Zelazny, Roger - Isle of the Dead.pdf - Roger Zelazny - chomikbob7

ISLE OF THE DEAD

by Roger Zelazny

Author's DEDICATION:

To Banks Mebane.

Life is a thing--if you'll excuse a quick dab of philosophy before you

know what kind of picture I'm painting--that reminds me quite a bit of the

beaches around Tokyo Bay.

Now, it's been centuries since I've seen that Bay and those beaches, so

I could be off a bit. But I'm told that it hasn't changed much, except for the

condoms, from the way that I remember it.

I remember a terrible expanse of dirty water, brighter and perhaps

cleaner way off in the distance, but smelling and slopping and chill close at

hand, like Time when it wears away objects, delivers them, removes them. Tokyo

Bay, on any given day, is likely to wash anything ashore. You name it, and it

spits it up some time or other: a dead man, a shell that might be alabaster,

rose and pumpkin bright, with a sinistral whorling, rising inevitably to the

tip of a horn as innocent as the unicorn's, a bottle with or without a note

which you may or may not be able to read, a human foetus, a piece of very

smooth wood with a nail hole in it--maybe a piece of the True Cross, I don't

know--and white pebbles and dark pebbles, fishes, empty dories, yards of

cable, coral, seaweed, and those are pearls that were his eyes. Like that. You

leave the thing alone, and after awhile it takes it away again. That's how it

operates. Oh yeah--it also used to be lousy with condoms, limp, almost

transparent testimonies to the instinct to continue the species but not

tonight, and sometimes they were painted with snappy designs or sayings and

sometimes had a feather on the end. These are almost gone now, I hear, the way

of the Edsel, the klepsydra and the button hook, shot down and punctured by

the safety pill, which makes for larger mammaries, too, so who complains?

Sometimes, as I'd walk along the beach in the sun-spanked morning, the chill

breezes helping me to recover from the effects of rest and recuperation leave

from a small and neatly contained war in Asia that had cost me a kid brother,

sometimes then I would hear the shrieking of birds when there were no birds in

sight. This added the element of mystery that made the comparison inevitable:

life is a thing that reminds me quite a bit of the beaches around Tokyo Bay.

Anything goes. Strange and unique things are being washed up all the time. I'm

one of them and so are you. We spend some time on the beach, maybe side by

side, and then that slopping, smelling, chilly thing rakes it with the liquid

fingers of a crumbling hand and some of the things are gone again. The

mysterious bird-cries are the open end of the human condition. The voices of

the gods? Maybe. Finally, to nail all corners of the comparison to the wall

before we leave the room, there are two things that caused me to put it there

in the first place: sometimes, I suppose, things that are taken away might, by

some capricious current, be returned to the beach. I'd never seen it happen

before, but maybe I hadn't waited around long enough. Also, you know, somebody

could come along and pick up something he'd found there and take it away from

the Bay. When I learned that the first of these two things might actually have

happened, the first thing I did was puke. I'd been drinking and sniffing the

fumes of an exotic plant for about three days. The next thing I did was expel

all my house guests. Shock is a wonderful soberer, and I already knew that the

second of the two things was possible--the taking away of a thing from the

Bay--because it had happened to me, but I'd never figured on the first coming

true. So I took a pill guaranteed to make me a whole man in three hours,

followed it with a sauna bath and then stretched out on the big bed while the

servants, mechanical and otherwise, took care of the cleaning up. Then I began

to shake all over. I was scared.

I am a coward.

Now, there are a lot of things that scare me, and they are all of them

things over which I have little or no control, like the Big Tree.

I propped myself up on my elbow, fetched the package from the bedside

table and regarded its contents once more.

There could be no mistake, especially when a thing like that was

addressed to me.

I had accepted the special delivery, stuffed it into my jacket pocket,

opened it at my leisure.

Then I saw that it was the sixth, and I'd gotten sick and called things

to a halt.

It was a tri-dee picture of Kathy, all in white, and it was dated as

developed a month ago.

Kathy had been my first wife, maybe the only woman I'd ever loved, and

she'd been dead for over five hundred years. I'll explain that last part by

and by.

I studied the thing closely. The sixth such thing I'd received in as

many months. Of different people, all of them dead. For ages.

Rocks and blue sky behind her, that's all.

It could have been taken anywhere where there were rocks and a blue sky.

It could easily have been a fake, for there are people around who can fake

almost anything these days.

But who was there around, now, who'd know enough to send it to me, and

why? There was no note, just that picture, the same as with all the others--my

friends, my enemies.

And the whole thing made me think of the beaches around Tokyo Bay, and

maybe the Book of Revelations, too.

I drew a blanket over myself and lay there in the artificial twilight I

had turned on at midday. I had been comfortable, so comfortable, all these

years. Now something I had thought scabbed over, flaked away, scarred smoothly

and forgotten had broken, and I bled.

If there was only the barest chance that I held a truth in my shaking

hand . . .

I put it aside. After a time, I dozed, and I forget what thing out of

sleep's mad rooms came to make me sweat so. Better forgotten, I'm sure.

I showered when I awoke, put on fresh clothing, ate quickly and took a

carafe of coffee with me into my study. I used to call it an office when I

worked, but around thirty-five years ago the habit wore off. I went through

the past month's pruned and pre-sorted correspondence and found the items I

was looking for amid the requests for money from some oddball charities and

some oddball individuals who hinted at bombs if I didn't come across, four

invitations to lecture, one to undertake what once might have been an

interesting job, a load of periodicals, a letter from a long-lost descendant

of an obnoxious in-law from my third marriage suggesting a visit, by him, with

me, here, three solicitations from artists wanting a patron, thirty-one

notices that lawsuits had been commenced against me and letters from various

of my attorneys stating that thirty-one actions against me had been quashed.

The first of the important ones was a letter from Marling of Megapei. It

said, roughly:

"Earth-son, I greet you by the twenty-seven Names that still remain,

praying the while that you have cast more jewels into the darkness and given

them to glow with the colors of life.

"I fear that the time of the life for the most ancient and dark green

body I am privileged to wear moves now toward an ending early next year. It

has been long since these yellow and failing eyes have seen my stranger son.

Let it be before the ending of the fifth season that he comes to me, for all

my cares will be with me then and his hand upon my shoulder would lighten

their burden. Respects."

The next missive was from the Deep Shaft Mining and Processing Company,

which everyone knows to be a front organization for Earth's Central

Intelligence Department, asking me if I might be interested in purchasing some

used-but-in-good-condition off-world mining equipment located at sites from

which the cost of transport would be prohibitive to the present owners.

What it really said, in a code I'd been taught years before when I'd

done a contract job for the federal government of Earth, was, _sans_

officialese and roughly:

"What's the matter? Aren't you loyal to the home planet? We've been

asking you for nearly twenty years to come to Earth and consult with us on a

matter vital to planetary security. You have consistently ignored these

requests. This is an urgent request and it requires your immediate cooperation

on a matter of the gravest importance. We trust, and etc."

The third one said, in English:

"I do not want it to seem as if I am trying to presume on something long

gone by, but I am in serious trouble and you are the only person I can think

of who might be able to help me. If you can possibly make it in the near

future, please come see me on Aldebaran V. I'm still at the old address,

although the place has changed quite a bit. Sincerely, Ruth."

Three appeals to the humanity of Francis Sandow. Which, if any of them,

had anything to do with the pictures in my pocket?

The orgy I had called short had been a sort of going-away party. By now,

all of my guests were on their ways off my world. When I had started it as an

efficient means of getting them loaded and shipped away, I had known where _I_

was going. The arrival of Kathy's picture, though, was making me think.

All three parties involved in the correspondence knew who Kathy had

been. Ruth might once have had access to a picture of her, from which some

talented person might work. Marling could have created the thing. Central

Intelligence could have dug up old documents and had it forged in their labs.

Or none of these. It was strange that there was no accompanying message, if

somebody wanted something.

I had to honor Marling's request, or I'd never be able to live with

myself. That had been first on my agenda, but now-- I had through the fifth

season, northern hemisphere, Megapei--which was still over a year away. So I

could afford some other stops in between.

Which ones would they be?

Central Intelligence had no real claim on my services and Earth no

dominion over me. While I was willing to help Earth if I could, the issue

couldn't be so terribly vital if it had been around for the full twenty years

they'd been pestering me. After all, the planet was still in existence, and

according to the best information I had on the matter, was functioning as

normally and poorly as usual. And for that matter, if I was as important to

them as they made out in all their letters, _they_ could have come and seen

me.

But Ruth--

Ruth was another matter. We had lived together for almost a year before

we'd realized we were cutting each other to ribbons and it just wasn't going

to work out. We parted as friends, remained friends. She meant something to

me. I was surprised she was still alive after all this time. But if she needed

my help, it was hers.

So that was it. I'd go see Ruth, quickly, and try to bail her out of

whatever jam she was in. Then I'd go to Megapei. And somewhere along the line,

I might pick up a lead as to who, what, when, where, why and how I had

received the pictures. If not, then I'd go to Earth and try Intelligence.

Maybe a favor for a favor would be in order.

I drank my coffee and smoked. Then, for the first time in almost five

years, I called my port and ordered the readying of _Model T_, my jump-buggy,

for the distance-hopping. It would take the rest of the day, much of the

night, and be ready around sunrise, I figured.

Then I checked my automatic Secretary and Files to see who owned the _T_

currently. S & F told me it was Lawrence J. Conner of Lochear--the "J" for

"John." So I ordered the necessary identification papers, and they fell from

the tube and into my padded in-basket about fifteen seconds later. I studied

Conner's description, then called for my barber on wheels to turn my hair from

dark brown to blond, lighten my suntan, toss on a few freckles, haze my eyes

three shades darker and lay on some new fingerprints.

I have a whole roster of fictitious people, backgrounds complete and

verifiable when you're away from their homes, people who have purchased the

_T_ from one another over the years, and others who will do so in the future.

They are all of them around five feet, ten inches in height and weigh in at

about one-sixty. They are all individuals I am capable of becoming with a bit

of cosmetic and the memorization of a few facts. When I travel, I don't like

the idea of doing it in a vessel registered in the name of Francis Sandow of

Homefree or, as some refer to it, Sandow's World. While I'm quite willing to

make the sacrifice and live with it, this is one of the drawbacks involved in

being one of the hundred wealthiest men in the galaxy (I think I'm 87th, as of

the last balance-sheet, but I could be 88th or 86th): somebody always wants

something from you, and it's always blood or money, neither of which I am

willing to spend too freely. I'm lazy and I scare easily and I just want to

hang onto what I've got of both. If I had any sense of competition at all, I

suppose I'd be busy trying to be 87th, 86th, or 85th, whichever. I don't care,

though. I never did much, really, except maybe a little at first, and then the

novelty quickly wore off. Anything over your first billion becomes

metaphysical. I used to think of all the vicious things I was probably

financing without realizing it. Then I came up with my Big Tree philosophy and

decided the hell with the whole bit.

There is a Big Tree as old as human society, because that's what it is,

and the sum total of its leaves, attached to all its branches and twigs,

represents the amount of money that exists. There are names written on these

leaves, and some fall off and new ones grow on, so that in a few seasons all

the names have been changed. But the Tree stays pretty much the same: bigger,

yes; and carrying on the same life functions as always, in pretty much the

same way, too. I once went through a time when I tried to cut out all the rot

I could find in the Tree. I found that as soon as I cut out a section in one

place, it would occur somewhere else, and I had to sleep sometime. Hell, you

can't even give money away properly these days; and the Tree is too big to

bend like a _bonsai_ in a bucket and so alter its growth. So I just let it

grow on its merry way now, my name on all those leaves, some of them withered

and sere and some bright with the first-green, and I try to enjoy myself,

swinging around those branches and wearing a name that I don't see written all

around me. So much for me and the Big Tree. The story of how I came to own so

much greenery might provoke an even funnier, more elaborate and less botanical

metaphor. If so, let's make it later. Too many, and look what happened to poor

Johnny Donne: he started thinking he wasn't an Islande, and he's out there at

the bottom of Tokyo Bay now and it doesn't diminish me one bit.

I began briefing S & F on everything my staff should do and not do in my

absence. After many playbacks and much mindracking, I think I covered

everything. I reviewed my last will and testament, saw nothing I wanted

changed. I shifted certain papers to destructboxes and left orders that they

be activated if this or that happened. I sent an alert to one of my

representatives on Aldebaran V, to let him know that if a man named Lawrence

J-for-John Conner happened to pass that way and needed anything, it was his,

and an emergency i.d. code, in case I had to be identified as me. Then I

noticed that close to four hours had passed and I was hungry.

"How long to sunset, rounded to the nearest minute?" I asked S & F.

"Forty-three minutes," came its neuter-voiced reply through the hidden

speaker.

"I will dine on the East Terrace in precisely thirty-three minutes," I

said, checking my chronometer. "I will have a lobster with french fried

potatoes and cole slaw, a basket of mixed rolls, a half-bottle of our own

champagne, a pot of coffee, a lemon sherbert, the oldest Cognac in the cellar

and two cigars. Ask Martin Bremen if he would do me the honor of serving it."

"Yes," said S & F. "No. salad?"

"No salad."

Then I strolled back to my suite, threw a few things into a suitcase,

and began changing clothes. I activated my bedroom hookup to S & F, and amidst

a certain stomach-wringing, neck-chilling feeling, gave the order I had been

putting off and could properly put off no longer:

"In exactly two hours and 11 minutes," I said, checking my chronometer,

"ring Lisa and ask her if she would care to have a drink with me on the West

Terrace--in half an hour's time. Prepare for her now two checks, each in the

amount of fifty thousand dollars. Also, prepare for her a copy of Reference A.

Deliver these items to this station, in separate, unsealed envelopes."

"Yes," came the reply, and while I was adjusting my cuff-links these

items slid down the chute and came to rest in the basket on my dresser.

I checked the contents of the three envelopes, sealed them, placed them

in an inside pocket of my jacket and made my way to the hallway that led to

the East Terrace.

Outside, the sun, an amber giant now, was ambushed by a wispy strand

which gave up in less than a minute and swam away. Hordes of overhead clouds

wore gold, yellow and touches of deepening pink as the sun descended the

merciless blue road that lay between Urim and Thumim, the twin peaks I had set

just there to draw him and quarter him at each day's ending. His rainbow blood

would splash their misty slopes during the final minutes.

I seated myself at my table beneath the elm tree. The overhead

force-projector came on at the weight of my body upon the chair, keeping

leaves, insects, bird droppings and dust from descending upon me from above.

After a few moments, Martin Bremen approached, pushing a covered cart before

him.

"Good efening, sir."

"Good evening, Martin. How go things with you?"

"Chust fine, Mister Sandow. And yourself?"

"I'm going away," I said.

"Ah?"

He laid the setting before me, uncovered the cart and began to serve the

meal.

"Yes," I said, "maybe for quite some time."

I sampled my champagne and nodded approval.

". . . So I wanted to say something you're probably already aware of

before I go. That is, you prepare the best meals I've ever eaten--"

"Thank you, Mister Sandow." His naturally ruddy face deepened a shade or

two, and he fought the corners of his mouth into a straight line as he dropped

his dark eyes. "I'fe enchoyed our association."

". . . So, if you'd care to take a year's vacation--full salary and all

expenses, of course, plus a slush fund for buying any recipes you might be

interested in trying-- I'll call the Bursar's Office before I go, and set

things up."

"Venn vill you be leafing, sir?"

"Early tomorrow morning."

"I see, sir. Yes. Thank you. That sounds wery pleasant."

". . . And find some more recipes for yourself while you're at it."

"I'll keep vun eye open, sir."

"It must be a funny feeling, preparing meals the taste of which you

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