Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth, Page 2

"Yes, of course," Juanito had replied eagerly. "I am

  from Argentina myself, and from very near Rio Cuerto. I

  lived everywhere on the Pampas. My name is Montoya.

  Juanito Montoya. Or Twenty-two, if these oiler slaves can

  understand Speak."

  The School had its own language. A secret blend of all

  that was fluid and philologically valuable in Spanish,

  French, English and German, with the preciseness of the

  Portuguese, and the absence of complexity to be found in

  Esperanto. They called it Speak. It was a primary password in itself; if another person in the darkness could Speak, then he. was partway to being id�ntifi.ed as another

  student of the School.

  They spoke to each other in Speak, and Thirty-eight

  grinned hugely. "These oilers can barely speak at all,

  much less understand us. They are brought in from the

  surrounding countryside by the Seekers, and hypnotrained for one or two jobs-see?" He booted his oiler in the back, knocking the poor, dumb worker onto his side.

  The oiler got to his knees, a cloddish smile-more idiotic

  than complacent-breaking his rough features, and

  thanked the stout assassin profusely in broken English.

  "Go on back to work," John Grice · commanded im�

  periously.

  The oiler went to work on Grice's thighs with the

  grease applicator.

  Juanito had much respect for this big assassin. He was

  the model of what a good, well-trained student should be.

  He carried himself high, and he had a steely glint to his

  green eyes that marked shrewdness, and he knew how to

  make men bend to his will. As loftily imperious as he

  seemed now, in the field he would be either one of a

  crowd, or hidden as he lurked in wirlting, or bravery

  personified charging an enemy. Juanito wanted to be just

  like him, and feared he was not.

  "When did you get here?" Grice asked absently, as

  though he were being polite, his thoughts turned elsewhere already.

  "I've been here almost four years now," Juanito

  answered smartly.

  DOOMSMAN

  "Ah!" Grice caroled. "Then you'll be ready for the

  Probing soon, won't you? Or have you been to the Probing labs yet?"

  Juanito nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, they Probed

  me just last week."

  Grice's full-fleshed face took on a superior confidence.

  "I came up with only four myself. They later negated

  three of them. How about you?"

  Juanito looked surprised for an instant, then said levelly, "There was only one in my banks. They haven't been able to trace it. The name was Eskalyo."

  Grice had looked perturbed then, and annoyed, and his

  brow had furrowed. "Are you making fun of me?"

  Juanito was confused. "I don't know what you mean."

  "How did you know Eskalyo was one of the names in

  my bank? The one they can't clear. Have you been prying

  in the records, or are you a checkpoint spy for Security­

  Seek?"

  J uanito had hastily explained, and soon convinced

  Grice he was serious, and in no way making fun of the

  other.

  They were talking about the Probing. Each student was

  forced to undergo a mind probing after he had been in

  the School close to four years-during which time his

  memories and thought processes would have been altered

  enough by the training and the monoiogs to allow the

  Probe to do its work peculiarly and properly-to find if

  there were any names from the petty Monarchies in the

  memory banks of assassin trainees. There were usually a

  few names, either picked up through childhood rumor or

  from isolated cases of actual contact. And the Probe dug

  these out, and tried to check them. Usually they negated

  most of the references dug out as being mentioned during

  adolescence. But occasionally, as in the case of Eskalyo

  being in Juanito's and Grice's mind, the trackback could

  not be affected.

  ·

  These were the cases the School and Probers were

  most interested in locating, for they invariably contributed some information as to the locating and possible abolition of the Monarchy and its petty ruler.

  Thus the two students had talked of Eskalyo, and Juanito pieced together the scant data his own Probing had

  DOOMS MAN

  revealed, with the facts Grice's mind had vomited up, and

  he discovered a strange thing.

  He discovered that he had seen the man known as

  Eskalyo three years after Eskalyo had �n f�und and

  charred by a group of Seekers.

  This was startling in itself, but the other thing Juanita

  Montoya learned from pieced-together information was

  all the more bizarre and memorable:

  He-Juanita, Twenty-two-was the son of Eskalyo,

  the ruler of the petty Monarchy called Ciudad Rosario. It

  did not become clear at first, but as Grice rambled on,

  speaking of those things he knew from childhood, deeper

  than thought, of the things he had seen and heard, it became clear to Juanito that the son of Eskalyo, of whom Grice spoke, fitted the � and description of Juanita.

  It was he, Juanito Montoya, who had tied his father

  when the Seekers had come. It had been himself, the boy

  who had narrowly escaped death a hundred times, and

  shocked into a tense forgetfulness of his origins. He recognized the indefinite incidents Grice spilled out from vague, childhood memory; he recognized them as till now

  lost fragments of his youth.

  The ffight from Ciudad Rosario. The burrow he had

  dug on the edge of an old irrigation ditch as the Seekers

  4th Armored Regiment had gone past. The killing of

  small game to sustain life. It all came back now, and he

  knew he was the son of Eskalyo.

  The son of the ruler of a petty Monarchy, somewhere

  in what had been South America.

  And it had set his mind to whirling.

  That had been a year before.

  Now Grice was about to be graduated, and though

  Juanita had met with him many times since that day in

  the Combats Meet, the stout assassin had told him little

  more that could aid Juanita in his plan. For he had

  formulated a cunning plan, from the linked scraps of information.

  No really valuable information had come from

  Thirty-eight's lips. Until one day, a week before. He had

  hinted that all his knowledge of Eskalyo was not from

  childhood, and handed-down. He had hinted that he

  knew a way for a man to reach Eskalyo nOW. He had

  DOOMSMAN

  shied a verbal rock into the deep water of Juanita's consciousness, and it had skipped across, finally sinking and carrying conviction to act with it.

  For Grice had said he knew the name of a man in the

  AmericaState Chambers-torture chambers-in New

  Chicago who was a contact to Eskalyo. And Juanita

  Montoya had to find out that name; before Thirty-eight

  was graduated day after tomorrow.

  But Grice was nowhere among the surging crowd in

  the snack bar.

  Juanita felt his nerves tighten like piano wires; like the

  rubber bands they attached to the rigged braces on his

  teeth, when they wanted him bucktoothed for some disguise; like the tightrope t
hey were required to walk during physical training. He knew time was sifting slowly but

  swiftly into the past, and he must learn that name.

  Thirteen yanked at his arm. "Hey, what do you want?

  We're next."

  Juanita looked up and saw they were indeed at the

  head of the line, and how they had gotten there, he did

  not know. "Oh, I don't know. Hell, just get me a cocacola fix without double-shoot."

  "I thought today was your pay?" Thirteen gibed back

  sharply.

  "Oh, yeah, yeah," Juanita hastily amended. "My pay."

  He dug into the hip slit of his body-tight training

  uniform of black duroplast, and brought out a handful of

  the plastoid slips used for currency in the School. "What

  do you want?"

  "I'm low, cat, how about a glucose-herro feed with a

  twist of lemon peel . . . or no, make it straight; I'm that

  low."

  Juanita edged up to the robomech and dialed what he

  wanted. In a moment the two vials came slithering down

  the trough, followed by two screw-on needles and a pair

  of chaser pills.

  He put his plastoid slips in the receiver and the little

  glass plate over the trough rolled back, allowing him to

  take the narcotics from the machine,

  They moved out of the press, into a comer, and unplugged the ends of their vials, screwing the needles into the syringe-vials, piercing the protective seal Thirteen

  DOOMSMAN

  was a sock feeder. He liked his snacks hard and fast. He

  hit the main line through the fabric of the skintight suit

  without even rolling the sleeve, A beatific smile spread

  unbidden across his mouth, and a low, soft air-whoooosh

  of ahhhh came from him. He sagged against the wall, and

  hit one twitch with his left foot boom!

  Juanita had never taken to the constant stimulation of

  the assassin. He wanted no fanaticism or herro-cocaine

  fogging. He wanted to do what he had to do cool and

  calm and sweet.

  He took his coca-cola fix slowly, feeding it into the

  bloodstream, drawing it out intermingled with the scarlet

  fluid, feeding it back in, drawing it out again-kicking it

  higher-and at last sending it into the bloodstream for its

  final journey.

  It was good. His insides felt cola-happy. But not

  fogged and hopped-up. His small colon f�lt sticky good.

  Thenmnmn throoo thuh guh-uh-uh-oood uvvv thuh

  feeelinnnguhhh, he snapped to alertness! Grice had come

  into the snack bar. He was avoiding the fix machines, and

  heading right for the sandwich counter, He was eating

  solid food. That must mean he had finished classes,

  was through his processing, was even perhaps assigned already. He had to get to him now.

  With his steps faltering from the fix, and his head higher than his body by three feet, Juanito grubbed in his hip-slit for more plastoid slips, fed them nervously into

  the stabilizer-robomech. It sprayed his face with a neutro

  compound, and the fix was diluted in his blood. He was

  able to function again.

  He had not even felt himself walking across the big

  snack bar to the neutro machine. But now he knew what

  he was doing, and he elbowed rouahly past clots of students, keeping the stout, tight back of Grice firmly in sight.

  He caught the assassin by the elbow, and the stout man

  whirled on him, the feral eyes narrowed-as any good

  assassin's eyes would narrow under sudden attack.

  "What do you want?"

  Juanito was shocked and battered back momentarily

  by the rudeness of the other's tone.

  "I-I wanted to speak to you a moment."

  "Make it fast I'm on the way out."

  "You, uh, you know a name

  say, let's go out in

  •

  •

  •

  the corridm where we can talk more eas-"

  "We can talk right here. Say, I haven't got anything to

  talk with you anyhow, Twenty-two. So why don't you get

  your hand off me before there's trouble in here." His soft

  edged face was soft no longer. It was hard and set. He

  was not joking; there was nothing to say.

  Juanita recognized the futility of pressing his point.

  He turned and strode away, shoving through the crowd

  quickly.

  At one point in his passage, Thirteen flopped a flaccid

  hand onto his shoulder, muttering under the effects of the

  heavy fix. Juanita shook the hand off, and left the snack

  bar.

  He signed . the class register for "private study" and

  went to his cubicle to think.

  It took some doing, but it had been the only way. Mter

  Grice had been graduated and assigned, Juanita had to

  wait for his time. One night it came, when he was as·

  signed an all-week Awake Alert-a rigorous test of his

  stamina which involved the student remaining awake and

  sharp for seven full days. During the fifth night, he was

  able to employ the very break-in tactics he had been

  taught, to rifle the memory banks of the compUvacs in

  AmericaState Records, School subdivision. The assignment records. He found the punch spool he wanted: the list of assignments of assassins in class 401. Grice's

  class.

  He spun the pool onto the treads, and turned on the

  emergency power for the . smallest compUvac in the

  office

  emergency power that would not wake the

  •

  •

  •

  School, or set off the specially triggered alarms hooked to

  the energy outlets. It was enough to start the mighty ma·

  chine working at softer levels, and though the information

  was dim in the glow box when he read it, he engraved it

  in his mind carefully.

  The frame of light read:

  401: 38 GRICE, JOHN GREGORY, Rio Cuerto,

  DOOMS MAN

  Argentina

  ent: 5 Oct 2178; grad: 4 Oct 2184; rating: AAA+

  assgnd: Pe�nce Sqd, N. Chicago, TDY Alaska Hi.

  Juanita read it again to make certain he had it correct,

  then cut the power, respun the reel by hand, and loaded

  it back into its bin. He sat in the darkness of the Records

  offices, thinking.

  Grice had been assigned to the Persy Squad on constant clean- and mop-up detail in New Chicago. But he was currently on TDY, or loan to the Hi Guard in Alaska, for some job or other.

  That meant Juanita had to get himself assigned to

  Alaska, and fast. He had to see Grice again, under conditiom more favorable to Juanita's worming some intelligence from the stout assassin as to who the man in the N.

  Chicago Chambers was. It was only fifty-four days till

  graduation and he knew many assignments were already

  cut. He had to do some fast maneuvering of his orders, or

  lose out completely.

  He pondered the problem for well over a week, trying

  desperately to drag a solution from the welter of information he held, and the need to find the man in the New Chicago Chambers. Finally, he thought he had hit

  on an answer; perhaps not the best answer, but one that

  would do for now.

  iHe went to see the head Probesman.

  "Probesman Languor," he said, when he had been

  seated in that worthy's cubicle, "A thing has been
troubling me.••

  And the Probesman, whose mien and manner were

  much like those of priests in the world outside the School,

  replied, "Yes, student brother? Is there a thing with

  which I can help?'

  Juanita nodded, studying the Probesman. The man was

  no fool. He was big, with a face hewn from granite and

  lead. His eyes were small, deepset blue circles a! the centers of ringed bullseyes that were dark around the eyes.

  His mouth was a hard, wired line that bespoke ot sternness before mercy. He was no fool. this Probesman Languor.

  "Ever since my Probing, over a year ago, sir, I have

  DOOMS MAN

  waited for clearance from SecuritySeek on the name Eskalyo in my banks-" He noted with inner satisfaction that the Probesman started at the mention of the South

  American's name, "-but no such clearance has come, and

  I feel impure, sir."

  The Probesman's small eyes narrowed down even more,

  till he studied Juanita through impossible slits. "Oh?"

  It was the game of silence now. Who could say the

  least, and learn the most; for no student ever came to a

  Probesman, unless there was good cause. The Probers

  were the pariahs of the School. They were the brainpickers; their job was a necessary one, but who could have respect or affection for a man who knew your very intimate thought and hidden fear and concealed shame? They were more than tolerated, for they were also specially

  trained for their jobs. But they were never approached as

  men-only as Probesmen. The affectation of holiness they

  clung to was a defensive air held over from their first days.

  Juanita played the game: "Yes."

  They sat silently, looking into each other's eyes.

  "Uh-what would you have me do?"

  "Have you a suggestion, Probesman?"

  "None, for I know not what your problem may be.

  Can you be more definite?"

  "Well; it is touchy."

  "Go on."

  "I have no real wish to go on."

  The Probesman was growing exasperated with the stu�

  dent assassin's hedging and dodging. He lunged verbally:

  "Well, why have you come to me, then, if you don't want

  a solution to your problem?"

  Juanito stepped into the off-guard opening in the conversation. "I am impure, for there has been no clearance on the name 'Eskalyo' and I want to do penance with a

  difficult assignment."

  ·