rear exit, there was Jamison’s sharp intake of breath, then his sickened groan.

“Oh-Jeezus-God!”

The ancient rarely heard oath came as a terrible shock, but it was nothing compared to the sight of what caused it.

Lying in a naked, crumpled heap was the bloodied body of a little girl. She had been decapitated.

* * *

In the last analysis, there was nothing to be done.

The rest of the children were gone. The employees of the nursery, its medical personnel and guards, the teachers, all had been killed and their bodies piled into a storage area in back of the compound. And S.O.R.A.’s communiqué, pinned to a little blood-covered skirt near the body, made it clear: since I’d proven sterile and was valueless, the Scientific Advancement Committee was welcome to keep me. Any attempt to retrieve the rest of the children or to appeal to the Confederated Galaxy, however, and there would be another “sacrifice” and another following that.

“We have fifteen of the children left,” the message ended, “fifteen hostages, an ample supply from which to spare a few—for dismemberment or whatever other painful, lingering manipulations of their bodies may become necessary—to convince you should you wish to test the sincerity of our determination to end these covert activities within the Academy once and for all.”

* * *

For me, the worst moment came when they found the nursery facility’s log. Irene Fineschriber had barricaded the children and herself in her office and had written of the last moments there—she had no clue as to who the attackers were, but would resist them to the end—the children (“wise beyond their years”) were all quiet and understood they must obey exactly—and then the last phrases addressed to me:

Develop the ability to accept the truth and face it bravely.

Then and only then will Life be of any good to you.

Even as I wept, I realized the bitter tears were for myself and all the strength and beauty I had lost with her passing. Silently I told whatever Gods would listen that I wanted no more of this being a caring entity, no more of this endless losing of all that was good and true.

For reply there was only silence.

* * *

A latter communiqué, casually stuck in with the next batch of sector reports from Central Communications, told us: “The children will be well taken care of, given every advantage and raised into healthy specimens for renewing and enriching the race as is always the governmental policy of the Society of Restructured Americas.”

Jamison was livid at the ease with which S.O.RA.’s private underground, its counterintelligence group-within-a-group had penetrated the autonomy of his Academy security system. The slaughter of all nursery personnel left no leads; even the nature of the device, which had misfired and only wrecked the copter’s bubble instead of blowing the whole thing up in flight, was unknown. The slender single clue his investigators had been able to sift out of the carnage was a voiceprint taken from a secretly monitored transmission to the nursery installation. It had been traced only to the point of having originated somewhere within the Academy Complex, but the recording was so altered and muffled by some scrambler mechanism as to be virtually useless.

I found myself in the ironic position of comforting Jamison, telling him it didn’t really matter any longer. The children were gone now, lost to me as was all else, so why make himself miserable over the how’s, who’s, and when’s of it. Forget it, I told him, as I had vowed I would do.

The only momentarily bright news came the evening I let myself into my quarters to find Donald’s friend, the agent-orderly, standing in the entry hall in his civilian Security Force outfit.

“Now what?” I asked truculently to cover my surprise. “I haven’t talked to Jamison about you. Nor have you about me, I gather. And I haven’t asked anyone about Donald. So, what is it?”

“He’s off the critical list and wanted this brought to you.” I took the envelope he held out. “I’m supposed to wait until you’ve read it.”

“Come on, then.”

I walked into the living room and flicked on the fire.

“Sit down,” I told him. “You said critical list?”

“Pressure from damaged blood vessels, I guess. They did some minor surgery, then sonic and laser therapy. He’s looking fine now.”

“You look awful.”

“So do you,” he said quietly.

“One child mutilated, then decapitated; the rest of them gone forever,” I countered. “And what might your reason be?”

He shrugged and sat staring at the fire. I opened the envelope.

“I want a drink,” he said.

“I don’t know what’s there.” I pointed to the bar. “The maintenance people do a good job on everything else, though.”

I sat down and began reading Donald’s carefully formed Cadet script.

HONORED FREE-MAN CHROME—

When last we were together you spoke of having only one friend on this misused planet. I wish you to reconsider as follows.

Since you will not have me in one sense, then take me as a friend. I do not ask you to feel as I do, only to know that I am your friend, completely. Not in a competition with Colonel Jamison or with whatever anyone else has meant to you. Only as me, not quite yet eighteen (do you remember how hard that is to write at seventeen), a boy who has listened to your heart and will hear it always the rest of his days.

Your friend,

DONALD

Sometime during my reading the agent had returned with drinks, one of which he’d placed in front of me.

“He made me read it,” he said and took a gulp from his glass. Whatever lay behind his eyes was hard to look at. “He told me why you’re not to blame for what happened. Now I must request forgiveness, but I’m not skilled with words.”

“You and others think enough of him to threaten me with death.” I put Donald’s letter on the table and picked up the glass there. “Well, we have no quarrel now, any of us. I join you and drink to our golden-eyed friend!” I drained the glass, then choked, “Gods, what was that?!”

“Alcohol over cold-cubes. I didn’t know you’d—”

“Nothing else?” I gasped.

“It’s good to sip sometimes, instead of fancy mixing. I didn’t think you’d even take it.”

Already I felt dizzy; the empty glass slipped from my hand. Bending to pick it up, I lurched forward onto the table and lay there. Paralysis started to take hold of me. I tried to speak but no sound came out.

“Nothing to worry about. Here, I’ll help you.”

The agent hoisted me up on a shoulder—where had that strength come from?!—and headed for my sleeping quarters, where he jabbed the bedroom light on and, none too gently, dumped me onto the bed. For some reason, my vision still functioned. I stared at him as he straightened me out and undid my collar, then gazed past him to where—

Had some drug already begun to alter my perception? It seemed to me I could see the doorway beyond the agent begin to waver. Through it came a female. I recognized her; it was Ann—

“You still awake? Close your eyes.” He shut the lids for me. “Now, go to sleep. In the morning you’ll feel as good as new.”

* * *

Contrary to the prediction, I did not feel well upon awakening. Memory muddled, I wandered out to the living room. There’d been a letter from Donald—no sign of it now. That drink—no used glasses, bar in perfect order, bottle of medical-grade alcohol with its seal unbroken.

Scratching at an unreachable itch between my shoulder blades, I grumbled back to the bedroom where my uniform hung neatly in the closet. I bent a hanger enough to scrape at the itch as snatches of my dream came back: Tor—explaining something erotic or maybe giving mock-sage advice on the subject—had been his usual incorrigible self, white grin flashing against that bronzed skin, purposely seeking to shock me and succeeding. I could remember our laughter and some sort of surrender. Now it only increased my irritation at the fading vagueness of the events.

As I frowned my way through shaving, the videophone chimed. I punched the remote “answer-hold” button, wrapped a towel around myself, and took my time going in to the wall installation. I flicked its “audio only” indentation.

“Who is it?” I growled.

“Free-man Chrome, I have Colonel Jamison for you.”

That aggressively positive male voice served as a further irritant.

“I’m waiting. Put him on.”

“Uh, sir, I have no picture here.”

Barely masked rebuke at my faulty use of the instrument.

“Then buy yourself a paint box!”

“B-beg pardon?!”

“Put Jamison on, idiot,” I snapped.

There was an intake of breath, then the muted babble of orchestral fill-in as I was put on hold. After several seconds the aimless tune cut off.

“Chrome? Jamison here.”

I touched the “video” indentation and my friend’s care-worn but smiling face appeared.

“Well, you certainly fixed his morning.”

“Your people don’t have your lovable personality, Jamison. Lacking it, they very soon become annoying bores.”

“Oh, my,” he said mildly. “I wish I’d known you were sulking this morning.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Well, one of my—uh—bores is on his way with a message. Something I didn’t want to go into on these leaky circuits, and I thought I’d save you the trouble of a trip over here. Now I’m having doubts about it.”

“It’s not that goat face—”

I caught myself before I said more. Still best not get Into that yet, something warned.

“Chrome.” Jamison cooled noticeably. “Good looks are favors from the Gods; one should be grateful to possess them. Being displeased with those less fortunate doesn’t become you. I think your King would be disappointed.” His tone became more informal. “Now, do you suppose you could cheer up a bit? Remember, this man is only carrying out my orders.”

A smile and a nod and he ended the transmission.

I sat down in the nearest chair, stunned. A rebuke like that and a direct reference to Vortex, something Jamison had never done to me before. Had his position, its authority begun to change him? Or, in fairness, had my disposition become warped to where such comment was necessary? Rubbing the back of my head where a dull ache was beginning, I went to answer the door.

“From Colonel Jamison, sir.”

The envelope extended to me went unnoticed. In view of the reprimand I’d just received, was this Jamison’s idea of a joke? Even in the dull gray Security Force garb, the male standing before me could have been a Warrior, handpicked to complement Vortex himself, and even echo those fabled features. That is, at first sighting. Then the surprise wore off and my senses detected the lack, an oddly marring void somewhere within.

“I’m supposed to wait.” The young man looked about vaguely as I stared at him. “May I come in?”

“Something tells me to say no,” I answered with an edge of sarcasm, “but that suit of yours camouflages a bulk foolish to argue with.”

He threw back his head and laughed with such complete enjoyment I had to smile and gesture for him to enter.

“We’re going to be friends, Lord Chrome,” he said with a radiant grin of nonlethal intensity. “I like that. Here, take the envelope and read what’s in it. Excuse me.”

He went into the guest bathroom and closed the door. Obviously familiar with my quarters, I thought wryly, as who wasn’t these days. As I wandered into the living room, I read the envelope’s contents.

CHROME—

Time’s so short I hope you can decipher this scrawl.

S.O.R.A.’s denial of any interest in you does not convince me. I’m worried about your safety. Therefore, I ask you to accompany the bearer of this note who, acting as your bodyguard, will take you to more secure quarters. (A retreat of mine—one of the very few practical luxuries that go with this job!) I want you to stay there until you hear from me that it is safe to return.

If I didn’t think this was of absolute necessity, I would never impose it on you. I’m sure you know that. Please depart immediately.

Your friend,

J.

I sat and frowned at the note. Donald’s touching offer of warmth and friendship, then quickly on its heels, banishment—another farther exile. Was I ultimately to end up alone on a barren dot of land in the middle of some long-forgotten sea?

“Finished reading?”

I’d heard the young man enter but had kept on with my thoughts. Now I saw he had a hand extended for the paper I held.

“I’m to burn that when you’re through.”

I tore it in two and gave it to him. Whistling tunelessly, he headed for the bathroom again. A flaring of reflected flames, the flushing of the toilet, and he was back.

“Well?” He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and regarded me pleasantly. “There’s food waiting for us and I’m hungry, so can we go?”

“No point in trying to say good-bye to a friend, I suppose.”

“Jamison already knows.”

“I was about to have one other friend, maybe, believe it or not!” My irritation was rising again. “Oh, never mind. Let me get my shaving things and—”

“Everything’s there already.”

“My shaving things aren’t. And I’d also like to put some clothes on.”

I glared at him and started for my sleeping quarters.

“May I come with you, Lord Chrome?” he asked, following along beside me.

Exasperated, I stopped. Denseness seemed high on the list of this fellow’s character traits.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,—uh—what’s your name?”

“Call me Rover. It was an ancient name sometimes given to dogs when they were kept as pets. When I discovered that, I took the name as my own. You see, I’m fortunate: I have a sense of humor about things as they are and must be.”

XXIV

The thermal glass capping the tops of the Desert Academy’s four highest structures could be glimpsed if one squinted upward from the opposite ends of the avenues on which each stood.

We’d always been told and therefore, of course, believed these giant bubbles housed the latest in hydroponic farming experiments, designed by an ever-beneficent S.O.R.A. in its diligent search for new and better methods of enriching Man’s food supply.

Perhaps some did.

I know the one to which Rover piloted us did seem to resemble a mammoth working greenhouse at first. Even from a distance its forest of lush vegetation could be seen, a veritable blanket of greenery. But at closer range one could make out through the high protective glass dome its recreational aspects—a thatch-roofed structure with its outdoor gymnastic equipment, the clay-surfaced running track which threaded its way through the foliage, the azure oblong of a competition-sized swimming pool.

Rover brought our two-man patrol copter to a feather-light touchdown on the landing platform just outside the furthest reach of the dome’s perimeter. Laughing at my wide-eyed amazement, he urged me out of the craft, then activated the automatic blocking system which rose to anchor its landing gear firmly in place. He voice-keyed us through the stoutly reinforced air-lock that was part of the bubble’s curving side, and we walked into the balmy flower-scented atmosphere of a tropical island!

At once the source of inspiration for all this struck me: Jamison’s memories of those summer islands of our training days. Had that same Oriental Cadet turned his hand to this refuge, too? I was never to know. It was entirely different from the Cabin, of course. The innermost end, the one which actually faced the building’s central core, was a cunningly designed false porch. Beyond its handhewn, wooden railing, half screened by exotic plants and vines, was placed an enormous three-dimensional photograph, a hologram in full color of an enticing beach with its lagoon and sand bar, its coral reef and a shining white sliver of surf against the deep turquoise beyond. One could easily imagine the faint boom of breakers rolling in from some far shore.

Too quick an about-face from this beguilingly pictured seascape could be a bit disconcerting, for the view the other way, out over the swimming pool, was of the CenMed Tower standing distant and tall against the arid reality of its desert background.

The structure itself was deceptively open, with sliding translucent panels to screen off different sections at will, finely woven floor matting made durable in some secret way, and a high thatched roof of simulated palm fronds over it all, the rafters of which concealed music speakers and lights.

Separate smaller structures, one for cooking, one containing bathing and toilet facilities, both connected to the main house by short roofed bridgeways. And instead of a cleaning crew, there was a benign mechanical monster set into the rest of the equipment behind the house. One placed refuse there, closed the metal hatch, and soon, noiselessly, it was gone.

A far cry from the Cabin’s elegant flow and polish, yes, but still the same release from unsuspected knots of tension. And, true to what I’d been told, everything needed was stored neatly in the cabinets which divided the sleeping areas. Clothing, sheets, towels, blankets.

Before we left my former quarters Rover had mentioned being hungry. Now he lost no time in bringing out our midday meal. It had been delivered automatically by miniature elevator from somewhere below and was waiting in the kitchen structure. He quickly set up two places next to each other at the outdoor garden table with its padded bench and began eating enthusiastically. I would have preferred to lunch in silence, but Rover was determined to talk.

His opening, something about being “—an early failure, you might say, from the T-men before you,” had brought a chill, then interior rebuke at my senseless reflex. Who was I to feel apart or superior!

“Yes, and of course their probe techniques were so primitive, some portions were completely destroyed during the Restoration Procedure. But you know, Chrome,” soft brown eyes intent on mine, he moved closer to me on the bench, “the brain is a marvelous mechanism. Mine formed other pathways, found other means of moving thought-patterns. True, they’re sometimes alien to yours, but they work!”

He caught my wary glance at his hand on my thigh and chuckled as he removed it.

“Sorry. I still forget sometimes. I should have explained that the very first.”

He slid back to leave distance between us.

“You see, the largest portion of damage was in the emotional centers. I can feel loyalty and a kind of, oh, you might say devotion,” he grinned and leaned forward to pat me on the head. “So don’t worry about me not taking good care of you: I value human life greatly. But the point is I don’t love; I have no sexual responses. I understand what they are, naturally, but they don’t occur for me.”

His detachment from the subject matter of himself as a life form was cheerful and completely clinical.

“For example; they made my face over, changed it into something very handsome. How, I don’t know, but

I think that was a miscalculation. You see, I’m very good at comforting others. It’s a natural accomplishment but it can be a problem, because people get a wrong impression. It’s mistaken for that variety of affection which arouses the individual to sexual stimulation. When that happens, all I feel is embarrassment —for the other person.”

He studied me as if he wondered how much had gotten through.

“I understand. You explain things very well, Roger—uh—I mean, Rover.”

I smiled at the name in spite of myself, then started to apologize.

“No, no, Chrome. I like it if you’re amused, believe me; I don’t have feelings which can be hurt. Oh, I feel physical pain like anyone else,” he explained hastily, “so don’t go around kicking me. But I never become sad if you laugh at what I do or say.”

Suddenly he rose and stepped clear of the table.

“Chrome,” he said earnestly, “when you’re of a mind to, please tell me about King Vortex, will you? Look.”

He tossed his jacket aside and stripped off his shirt. With no apparent effort he flipped into a handstand, supporting himself on fingertips. Then slowly elegantly, he arched and adjusted his weight, until he was balanced on the fingertips of only one hand!

“Gods!” I breathed as he flipped to his feet again, displaying an incredible upper body, “That’s fantastic!”

“Yes,” Robert agreed amiably, sitting down next to me again. “You see, my ambition was—well, it still is—to be a Warrior. For now that’s impossible, so it’s good to be part of Colonel Jamison’s forces. He likes me, trusts me; I know that, and I’m pleased. I would enjoy to hear of King Vortex, though. I saw him once, Chrome! Only a tri-video hologram broadcast, from the amphitheater at the time of the Ceremony, but—”

He silenced the chattering to look at me carefully.

“You understand that I am good at comforting, don’t you? Once you’ve become accustomed to me, we’ll sleep together and then you’ll see.”

I drew a breath and he cheerfully waved the matter ‘ away.

“But don’t bother about that now, Chrome.”

* * *

In the afternoon, I awakened after a nap, feeling happier than I had in a long time. Perhaps the tropical atmosphere carefully formulated and preserved under the thermal glass dome which covered us, brought back memories of carefree days in the summer islands filled with sunshine and surf and youthful foolishness. At any rate, in a burst of excess energy, I threw off everything and sprinted to land with a wild yell and a flat racing dive in the pool. When I came to my senses, panting and splashing after several bursts of competition laps, Rover waited on the edge watching with interest. He had on black racing briefs and handed me a pair, along with a towel. I used the towel and thanked him but tossed the briefs back. Just as fast, he returned them to me.

“Put them on, Chrome.”

“Why should we wear anything? Gods, they’re not monitoring this, are they?!”

“I don’t understand that. But I will not become sunburned there; it’s very painful,” he said firmly. A twinkle crept in. “Nor will I risk the embarrassment of your being—uh—overcome by my winning ways.”

He flexed his muscles and posed suggestively (at least he knew what had appeal), then ducked and ran as I yelled oaths and pretended to hurl stones from the pool’s ornamental edging after him.

“Put them on, little boy, and don’t argue,” he called from a safe distance.

“You’re beautiful,” I shouted. “It’s too bad they scrambled your brains!”

It rang in my ears, turning me cold and sick inside.

“Right!” His laughter came back. “Just think where I’d be with your mind!”

I forced myself to swallow and take deep breaths, as I got into the briefs and sat down by the edge of the pool. What kind of being had I become? To say a thing like that to someone who—

“Chrome...?” He knelt beside me. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the CenMed Tower out there.”

“But what happened?”

He turned my face to his. I could see he was genuinely puzzled, and that didn’t help at all.

“I—I was just trying to make a joke, Rover.”

“Yes, I know. We were having fun. I liked it, Chrome. I really did.”

He got up, pulling me with him, took the towel and began drying me more thoroughly.

“I can do that.”

“I know,” he smiled, “but I’m here to take care of you, and I want to begin.” He put my hands on either side of that narrow waist. “Now hang on, I’m going to dry your hair.”

He toweled at my head vigorously and I tried to think of something other than the steel-under-warm-velvet my hands embraced. Draping the towel around my shoulders, he combed my hair back with his fingers, stepped away to eye it critically and then reworked the sides.

“Hmmm,” he said as he finished.

“What does that mean?” *

“You have green eyes.”

“They’re blue.”

“Green.”

He cupped my face in his hands, tilting it up as he bent to peer from one eye to the other. His breath was soft against my lips. I steadied myself by holding onto the steel-and-warm-velvet again and began to realize the briefs had been an excellent idea.

“Of course!” Something dawned, and Rover pushed me back. “I called you ‘little boy’; that’s what made you angry just now.” He shook his head and sighed. “Oh, Chrome, come here. In truth, I meant no harm to your feelings.”

I managed to get the thick folds of the towel between us just as he pulled me to him. Pressing my head against his chest, he patted me gently and murmured reassurances. Very competent at comforting, indeed, I thought grimly as I felt the warmth grow in my groin. The smooth clean skin next to my face; it smelled good enough to eat. I groaned and cursed the notion.

“What is it, Chrome?”

“I’m hungry,” I answered, not altogether untruthfully.

“Good.” He let go enough to drape an arm over my shoulder and head us for the house. “We’ll give you a shower and then—”

“Oh, Gods, no shower, I couldn’t take it! I mean, I don’t need one!”

“It’s always wise to get the pool chemicals off, Chrome,” he said reasonably. “It won’t take long.”

‘Right! Just about three good strokes the way you’re going at it now, seducer-of-children!’ I thought, then prayed I hadn’t given voice to it.

Something would have to be done, though; images were crowding in and refusing to leave: Warm water coursing down my body, this beautiful muscle-bound madman working me over with soapy lather, those big competent hands of his sliding—I

“Rover.”

I ducked free of his arm and stopped, towel clutched in front of me.

“Yes, Chrome?”

“You said this embarrasses you and I don’t mean to, but I’m—Tm not ready for this much physical contact.” He looked blank. “I know you weren’t trying to do anything, but my body seems to have gotten another idea!”

His eyes dropped to the towel and considered it.

“Oh, that. Well, you’re never going to get used to me if you run away.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “I like you, Chrome. I’m not bothered by anything about you, so let your body become confused if it wants to. Give it time—”

“Exactly what I need, Rover,” I cut in. “A little time!”

“Go take a shower by yourself, then,” he said calmly. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

* * *

During games I sometimes became short of breath and dizzy; too much exercise after almost none was the only cause, I insisted. Upon these occasions, Rover had the infuriating habit of grabbing me up in his arms and carrying me off to rest. To struggle against that power was useless; oaths and wild threats meant nothing, either. He merely held me tighter and kept going until we reached the nearest shady soft place. There he’d stretch out, still grasping a wrist or ankle as I gave up and relaxed.

It came to me that, in a kind of reverse seduction, Rover was working gradually to desensitize me. Handling me, touching me, even impersonally brushing off erotic zones, until at last I could accept his attentions almost as casually as they were given. It became customary for him to hold my arm or hand as we walked along through the carefully plotted pathways of our glass-domed tropical forest. I even amazed myself by firmly retrieving his hand one time when he’d taken it from mine to gesture at something.

In the beginning, evenings, all too reminiscent of the Cabin, were difficult for me. There was a softly glowing fire-pit in the center of the living area with cushions around it. The same sort of excellent music system. I immediately culled the guitar music from its tape library and stacked it away in a storage section; there’d be no heartbreak risked here.

Rover questioned this. My reply that it brought back too many memories silenced him only momentarily. Soon he introduced the subject again, tactfully, obliquely, and it was clear he would not be put off.

“Rover, it causes pain to think those thoughts. You’ve said that doesn’t happen to you, but surely you can understand—”

“Of course. That’s exactly why I want you to tell me. You’ve learned to accept my being close with you like this without it troubling you. In just the same way, if you’ll give voice to the memories, the pain will leave.”

He had a mighty arm draped around me as we sat before the fire and some moments ago had idly captured one of my feet with his. To argue his point would be difficult to do in view of how at ease I felt

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is, Chrome. Tell me. Please.”

His coaxing had a childlike disarming quality, and before I knew it, I was describing the Cabin, my going there, my meeting Vortex—

Rover almost knocked me over in his haste to turn around, eyes fairly glowing at the mention of that magic name. I must go back a little and tell it again; he hadn’t realized this was Vortex I was speaking of. I had come into the room, yes, and he was standing there, yes, and his arms? Encased in black plastic cylinders?

“Gods, Chrome!” he breathed.

I had to laugh at his excitement. He must hear it all; he must know everything! It soon became all too clear, though, that I now was trapped. If I tried to skim over an incident, unerringly he sensed it and pounced.

“You’re leaving out something.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. You were massaging him and then what happened?”

“Rover, it has to do with sex—”

“I know. They didn’t scramble all my brains.” I winced. He patted my head and smiled. “Now, go on. Just say what happened next”

Somehow his reasonableness made it possible. When I stumbled and balked at the first encounter with Rond H’Lokk in his craft high above the desert, Rover shook his head patiently.

“Don’t you see? I may have a chance to become a Warrior one day. Perhaps that sounds a foolish dream to you, but I believe it can happen—and I must know all about them.”

“But, Rover, not all Warriors are—uh—for men.”

“Apparently this one was. Please explain what took place.”

I hesitated, then touched lightly on a detail or two.

“Oh.” The dawn broke. “Well, I can’t do that.” Then with cheerful assurance, “But it doesn’t matter; I know all about it first hand.” I stared at him. “In the hospital after the Restoration Procedure. I awoke one night and this orderly had me in his mouth. I was, of course, puzzled and—”

“Rover...”

“Yes, and of course nothing happened. Because nothing could. But he didn’t know that. He was really aroused, and then he became completely angry when he found out that I couldn’t—”

“Rover. ..?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care!”

“Well that’s what I meant about my being embarrassed. And why it’s different with you; when your body become confused, you do your best to hide it. You’ve never made me uncomfortable, and I like you for it. Now go on, please.”

The first night I fell asleep talking, absolutely worn out, only to awaken, and find he’d carried me to my couch and was about to join me in the darkness.

“What in the name of the Goat God—!”

I pushed at him to let go of me and get up.

“I mean no harm. You know that by now, Chrome. I only want—”

“Will you please go away? Now!”

A pause, a near-inaudible “Yes,” and I heard him pad to his couch on the other side of the cabinets which partitioned our sleeping areas.

The next day. That evening. The following day. That evening, and at last I was through; I’d told him everything. At the sensual parts he’d nod politely or stop me shrewdly at attempted omissions, but matters of fighting and uniforms and weapons—! These brought forth a veritable battery of avid questions and requests for retelling. I grew dizzy with talking; hoarse, numb, exhausted. Ultimately I threw myself onto the pillows by the fire-pit with a great exhalation of relief.

“There! You have it all, Rover, everything. Now, please, not another question out of you!”

He was quiet for some little time. Then he spoke in a tone I hadn’t heard from him before; an element of suspicion had entered.

“I’ve been wondering. The two of us in this situation. It has many elements.”

“Of what?”

“The past. Of you and Vortex and the Cabin.” He paused and frowned in thought. “Jamison might know. He was in charge following the plastic surgery. He was one of the first people I learned to recognize after the Restoration Procedure. But no; the times aren’t right. You see, they gave me this face, remade it, long before Vortex struck the bargain with S.O.R.A. for your freedom; even before you were selected from your graduating class as a Warrior candidate.

“Perhaps S.O.R.A. had earlier planned some other means of catching Vortex off guard and assassinating him, and then using the ruse of my redone looks, at a distance, as a substitute for his. It would have made Vortex appear leader of some treachery which actually had originated with S.O.R.A. Yes, the resemblance I bear to Vortex may have been created as part of some such deviousness as that.”

“But certainly not to act as merely ‘gift wrapping,’ the eye-catching outer cover of a thoughtful present from Jamison,” I said. “To ease the loss, to pacify me and deflect my attentions? Hardly now, at this late date!”

“Please, Chrome, no offense. I’m not comparing myself with Vortex. I could never begin to give you what he—!”

“The point, Rover.”

Silence as he studied me with those soft brown eyes.

“I’m wrong to think this guarding here with you was planned far in advance. It’s only part of a coincidence. A wonderful coincidence—for me, at least.”

Warmly he started for me.

“Rover,” I got up quickly, “I can’t stay now. I’m very tired. It’s late and I’m going to bed—which I’ve learned how to do very well by myself!”

This last was to further ward him off. I had to get away and sleep.

“You’ve told me so much, Chrome. I know it wasn’t easy; I just wanted to thank you.”

He had said he couldn’t be hurt, so maybe the pain I saw in his eyes was a trick of light from the fire-pit.

* * *

Sleep came quickly that night but was fitful, filled with tossings and turnings. Around midnight I gave up and sat on the edge of my couch.

Whatever giant mechanisms controlled our bubble’s atmosphere worked noiselessly now to renew it; their labors caused the warmth of a slight breeze to rustle the carefully wrought palm fronds which thatched the roof. Against the faint glow of night lights from the sleeping Complex far below us, I could see Rover’s outline. He was hunched up on the ledge of the porch nearest me. Guarding? I coughed quietly and pretended a yawn to tell him of my approach.

“What are you doing, Rover?”

Sitting down beside him, I followed the gaze to the star-filled velvet sky.

“Wishing.” Said simply, the word closed around my heart. “Warriors are out there, aren’t they, Chrome.”

The lonely longing in his voice, an impossible goal, the unfairness of it—I put my arm across as much of his shoulders as possible.

“And you deserve to be among them. You’d be a magnificent Warrior, the equal of any I’ve known.”

He caught his breath and turned.

“You mean it, Chrome, in truth? Oh, Fm pleased by that.” He looked longingly back to the sky. “Someday it could happen, I know it could, so I must wait. Even though there’s nothing for me here.”

He claimed no feelings, but the yearning in his tone as he spoke the last moved me deeply. ‘Even though there’s nothing for me here’

I got up. It was time now at least to try.

“Nothing, Rover? Well, if you would comfort me, I would do my best not to—”

He loomed above me. Another instant and he had picked me up and was headed for his couch.

“But let me put something on. Just some trunks, anything. Please, I don’t think I can— Oh, Gods, Rover, not everything at once!”

He had swiftly stretched me out, arms around me, leg pulling me firmly to him, head nuzzled against mine, muscles bunching with his care to be gentle in everything as he stroked me.

“This is so good,” he breathed. “Why did you make me wait?”

“Because,” I swallowed with difficulty, “of wh-what’s happening right now. What you’re doing is making me very—”

“Will you forget about that?!” His leg brought me securely to him and he lay even more deliberately against me. “With you it doesn’t matter. I’ve already told you.” A low deep chuckle. “I’ll have notices posted about our quarters tomorrow to remind you of that fact.” Lips against my ear, he murmured, “Now stop trembling and put your arms around me, little boy. I won’t hurt you.”

* * *

From then on we were never apart except for the functional necessities. When we showered together, Rover insisted that I wash him as completely as he did me, and gradually I became able to move through handling him without arousal. We went everywhere together, did everything together, always touching as if one were the other’s supply of life force.

One day, during our slow jogging along the clay-surfaced running track, we had paused to rest in the shade. I glanced at Rover and found him studying me. That wonderful devoted smile; I let my fingers trace his lips.

“You want to know—what, Chrome?”

He always knew when a question or thought was forming, many times before I did.

‘Now. Do it now, Chrome. If you have any intelligence, use it. Help him!’

The interior clamor had to be silenced.

“Close your eyes, Rover,” I said, and “and relax.”

I put a hand on either side of his forehead and began. Even before the Forest Giants arrived, I was formulating the supplication... please aid in this healing... a most worthy subject is before us, Gods of Forever... looking upon him with love... repair the destruction wrought by wretched men...

In the tropic warmth beneath the protective thermal glass dome there was a gentle swirling. The cool mist of a rain-drenched forest touched me and descended upon Rover, too. He drew a slow deep breath.

“Beautiful... Oh, Chrome...!” he whispered.

Thankfully, expectantly I began the healing prayer-thoughts. Almost at once there was a sense of diminishment and withdrawal. Calm negation echoed around me, and then the Immortals were no longer there. I waited, quietly repeating the prayer-thoughts, but there was no answer. The power had gone!

Deeply immersed, as usual, in misinterpretation I felt despair wash over me, for I was sure the Immortals had signaled it was hopeless; healing was impossible. Thinking this, I naturally missed the reality of what they had indicated: there was, in truth, nothing here which needed curing. Rover’s mentation pleased them greatly and they had blessed him for it.

As I withdrew my hands and folded them in front of me, Rover raised my face to his. His eyes widened in disbelief at my tears.

“But you must know by now; I already love you, Chrome. Isn’t that enough?”

It could break one’s heart, if there were pieces enough left for that sort of thing. Miserable, I rubbed at my chest and looked around for something to comment on.

“Come.” He got up and held out his hand. “We’ll go and listen to some music.”

I let him pull me up and gather me in beside him.

“They said you know things that we don’t,” he said.

“If there were any way for me to be a Warrior you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

I nodded. Clearing my throat brought my voice back.

“I know nothing. But if I had my way you’d command my King’s Honor Guard!”

“How I would like that!”

Those strong white teeth flashed in the sunlight. He drew me closer to him, and we started back.

XXV

It was nearing midnight when our domed tropical stronghold’s alarm system sprang to life for the first time. Its shrieks of warning shot me out of bed to land in a fighting stance before I quite knew what was happening. I shook my head to clear it and saw Rover crouched in front of me. Long-bore radiation rifle at the ready, he faced the glare of searchlights beyond the pool area.

The object which had triggered the alarm system, a large Security Force cargo copter, cut its jet drive and settled its swollen, black bulk downward through the blazing searchlights. Given the correct magnetic input by this invader, the illumination dimmed to normal landing lights, the sirens cut off abruptly, the javelin-like spikes of the steel anti-landing poles withdrew into their sheathings beneath the paved surface of the landing pad, and the huge copter came to rest next to where our smaller one was anchored.

I recognized Donald through the thermal glass even before he reached the air-lock. Rover looked at me quizzically as I yelled his name and waved.

“Please, Chrome, wait here.”

His touch was gentle, but he’d never used that command tone or fixed me with such a gaze before. It effectively stilled whatever protest I’d been about to make and kept me rooted in place.

“Listen on the intercom if you like,” he said with a slight smile and a pat on my head.

There wasn’t too much to hear. I could see Rover pause to look Donald over, then there was the gentle whooshing of the air-lock as it opened.

“Provisions?” came Rover’s question over the intercom.

“Where’s Chrome?”

“Inside. Are you alone?”

Donald peered past him, then stared down at the rifle Rover had lowered to bar his way.

“Of course I am. Have you lost the rest of your mind, idiot?” Donald snapped. “Stop this silly guard business. I don’t have time for it!”

As he pushed past Rover and came hurrying in, I went out to meet him. He looked the same as when I’d last seen him—a bit paler perhaps—but his manner, withdrawn, abrupt, was alien to me. With a sidelong glance at Rover, who arrived to stand large and impassive next to him, Donald brushed aside my greetings. He held up an oblong plastic cartridge.

“Chrome, can we go inside? I have a video tape here from Jamison; it’s important.”

“About the—the entity next to Mother Mona?” I asked eagerly. “Were you able to find out about—”

The look in those burning amber eyes silenced me. Seconds went by.

“Yes,” Donald finally answered, his voice tightly controlled. “He was your paternal donor. But you knew that already when you asked me, didn’t you.”

“I—I felt it to be so.”

“Well, Jamison has all that material now—about his origin, his background; I gave it all to Jamison. Most of it was superstitious nonsense about the male having come from a planet other than this—”

“Gods!”

“No, Chrome, not Gods!” Donald cut in with bewildering sharpness. “From another planet?! That’s ridiculous, utterly illogical. The records clearly show his emplacement occurred in 1997, and everyone knows Earth wasn’t visited by the Confederated Galaxies until well after the end of the Last Earthly War!”

There was a certain sweaty panic in Donald’s haste, almost as though he were running away. And I suppose in a sense he was—trying, in vain, to run away from something within himself. I exchanged a quick glance with Rover, who gave me the slightest of winks, and then returned to his calm contemplation of Donald.

“But never mind that now; Jamison will tell you all about it. He’s given me two very important tasks. The first begins with you saying this three times: ‘It looks like there’ll be a sunset.’ “

I stared at him.

“Go ahead, Chrome,” Donald prodded impatiently, “don’t argue; just say it.”

Feeling rather foolish, I did. As the last of the third repetition left my mouth, the realization flooded through me: It was the key phrase!

Unlocked, the hidden barricade within my mind vanished; events tumbled forth so fast that to sort them was difficult. First off, though, I realized what had caused the deep inner relief I’d felt from Donald’s secret work that night in my quarters. He’d removed the implanted commands enforcing my “impotence,” so my mind and body had been freed to function as they had before. And—

“I am not sterile!”

“You never were. From the very first session, the sperm gathered was placed in radiated containers by our medical staff-member agents, so the contents would be completely sterile by the time they reached the labs.

“Jamison had found out that the scientists of the Committee were bound to pass along to S.O.R.A. the results of what you so rightly called ‘semen robberies,’ that they would be auctioned off to the highest bidders—whether from planets within the Covenant or from pirate worlds didn’t matter. This, Jamison knew, would seal Earth’s doom, for it was in direct conflict with the provisions stated by the Galaxies’ Greater Council. So he ordered the hypnotic block and the sterilization of all sperm specimens. The rumor was carefully spread: Rond H’Lokk’s dagger had been so radioactively poisoned that its use in your attempted suicide had rendered you sexually valueless forever. The plan worked; you were left alone.”

There was much I wanted to ask, but Donald, his manner increasingly agitated, pressed on.

“And next, there’s the business of this tape.”

Rover, somehow larger, had placed his bulk between Donald and me, which only increased Donald’s irritation.

“Would you mind, Rover? You’re standing right in my way! The—uh—the tape, Chrome!”

Something inside me warned to remain calm and friendly.

“Yes, I know, Donald, but I don’t, think we have a machine here. At least I haven’t—”

“You do. Jamison told me it’s here.”

Dubiously I went over to the sound system’s control panel and pushed aside its sliding cover. Sure enough, there at the bottom was a slot for videotape.

“Hope the equipment’s in working order,” I said as I examined the cartridge Donald handed me. “This is marked ‘Sure-erase/one-time-only.’ “

Rover had amiably crowded in and now took the cartridge. He shook it gently and put it to his ear. Donald made an exasperated sound as he tried to get it back.

“You don’t listen that way, idiot. Here, give it to me. They really did scramble your brains, didn’t they!”

Rover looked at him mildly.

“Sometimes these tick, Donald—and they’re not supposed to tick, are they. I just don’t want us to be surprised.”

Ignoring the tension being generated between the two of them, I wondered about the choice of cartridge. The very action of inserting and viewing would scrape it clean, both mechanically and electronically.

“Why the one-time tape?” I asked, retrieving it from Rover.

“That’s all Jamison would allow because of the sensitivity of the material,” said Donald. “The equipment here was all checked out just before your arrival, and there’s a lead-in that automatically regulates the controls, so will you please, just put the thing in the slot and get this over with?”

Rover firmly took the tape away again, elbowed himself in between the equipment and me and slipped the cartridge into the playing slot.

“Over there, on the porch in front of the beach scene, Lord Chrome,” he said, gently turning me that way with an arm over my shoulder.

Tiny random flecks of electronic popping sparkled in that area as the vectoring beams formed their tridimensional cone. The taped lead-in formed its image; large colored cubes piled one atop another to about my height. Their colors and sharpness varied as the mechanism sought and found the correct balance. The cubes disappeared and, after a pause, were replaced by the image of Ann.

Wearing the drab gray of Jamison’s Security Force civilian uniform, she had been looking at a particular camera during the recording. Rover, arm around me, moved us to approximately the same area, and now as she spoke, she seemed, in truth, to address me.

“Free-man Chrome, there will be no time to see you before I leave, but Colonel Jamison has permitted me this means and opportunity to tell you myself that—”

Ann paused to glance down at a piece of paper she creased and uncreased. It was apparent she was under great stress.

“By now,” she went on, “I must assume Donald has removed the hypno-block and revealed to you the circumstances surrounding your supposed sterility.”

Another pause, then Ann looked up again.

“I will bear you a son,” she said. “Donald and I were married as soon as the tests were positive.”

The import of what she’d said refused to come to rest at first, and I remember being struck by how thoughtful it was of them to name their first-born after me. As she continued, though, her meaning became clearer.

“Even before you healed my arm, Donald and I felt very deeply about you, the losses you’d suffered, the injustice of your exile. Then when your one child was murdered and the rest of them taken from you, I suddenly knew what should be done. It would only have been with your full consent, believe me, but overnight everything changed. With Rover as guard, you were to be transferred to where you are now. There was no time, no opportunity to talk. So that night, our agent-friend came to see you, to bring you Donald’s note. Once the drug he put in your drink had taken effect, he let me into your quarters. While I prepared myself, he removed a specimen of your semen—enough for me to use with surety.

“When Colonel Jamison found out about this a short time ago, he—he was very angry. And rightly so, I can now understand. For he is most concerned and alarmed that S.O.R.A. will find out, realize it’s been deceived, that you aren’t sterile, and it will start its semen auctions again. That’s why he’s sending me away until after—”

As she cut the sentence short and paused, I looked at Donald. He seemed strangely detached; listening, but with a vague air of impatience, as if the tale had little or nothing to do with him.

“Chrome, I chose, I willed it that I shall bear your son.” Ann’s voice seemed about to break; she was clearly on the verge of tears. “None of us can help you; you’ll outlive us all. But perhaps with a son to guide, you’ll find some fulfillment.”

She turned abruptly and walked out of the prescribed area. The recording equipment, unable to compensate, let her image balloon weirdly, then shatter and disappear.

I looked at Rover, then followed his gaze to Donald who was nodding quietly to himself.

“I asked her if she wouldn’t prefer a natural coupling,” he said, “but she told me no, that she loved me and that no one else will ever possess her.”

He focused on me and our eyes locked for a long moment.

“Just tell Ann to teach the boy not to cry,” I said.

Donald was beginning to sweat heavily now. I wanted none of what some level within him frantically pleaded for, so I turned away. Experience should have told me of the hypnotic block he fought against, but even if I’d recognized his condition, there was nothing I could have done. The required inevitable ending was much too near him.

When I turned back, Donald and Rover had reached the air-lock. The intercom was still on, and as Donald ran a taunting finger down over Rover’s abdominal muscles, I could clearly hear the acid jealously in his laugh.

“Take good care of him, Rover; remember, that’s what they made you for!”

Rover pushed his hand aside.

“Anyone tries to harm him—I’ll strip their skin off piece by piece.”

After the air-lock had closed behind Donald, Rover’s quiet comment to himself caught me by surprise.

“Cross-eyed little toad.”

The unwieldy black bulk of the cargo copter slowly rose from the landing pad. I stepped outside to watch Donald circle us once. He swooped dangerously near the thermal glass dome covering us, then blazed into jet-drive and headed away. At “Rover’s involuntary yell of “No!” I started running toward the air-lock and got there just as Donald veered abruptly and nosed his craft into an almost vertical dive.

Aimed directly at CenMed Tower, it plummeted with ever-gathering speed, finally streaking down lightninglike to smash itself into the building’s base.

A tremendous gout of yellow-white flame arose to envelop the Tower. There were gigantic blasts from whatever secret explosives burdened the craft’s cargo hatches, then shock waves, which rocked our building and knocked me to my knees.

As Rover helped me up, he pointed to where the Tower had been. That part of the plaza looked as if a volcano had erupted and ripped it asunder. The holocaust of fiery rubble there, which had once been the structure’s massive framework, slowly melted and slumped into huge slaglike heaps even as I watched.

The mind, forced to stop sometimes, presents us with a blank to inspect while it rests, and so I missed the arrival of the Security scout-copter completely. My first awareness was of it parked there, the blinding glare of its search-beam zeroed in on Rover and me.

“Yes, Colonel, we’re sure he’s all right,” the sergeant beside me reported into his mouthpiece. “They’re both in good condition.”

“Rover,” came Jamison’s amplified voice from the copter’s interior speaker, “are you up to some piloting?”

The sergeant gave a reflexive twitch as Rover gently collared him and bent close to speak into his mouthpiece.

“Of course I am, Colonel Jamison.”

“Good. I want to see you and Chrome here in my office as soon as possible. Escort them over, Sergeant.”

* * *

“We suspected nothing until a few days ago,” Jamison told us as he paced in back of his desk. “A counteragent whom we’d captured broke under interrogation and identified Donald as a fellow S.O.R.A. spy. There’d been that blurred voiceprint we’d gotten from the night of the raid on the nursery; with the new information from the counteragent, we found it matched Donald’s perfectly.

“I had Donald brought in, and he finally told us the details. During your prayer-thought trance, as you worked with Ann at the therapy pool, he heard you speak of some disaster; foreknowledge of the event was building within you. You see, you do know things ahead, Chrome. Mixed in with the other ritualized words. Donald heard you asking the Immortals for protection; clearly it wasn’t for yourself or for Ann.”

“For who, then? What did I say?”

“He heard you repeat ‘for them, for them,’ but the rest was too jumbled to follow. In your quarters afterwards, he decided to force the knowledge to surface and present itself to your conscious mind. There was great resistance. To overcome it, he hypnotically pressured too hard, a thing never to be done. The result? Your subconscious knew you couldn’t face that future truth of the slaughter and kidnapping, so it literally struck out at him—all the harder since it probably realized he was connected with the danger. Then, doing the best it could to comply with his commands, it demanded to see the children. An excellent clue, but one which Donald used only for himself. He naturally made no attempt to contact any of us here at Security headquarters, but he did use a scrambler circuit to get through to the nursery installation and alert his fellow S.O.R.A. agents there to possible interference from us. Of course, by the time we intercepted the transmission and managed to get out there, it was all over.”

Jamison sat down behind his desk and looked at us stonily.

“Donald was part of that plot. From Security’s point of view, I had to execute him anyway, so I decided to make it a useful death. After a session of programming under heavy narco-hypnotic sedation, I sent him on his way.”

“You trusted him to bring Ann’s tape over to us, and to—?” I stopped at a loss for words.

“In his way he was quite devoted to Ann, and you know some of what he seems to have felt for you,” Jamison said dryly. “Besides, after our therapy group finished with his mind, he had no alternatives.”

“Then you engineered his blowing up the Tower?”

“Even loaded the Helixamite bombs into the hold of his cargo plane for him. From what our counterespionage group told us, it wasn’t a moment too soon to seal off those crypts from S.O.R.A.’s clammy probings. You’ll agree, won’t you, that Mother Mona and the others there deserve some rest? Chrome?”

I looked back at him.

“Of course, I agree. It’s just— I was trying to figure how he knew so much about the hypnotic blocks.”

“He was the one who’d implanted the suggestions; he’d headed our team that handled you. It’s always better to work with the original in these cases. But,” Jamison quickly added, “the unblocking of your enforced impotence, he undertook completely on his own. Some misplaced idealistic foolishness, or a desire to gratify Ann’s wish for a child—the other Free-men still are all sterile, you know—or maybe sleuthing for proof to convince S.O.R.A. of his worth, or whatever. At any rate, I had no knowledge of that at all.”

“That teen-aged delinquent headed a hypno-therapy team?!”

“It was part of his Gift, the hypnotic ability. We asked the Committee to trace it genetically, thinking maybe it could be stabilized into a Propagation Formula. There were too many factors, though, and also a hint of some unauthorized tinkering— Oh, that reminds me, Chrome—here’s something that’s bound to perk up this otherwise dull and uneventful evening of yours!”

He pressed a buzzer and in from the waiting room came two beefy Security Guards with a little weasel of a man sandwiched firmly between them. Rover and I looked at each other, then back to the man who bobbed a sort of greeting to the room in general. He blinked and in the silence began softly humming a monotonous three-note melody.

With that distractingly unmusical background, Jamison explained how Donald had unearthed him, almost literally, from somewhere in the lower levels. The scruffy little tunesmith had been one of the original lab. workers on the Robot Redevelopment Program which resulted in my coming into being.

Obviously addled, the man still had wit enough left to understand what was required of him now and happily proceeded to confide to Rover and me how one day he had found himself imbued with a sudden zest for unauthorized experimentation.

“Yes, you see I was passing by the Sleep-Banks oh my way to work,” he explained, “and that’s when it happened. ‘Why use the random mixture of genetic variants served up by that ridiculous computer?’ the woman said. Well, she actually said ‘goulash,’ but ‘random mixture of genetic variants’ is what she meant. I knew that.”

“Who? Tell us which woman,” Jamison prompted patiently.

“The one we now know to be Mother-Mona. ‘Don’t do it,’ she told me. ‘Substitute Kozmo’s instead. You can do that easily, Willis, you know you can.’ “

“That’s his name: Willis,” Jamison threw in parenthetically.

“But what are Kozmos?” I asked.

“You mean ‘who is,’ Chrome, and show a little respect. Willis here says that’s the name of your paternal donor.”

“Gods!”

“Yes,” agreed Willis emphatically, “that’s exactly what they are: Gods. And Kozmo is what Mother Mona called him. They used to talk to me all the time, tell me what they wanted, make me understand how things had to be so that they’d one day be free. But they won’t say a’ word anymore. Once I had exchanged the cellular material, substituted Kozmo’s for the combination the computer had come up with, they turned away. Never spoke again, at least not to me. I think they found others they liked better.”

He stopped and looked around doubtfully.

“I don’t think I—I’m supposed to tell anything more.”

“Thank you, Willis,” Jamison said and nodded pleasantly.

The ferretlike man bobbed back and followed the guards out of the office. Jamison flicked at a stack of paper on his desk.

“Fortunately, the little fellow kept records of his own. Gibberish, for the most part, but it does substantiate the small amount of data we have from our own files.”

He held up this separate card for Rover and me to see, then referred to it for a moment.

“Your ancestor appears to have been a last minute addition to the Sleep-Banks, almost an afterthought, and evidently quite surly when it came to giving biographical information. The recording statistician notes a blue-eyed blond giant of a male endowed with abilities which sent several of the recording needles right off their graphs. But as far as where he was born, when, parents, profession, military history—it’s all blanks. Which is probably what gave rise to this pencilled-in surmise on someone’s part along the way that he had come from a planet other than Earth. Only two things are sure: he turned out to be a veritable geyser of a donor, and he demanded and was granted emplacement in the space directly adjoining Mother Mona.

“Well, when we nabbed him, Donald, he was right on the point of turning Willis and his records over to S.O.R.A. Can you imagine what would have happened if they’d learned the saga of that haunted little lab worker? Or read his notes here, where he refers to your paternal donor as a ‘traveler-from-beyond-the-stars’?”

Jamison raised an eyebrow and studied me.

“You wouldn’t believe how fast S.O.R.A. would move to tear the hinges off those Sleep-Banks and pop their occupants into defrosting cyclers. Never mind that they’d bungle the job just like they bungle everything else and only end up with flesh-colored slush; a little thing like that wouldn’t stop those madmen.

“No, as Galaxy representative, and as a human being, I couldn’t and wouldn’t allow that. And I didn’t. The Tower has been destroyed, and the blame for it will publicly be placed upon Donald, as an undercover agent of S.O.R.A. The entrance to the lower levels has been completely blocked, fused over by the remains, and it’ll stay that way. Because, after some very severe arm twisting by me, S.O.R.A. will be forced—”

Jamison got to his feet. His voice took on a mocking imitation of the professional rabble-rouser’s rant, and he raised a fist ceiling-ward.

“—to declare this heap of slag to be a mighty pyramid! A public monument! Remaining forever untouched, serving forever as a reminder of Government’s responsibility to cleanse and to purify itself!”

He broke out of his orator’s stance and, with a thin smile, sat down again behind his desk.

“You see?” he continued quietly, “I can sound just like those ass-heads, and better, when I have to.

“And there won’t be any slant-drilling, either, or side-wise tunnelings, because beneath the initial surface blocking, the next twenty levels down have been mined. And S.O.R.A. has been notified in detail of the planted explosives, and their proximity fuses!”

His smile, by now one of triumph, faded as he studied me.

“Rover, make an appointment for Chrome to see a doctor; he looks pale under that tan. Wouldn’t do any harm to have one of our local quacks—uh—I mean, our Medical Greats give him an exam. Probably wouldn’t do any good, either,” he shrugged, “but then...”

The smile returned as he looked from me to Rover and back again.

“And get your hair cut, both of you!”

XXVI

Exactly when I began having nightmares I can’t recall; it isn’t recorded in my notes, either. The subjects remained hidden, but the frequency increased to where even a nap carried with it an accompaniment of sighs and groans loud enough to awaken me and bring Rover to sit reassuringly beside me.

Then the hallucinations started. Not those flickerings in-and-out of past events. Nothing like them in the least. No, these were always new and different, but their subject matter was always the same—reunions with Vortex more real than reality itself—and their ending was always the same; at our touching of one another, Vortex and the rest of the illusion would shatter and vanish.

In our discussion of them, Rover ventured his opinion that rather than dreamlike states, they might be the foreknowing Vortex had predicted—or at least its beginning, the indication of its eventual development. I listened to him because he meant well, and I’d had no experience with that type of mentation. Within myself, though, I realized life had become little more than meaningless torture, and I secretly commenced my plans for as tidy a finish as possible. To placate Rover in the meanwhile, however, I agreed to follow his advice and seek out the wisdom of CenMed’s doctors.

The Senior Physician, a Dr. Leek, counseled as best he could. He even put me through a battery of tests, conducted them personally, by himself, an unheard-of-courtesy, but ended shaking his head.

“It’s not my wish to criticize those who restored your heart; they did a miraculous thing. But it has been left with the possibility of faulty action. Nothing, I’m sorry to say, which can be further corrected, and, on the other hand, nothing which will cause any physical debility.”

He looked at me speculatively.

“Yes, Dr. Leek? Is there something more?”

“Hmmm? Well, I just wondered if perhaps in moments of improper flow—a physical posture or some mental stress might trigger it—there would be an impairment of the brain’s blood supply.”

“In other words, Doctor, my heart is the cause of these hallucinations?”

“I mention it,” he cautioned, “only as a possibility.”

“But assuming it’s true, nothing further can be done?”

Dr. Leek looked unhappy, replacing various charts and papers into my folder, letting time and the silence answer for him. I got up to leave. He hurried to open the door, giving me an awkward little pat on the back.

“I’m afraid I’ve never been very good at this sort of thing, Free-man Chrome,” he said, “but, thank you for giving us the time to straighten ourselves out and get back on the right track again. We’ve all appreciated your sacrifice.”

It sounded like a farewell speech. Could he by chance sense I intended this to be the last time we would meet? I forced a neutral smile and shook his hand.

“Please, Doctor. I appreciate everything you have done!”

As Rover piloted us back to our bubble-domed retreat, I explained Dr. Leek’s findings.

“He feels the hallucinations may merely be a quirk of bodily chemistry. Think of me as you will, Rover, but I find it intolerable. The knowledge that I’ve been given what humans would call ‘eternal life,’ and now must live that life entangled in this growing madness—to be caught up without warning in a reunion with Vortex, only to have the unbearable happen, to have him disappear at my touch— I—I lack the courage to face it any longer.”

“You have no lack of courage, Chrome.” He sighed and shook his head. “I thought I had no feelings. Yet when you leave me, even for a short time as you did now at the clinic, it hurts so badly I’m almost sick from it. And the pain never stops until you’ve come back to me. So, you see, I understand.”

He brought the ship to a perfect landing on the rooftop docking area outside the thermal glass dome. After securing everything, we paused to look out across the desert to where the setting sun patterned the far mountains with purple and gold. Rover moved closer in the chill of the early evening air to put an arm over my shoulders.

“I only hope you’ll stay as long as you find it possible, Chrome. I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.”

* * *

My last meeting with Lance Corporal Jill Thalnoys was engineered by Rover.

Jamison had decided some of our security measures to protect me could be relaxed and we could go for short excursions on our own. With that in mind, duckbill caps and regulation work boots and several pairs of coverall-type Academy flight suits arrived via a military maintenance copter. Rover’s had obviously been specially cut to conceal his physique and, without being baggy or shapeless, managed to make him look like an ordinary, fairly stocky pilot.

“Is it all right?” he asked.

“Your tailor should either be jailed or promoted to Chief of the Camouflage Division. What about the hair?”

“Goes under the cap.”

“And that face?”

“The visor of the cap and dark glasses. I’ve worked this way before; people never even notice me a first time. We’ll blend right in with the passersby. Uh, why are you looking at me that way?”

“You’re habit-forming.”

“You say that because you know how much I like to hear it,” Rover beamed, then shook his head in mock disbelief. “If anyone had told me I’d end up like this, enslaved by a handsome young green-eyed Cadet—”

“Blue.”

“Green—I’d have called them more of a madman than I.”

“Not madman: Mastermind.”

He looked at me gravely for a moment.

“You’re the only one who has ever realized that I can reason well. And it’s best that way. It’s why I gave myself the name Rover, to throw people off. They end up talking in front of me as if I weren’t there, saying things they never would otherwise. I learn a lot that way. Even Jamison thinks me hopeless. He—”

Rover stopped, as if pondering the advisability of continuing this confidence, then shrugged.

“It’s a further sadness, Chrome, but you’re strong, and for safety and planning you should know of it.

“The other day in his office I was working with the laser-path puzzle he keeps on his desk; he didn’t think I was paying any attention. He took a call on the video-circuit from that doctor, the Senior Physician you saw. Jamison is—is tired of us, you and me, of pretending he cares. He has too many problems, too much burdening him. I heard him order it: ‘Pair the two of them off, then, I don’t care. Just get these lunatics out of my life. I don’t have time for either one of them anymore!”

Another shrug, a gentle half-smile, and Rover was off to arrange things with Lance Corporal Thalnoys.

* * *

Jill had on a very brief exercise outfit and acted convincingly flustered as I rev-thrusted my Hover Jag to halt beside her on an empty stretch of road beyond the Complex.

“Oh, thank the Gods it’s you, Free-man Chrome. One more vulgar workman with suggestive remarks and I don’t know what I’d have done!”

“Hard to know if that’s a compliment or not. Clearly I represent no threat in your mind.” I smiled. “What seems to be your problem?”

“I—I run here every morning and the sergeant picks me up. But today there’s no sign of him.”

“Well, let’s wait a while. Then if he doesn’t come, I’ll take you back with me. Would you like to sit inside here?”

I flicked the door sensor open. As she sat down I brought out the papers and unfolded them.

“You said you were grateful about your sister’s arm. What is her full name?”

Jill looked apprehensive.

“Ann Lillian Thalnoys. Why?”

I wrote it down in the blank I’d left for it and handed the sheets to her.

“Read it now or later as you wish. It’s in my handwriting; my will, naming you as executrix upon my demise or disappearance. It authorizes you to use all of my Academy credits as well as the trust funds now in my name to form a new trust for the care of Ann’s first-born child. It’s fully spelled out there. I’d like you to listen to this, though.”

She’d been staring down at the papers as though not really seeing them.

“Keep that document.” I glanced with an appreciative smile at her running outfit. “For the moment, I don’t know exactly where to suggest. At any rate, I’ve given a handwritten duplicate of it to Rover which he believes is the original and only one. He’s sworn to deliver it to you when—or rather, if anything should happen to me.”

I studied the instrument panel in front of me.

“Rover and I have become great friends. My death must not be permitted to cause him to suffer or to commit harm to himself. It’s your responsibility to have any sense of sorrow or pain or feeling of loss blocked from him completely and forever. Enough damage has been done him already, Jill, so take no memories from him, only make his grieving for me impossible. An elementary exercise in hypnosis; any of your people can do it. But quickly, as I’m sure you understand. The logistics I leave to your training and talents.”

“Why ask this of me?”

“I trust you to act in the best interests of both the parties I’ve mentioned.”

“But Colonel Jamison..?”

“What is it about ‘Time’s eroding tides’?” I asked evenly. “Doesn’t matter. It’s come to me that we’re no longer the friends I thought we were. Realizing that, I wouldn’t think of intruding on his valuable time with these minor, purely personal affairs.” I turned away to look at the dials and indicators. “Tears, Lance Corporal? I thought they weren’t permitted.”

“I’m neither on duty nor in uniform.” She caught her breath in a half-sob. “And it’s really more for myself; I’m so tired of seeing people being manipulated and used.”

“The passenger compartment—” I pointed.

“Thank you.”

She got out the tissues stored there.

“And yet I really have to worry about Jamison, Chrome. He’s changed lately, deteriorated so rapidly. It’s the burden of his position, of course. I’ve been his aide for long enough to have seen the pressure; I’ve even felt some of it myself. But he’s begun to rely more and more upon those injections of youth serum, almost as though they were addictive.”

“Maybe it’s not the serum that’s habit-forming, Jill.”

“Yes, I know. His power, at least in our Academy world, is close to godlike. It’s become difficult for him to delegate authority the way he used to. What the end will be I don’t know.”

I wished I still shared her concern, but could only manage a shrug as I continued.

“At any rate then, you accept the conditions of my will? And those concerning Rover?”

“Yes, Chrome, I’ll do my utmost to protect him and prevent him from—” She caught another uneven breath. “Oh, Gods, why can’t I find a way to prevent you!?”

I told her of Rover’s hopeless yearning to be a Warrior and of his words spoken toward the distant stars: “Until then I must wait, even though there’s nothing for me here.”

I started the motors, and the craft hovered above the roadway.

“You’d have me wait in my ‘eternal youth’ as you all died off one by one leaving me among strangers, probably degenerate savages at that? No, Jill. In truth, there’s nothing for me here.”

* * *

It was about this same time that an idea had come to me and kept nagging at my mind, a scheme to have a medallion made. A tribute, a small memorial to the white-plumed birds whose feathered courage and cunning and love had once saved my life. When I spoke of it to Rover, of how I wanted the object to become part of the gravesite out at the Cabin’s oasis, he was instantly excited.

“A splendid idea, Chrome, and I know a boy, just the artist for such a work. Will you meet with... What’s that look for?”

Only in jest, I had raised an eyebrow.

“Some eager young sculptor, perhaps,” I said, with a pretense of jealousy, “who, trembling, has already molded you into his secret fantasy?”

Rover’s eyes deadened.

“We swore there would be no sadness. Chrome, but please don’t joke that way. I can only play at this so far. There can be no one, I see no one— No, that’s wrong: I see them, but they don’t exist for me.”

As best I could, I apologized and promised there would be no more such foolishness from me, all the while realizing the time to go had, indeed, drawn near. If I was to begin bringing unhappiness to the only true friend I had— No, an end must come, and soon.

In his studio-workshop the young Cadet suggested by Rover had listened intently to my description of those brave lonely birds. I spoke only of how they looked, not of what they had done. Some of the boy’s Gift must have been to sense the unspoken, however; his finished work was everything I had wished for but could not say. The silvery-white metal was everlasting, he explained. A circlet of heavy roughly worked links clasped a thick, beaten, burnished disc. On the disc, so delicately incised it appeared at first as imagined shadows, was a design of four graceful curving wings.

Touched and amazed by its beauty, I looked up from the medallion and could not speak. My silence brought a slight smile to the boy’s lips.

“You described them well, Free-man Chrome. I merely took what you gave me and gave it substance.”

He bowed. I had wanted to ask about payment and was on the verge of it when, with a gesture which included me, he continued.

“We whom the Gods have smiled upon know it well. The greatest reward of all comes from using our art to bring forth our Gift as just that, a gift. Seeing you now, sensing your pleasure at receiving my work fills me with deep happiness. It is I who am most grateful, Chrome.”

His young voice was husky as he finished. Another quick bow and he hurried to open the workshop door for me.

When I showed the medallion to Rover upon my return, he took it with a sound of wonderment and examined every detail. After that, eyes fixed on some distant time, he closed his hands around it. Whether he wished to memorize the object, or receive something from it or perform some unknown mentation upon it, I had the sense and courtesy not to ask. He gave the medallion back so warm from his hands it seemed to live; I let that imagined life flow into me for some moments before I put the beautiful thing back onto its bed of cotton in the wooden case made for it by the Cadet artist.

* * *

As had the others preceding it, the most horrible hallucination of all came with no warning. I had paused before the fire-pit in our thatch-roofed tropical retreat; then suddenly it was no longer a fire pit but a brazier, and I stood in the living area of the Cabin!

Clad in a black uniform I’d never seen before, Vortex smiled at me by the huge glass doors leading to the swimming pool. He extended his arm, and as I was about to join him it happened. A familiar voice called sharply to us.

“No good-byes for me?”

The source was behind me; I spun toward it to see Jamison step out of the Cabin’s entrance hall. I heard Vortex catch his breath, and with good reason.

Colorless and shrunken, with his flesh hanging in loose folds, Jamison looked like his own corpse. Only the eyes were alive; burning coals in that skull-like head.

“Going to leave without a word? Typical of your kind!”

A parody of his grin as he advanced on us, and suddenly an atom pistol was in his hand, pointed at me. He motioned for Vortex to step clear and farther away.

“Yes, that’s right, Oh, Master-Bringer-Of-Death—very wise to show a fellow professional the proper respect.

“But—but Jamison,” I faltered, “what’s happened? What’s the matter? It’s me, Chrome!”

Dry, awful, chuckling as he came closer. Foam flecked his mouth’s edges.

“The last hours of serum-sickness,” Vortex said quietly. “Be careful, they become dangerous.”

“You didn’t really think I’d let you go, did you? I’ve let you play long enough and far enough; there’ll be no leaving. Ever. Not by you!”

With a swift movement he seized me, arm tight around my throat, the other hand with its atom pistol aimed at Vortex. Jamison’s breath came in short gasps which stank of decaying flesh. I tried to speak, but he tightened his arm and choked off any sound.

“No words, Chrome,” he voiced with difficulty through gritted teeth. “After Vortex leaves. Plenty of time to talk then. The two of us.”

He lapsed into mumbled phlegm-filled phrases, lips wet against my ear. I gagged and forced myself to think of how to fight this crazed being. Rond H’Lokk’s ceremonial dagger, yes; if I could get it free. My hand went slowly to where the scabbard was secured between my belt and waistband. Jamison’s arm jerked tighter around my neck. I fought for breath.

“Leave, Vortex. Get out. Now!” Jamison motioned at him jerkily with the atom pistol, then mocked, “Turn away, Oh, King, and go!”

Vortex hesitated for a moment, then went to one knee with head bowed. When he rose, it was to look at me as he once had during the amphitheater battle; a gaze of flames-and-fury-and-passion, but his voice was now scarcely more than a murmur.

“Farewell, Ahl-Chon-Chrome ...”

As he turned to leave, Jamison silently flicked the safety catch off the pistol. He raised it, aimed even more carefully at Vortex’s back.

The screams of my inner voices blended and exploded into a crashing wave of anger. Yelling hoarsely, I turned and struck with Ron’s dagger. Again and yet again. Jamison dealt me a backhanded blow with the pistol. As the flow of blood from the cut blinded me, I grappled him to the polished marble floor, there to slash and stab until I felt his struggles cease, until I heard Vortex’s firm voice.

“Enough, Chrome, enough! It’s over, done with—come here to me!”

Wiping my eyes to clear them of the blood, I staggered to my feet and half-fell into Vortex’s outstretched arms. At our touching, as always, he vanished and with him Jamison and the Cabin. I was once more back in our glass-domed retreat high above the Desert Academy complex. Rover held me in his arms as I sobbed and sought to catch my breath. His words of comfort blended eerily with those I had just imagined hearing from Vortex.

“That’s enough now, Chrome. It’s over and done with—you’re here with me!”

After some little time, when I had calmed sufficiently to be coherent, I related this latest hallucination to Rover. At its end he studied me in silent wonder for too long a time.

“What is it, Rover,” I finally prompted.

“Don’t—don’t you see. Chrome? We must go out to the Cabin as soon as possible. This is the time to test, to find out if these are foreknowings,” he said with growing excitement. “You’ve had the medallion made, and planned to take it out there to the oasis, and now this—this altered state of sensing presents itself. What if it is foreknowing, Chrome? You must find out.”

I objected and tried to put him off, but he persisted.

“You must, Chrome. If it’s not, then nothing will happen; you’ll proceed on up to the oasis with the medallion as planned.”

“You make it sound so easy, Rover. What if it is foreknowing? What then?” I asked with an involuntary grimace, as I remembered Jamison’s crazed foam-flecked mouthings.

“Then you will be brave about it and face it, because awful as the prospect may be, if it’s actual foreknowing, then at its finish, Vortex will be there; you’ll be reunited with him at last and for certain, because that will have already been foretold by what you’ve just experienced now.”

He watched me shake my head as if to clear it. My mental equilibrium had begun to unstabilize at these somersaults in Time, and I marveled at Rover’s ease and dexterity in juggling it all.

“Are you sure you didn’t make that whole story up about them scrambling your brains, Mastermind?”

Rover smiled and pretended to cuff me, using that as an excuse then to grab me and hold me close again. His grip tightened.

“I—I don’t know what I’ll do,” he said brokenly.

He patted at me as he collected himself. To help us both I joined in with mock chiding.

“You were the one who told me these emotions didn’t bother you, remember,” I said sternly.

He gave me a small sheepish smile.

“Well, I’m loyal—but I—I guess I lie sometimes.”

* * *

The next day, dressed in the camouflaging uniforms Jamison had sent, we drove out to the Cabin. Rover accompanied me as far as the flat stone slabs leading up to the deep set entrance arch. There he stopped and brought out a wrapped package.

“Rond H’Lokk’s dagger, Chrome,” he said in answer to my questioning look. “If the hallucination is truly foreknowing, you must have it for protection—and also for fulfilling all the circumstances and details of the future knowledge. I mean, you can’t just pick up a butter knife from the table and expect it to do the job!”

“But in that case, the dagger must be ready for use.”

A trusting steady look into the very center of me as he unwrapped and handed it to me. I pulled it far enough out of its scabbard to see that the blade was untouched, spotless. After a moment, I sheathed it and slipped the scabbard between my belt and waistband.

“But, Chrome—” Rover took my face and raised it to his. “If you have no use for it in the Cabin, then you must leave it at the oasis along with the medallion.”

At last he released me. Great fondness and the ghost of a smile.

“Your eyes, they are green.”

A moment for me to memorize that handsome loyal face.

“Yes, Rover, and you’re the only one in all my life ever to have realized.”

I turned quickly and made my way up the slope and across the bridge of heavy wooden beams without looking back. The entrance grill floated up without a sound, and the opalescent stones set into the edges of the floor sprang to life with their soft greeting gleam. Even though by now I knew full well these were actions merely activated by sensors, it was all weirdly suggestive of someone waiting for me within.

I entered the Cabin’s living area cautiously. All was as I had remembered it, but with no sign of life.

I waited, trying to remember how the hallucination had begun. Yes, the brazier—I’d been looking at it. I moved there, stood pretending to examine it, muscles tensing with the knowledge that at any second I might hear that awful crazed cackling.

As the moments became minutes, though, I realized with a sharp stab of sorrow the waiting was in vain. It wasn’t foreknowing. No blood would be spilled to stain the polished marble floor; the dagger was not to free me from Jamison’s maddened grasp; there’d be no Vortex for me at the end of an only-dreamed-of-battle. I must go on alone.

I pushed my way out through the glass doors to the courtyard with its pool. The bird cage had been removed, but the fountain splashed softly, and the citrus tree was doing well, I noted. Not pausing to be caught by the ghosts of what once had been, I continued on to the dry riverbed, refused to risk even a glance up at the bluff with its cave. My thoughts must be kept concentrated and controlled, focused only on this present moment of time, the now wherein I moved and breathed and had my being.

It was more difficult than I’d imagined. Not the actual going; there was no effort to that. No, it was the host of memories which clustered around seeking to claim me for their own. But I would not give in to any of them. One stride after another, I thought firmly, then another, and you’ll be there. And soon I was.

Before me lay the oasis, its grove of palms, the pool of water sparkling in the sunlight. I faltered to a stop.

‘This is to be done calmly, Chrome, with respect and love and dignity,’ an inner voice lectured. ‘The Gods see all. To have them look with favor upon this action, you must earn their approval!’

Continuing around the palms to the other side and the mound of stones, I approached the crosslike market set in its base of concrete. Unweathered and unmarred as the day it had been placed there was its legend’s lettering:

ABD H’LOKK-MOND H’ZUM

Warrior and King

I took the medallion from my pocket. Touching it to my lips, I knelt, placed its links around the upright part of the cross and bowed my head for some seconds.

Next I brought out Rond H’Lokk’s dagger and drew it from its scabbard. I stared at the shining metal, still so sharp and lethal, and slowly the realization came. It was now I must at last decide. Rover had put me on my honor and so had many others. Here, alone and unaided, I must choose whether to betray their trust and die a coward’s death or fulfill their hopes and continue to live and fight.

Slowly I sheathed the dagger and placed it on the stones in front of the cross and medallion. Where would I get the strength to face the truth that I must go on with life forever exiled from Vortex? It would have to come from within, to be called forth by me somehow from within; that I knew.

‘And now, a smile. The Gods still wait, Chrome. From somewhere find a smile for the watching Gods to see. You must, you will!’

It took time and it was only a faint one, but it was there as I arose and looked into the blue above.

A breeze rustled the palm leaves and brushed over me. Borne upon it was a sound, a single silvery trumpet note. Clear, clean, arcing in through Time’s high vaults from some far-distant Destiny, it lingered in the air as it had on that first evening so long ago. Again the hairs on my forearms stirred and the back of my neck prickled. I took a breath, turned from the grave and froze.

No more than five paces away, tall, straight, shining, was an image of Vortex! How resplendent he seemed in his silver uniform; how his smile pierced my heart, just as it always had. Behind him, cloaks moving flamelike in the breeze, were two flanks of red-clad Warriors.

Not breathing, hardly daring to think for fear even such inner movement might break this silver magic which shimmered before me, I waited.

“Ah, Chrome,” Vortex shook his head, the smile fading, “no leap of surprise to greet me? I had counted on it, as always, to make me glad. What have they done to you, my beloved friend?” I clenched my jaw muscles hard. “And why are you so stubborn in your foreknowing? The Immortals have tried mightily to make contact with you, but you refuse to be led; you will choose only your own glimpses of the future, as you wish them. Getting you to come here took incredible efforts. From many directions.” He waited a little. “Have you still nothing to say to me, Chrome?”

I would not be tricked into answering or moving, nothing to shatter this fragile most wondrous of mirages.

A murmured word from Vortex and, with a swirl of heavy cloaks, the guarding Warriors turned away as one to march in discreet withdrawal.

“I—I’ve fought hard for this moment. The time gone by without you has been endless, beloved Chrome. And my reward is to be only this stonelike silence?”

Gently said, it touched within me chords of sorrow I’d hoped were stilled forever. And yet—

No. This had occurred before in these hallucinations. Though my throat ached with the wanting of it, I knew I must not answer.

“Ahl-Chon-Chrome, that is our way of saying ‘beloved,’ will you not speak?”

Vortex came closer. Even closer. Now I saw the unshed tears, or their illusion, which gleamed on his thick lashes. He looked at me a long time.

“Robot’s hearts cannot break, they say, nor can Kings cry.” His voice was low, its deep resonance an imagined caress. “But the Immortals and I will mend your heart if you will stop my tears.”

He held out his hand to me. All my being cried out to take it, but I dared not risk moving. No, Chrome, do that and, as before, all will vanish!

“Or can it be I was wrong?” Vortex’s expression became grave. “You’ve changed, perhaps, with this warring over your being or not being a Free-man? Decided not to join us?” A bitter smile. “I wouldn’t blame you for it, Ahl-Chon-Chrome. Please know that.”

In protest at this last twist of the knife in my heart, I grabbed his outstretched hand in both of mine. Too late, I remembered what our final touching always brought. Yet, somehow, this time the spell did not break. Vortex still remained!

“You are not dreaming, Chrome. I am very real.”

Now the glistening drops spilled down his cheeks, splashed hot against my hands, coming faster as Vortex shut his eyes. He caught his breath with a sound which could not be borne. I threw my arms around him and locked them there, my face buried against his chest.

“Now and always! Now and always!”

XXVII

It took Vortex time to pry me far enough loose for my words to become intelligible. He agreed fervently, but even then, starved for that face, those real yet fabled features, I wouldn’t let go.

“So many times I’ve remembered this place,” he said. “So many thoughts of my savage young friend!” The tears had gone, and glowing heat was barely banked behind the softness of those gray-velvet eyes. “Let’s not linger here, Chrome. Already it’s been too long.”

A thought, a sudden prompting. My child, which was growing and being nurtured within Ann. She’d said it would be a son, and, knowing her reedlike, stubborn determination, it would therefore, have to be a boy—

I was lost in thought as Vortex raised my open-book face to his. He smiled.

“The Immortals rarely dwell upon the future or its events, but they have told me of the child, Ahl-Chon-Chrome,” he said quietly. “He will be safe, well-guarded in every way, and one day we’ll return, you and I, to claim him.”

One last tie with this planet tugged at my heart.

“Vortex, wait. There’s a loyal highly deserving being who protected me. He would be a fine Warrior candidate, most worthy of your consider—”

“The Immortals convinced me of that some time ago. Rover’s mentation comes through to them out of the murk of Earth like a bright beacon. They find his clarity invaluable. Even now he is being fitted for his uniform.”

He tousled my hair, flung his arm hard around my shoulders and, beginning to laugh at my speechless happy surprise, walked me away with him. Away from the mound of stones. Out to join the Warriors and the ships. To start our journey to the stars—and beyond, to a million far lovelier worlds.

THUS FOR ME IT ALL BEGAN

Table of Contents

WARRIORS, LOVERS, THEY DEFIED THE ULTIMATE TABOO

FOR MARK LINCOLN MILLER

Part One:  CABIN

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

IX

X

XI

XII

Part Two:  LIMBO

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

Part Three:  EXILE

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII