Panglor Page 6

  Suddenly the name registered. Garikoff. Of Grakoff-Garikoff? That was a shipping firm, relatively small but well known, with one of the lowest reputations in the area. Why would they want him? "No, thanks," he muttered.

  Garikoff studied him for a moment. "You're not impressed with my offer, I see."

  Feigning courage, Panglor moved as though to stand.

  "Sit down!" Garikoff barked.

  Panglor sat, feeling cold. Garikoff pulled at his collar and continued. "Balef, you don't stand a chance of getting off this planet. You were canned by Vikken five weeks ago. Psychiatric incompetence." His eyes pierced Panglor. "True, I don't doubt, but that doesn't make you any worse than the rest of the incompetents they've got over there. But that doesn't matter—because you've got that record now, and you'll never fly again. Except we're giving you a chance."

  He paused to observe Panglor's reaction and seemed disappointed when Panglor displayed none. "All right. You're in trouble with the law—big trouble—and if Vikken prosecutes, you'll wind up in the prison mines. You know about those?" Panglor hesitated, then shook his head. "They're bad, Balef. Lots of people don't come out of them alive."

  Panglor nodded numbly.

  Garikoff gazed at him fiercely, and to avoid the gaze, Panglor looked at LePiep. Garikoff said, "Your animal might miss you."

  Panglor looked up angrily.

  "Now, don't get upset. I was just pointing out the kind of thing that can happen if you don't use your brains."

  Panglor looked back at LePiep and said nothing.

  "Aren't you going to ask me why we want you? There's not much in your record to recommend you, especially after that botch of bringing in your last ship." Garikoff chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, yes, we have your whole record. You'd be a good pilot, probably, if you weren't so unstable. Good performance profiles—but a record from your toes up of bad personality reports. Falling apart between trips and during trips, depression, crew friction—it's all in there." He shook his head again, in mock admiration. "Balef, the hell of it is, you're a good pilot."

  "Damn good pilot," Panglor snarled.

  "But a disaster." Garikoff paused. "Now, if you had the right incentive holding you together, I'll bet you could do a real job. I'll bet you could. And I'm going to give you that chance. Your last chance. What do you say?"

  "What's the catch?"

  Garikoff shifted so that he was in the way of the light, silhouetted. Then he turned, and his face became visible again, scarred, with those wide eyes. "Why, no catch. Not if you complete the job."

  No catch, thought Panglor. That meant there was a very large catch. Probably it was a job no sane pilot would fly—probably dangerous, probably illegal.

  "You'll receive a ship and your instructions," said Garikoff. "I wouldn't hide from you that there'll be a certain risk involved, but you did say you were a good pilot. 'Damn good pilot,' I think you said." He looked at Panglor shrewdly, then glanced at LePiep, mewling in her cage. His expression was chilling. "Anyway," said Garikoff, "your alternatives—well, the mines are—well, they're just not a pleasant place to live. Or to die."

  Panglor tensed with outrage and fear. It was one thing for this Garikoff to threaten him, but he was threatening LePiep, too, and that was more than an honest man could accept. Well, he wouldn't be pushed this way; he'd do a little pushing back, as soon as he had a better opportunity.

  Seemingly reading his thoughts, Garikoff gestured to Lid, who reached for his weapon. They both stared at the cage, at the ou-ralot. Lid fingered the butt of his gun.

  "No!" Panglor snarled, halfway to his feet. He was stopped by the sight of the weapon pointed at his chest.

  Garikoff nodded. "Do you think you'd rather fly?"

  Thinking furiously and getting nowhere, Panglor knew he was defeated—at least for now. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad; at least he'd be getting back into space and off this damned planet. "All right," he growled. But nothing said he couldn't try to beat them later.

  Nodding again, Garikoff said, "Be ready to take tomorrow afternoon's shuttle to the orbital yards. This time tomorrow. You'll get your pass and instructions at the spaceport."

  "What time is it now?"

  "Seventeen oh five," answered Lid, who seemed disappointed that Panglor had backed down.

  "All right. Give me back my ou-ralot, and I'll be there then," Panglor said, standing.

  Garikoff scratched his neck. "I think we'll keep your animal here, just as a little guarantee—"

  "No." Flatly.

  Startled, Garikoff stared at him, then shook his head. "I thought we had an understanding, but I guess we'll have to show—"

  "No deal. She comes with me or I don't fly. Period." Panglor squinted at him angrily.

  "She'll be returned to you as soon as—"

  "No deal."

  Garikoff studied him; Panglor crossed his arms and stared back. He tried to think reassuring thoughts toward LePiep, who was jittering about in her cage.

  Relaxing, Garikoff said, "All right. You can take her. But you remember something. You don't have anything—you don't have an ounce of freedom—until this job is done. We've got people in places you wouldn't dream of—and that includes every place you're going. You will only make one mistake, because one will be your last. Am I being clear?"

  Panglor glared back, but didn't reply.

  The door opened suddenly. A man walked in who looked remarkably like Garikoff, except he was shorter, with fatter features. He looked briefly at Panglor and said, "Well?"

  "He's our man," Garikoff said. "He leaves tomorrow."

  "Are you sure he can handle it?" The fat man hooked his thumb scornfully at Panglor.

  "He can do it. Balef, you ready to leave?"

  "You're letting him go?" The fat man's eyebrows quivered as he arched them.

  "Who is he?" Panglor asked belligerently.

  "Yeah, I'm letting him go," said Garikoff. "He's Grakoff, my partner. My brother, too, you could say. You can go now. Just remember what I told you."

  "Hold it!" Grakoff protested.

  Garikoff's annoyance was clearly growing. As he looked at his partner, he said to Panglor, "Tell you what, Balef. Since you may never have the chance again, we'll stand you to a night out—on us. Have yourself a woman if you want; it may be a long time before you see one again—that way, anyhow. There's a place called Jeddle's Nest—go there and have yourself a time, and we'll fix it so you can charge it to us. Okay?" Garikoff's eyes never left his partner as he talked to Panglor. "Now, Balef, get the hell out of here. Take your bird with you. And be there tomorrow or you're a dead man. Got that?"

  Panglor's face was hot as he scooped LePiep out of the cage. His duffel lay on the floor, by the door, by Lid's feet. He picked that up, too, and went out the door without a glance back. Lid slammed the door behind him.

  Panglor soothed LePiep and looked around; he was standing in a dingy corridor. He went through a battered door and stepped out onto a landing—and gazed at the spaceport. A flight of stone steps led to the ground. The building was part of a cluster of old buildings in a remote corner of the spaceport grounds. The landing field lay between him and the main entrance. The spaceport lights gleamed coldly on the metal railings in the early-evening darkness.

  Somehow the fact that he had been held in an old warehouse made him angrier than ever. Well, he would make things even somehow, sometime. But meanwhile he had better do what they told him.

  He hurried down the steps and got away from the spaceport as fast as he could walk.

  * * *

  The first thing he realized was that he was starved, and so was LePiep. There wasn't much money left; but on the other hand, he didn't have much use for cash, beyond a meal and a room for the night. Tomorrow he was off on some death-flight; or if it wasn't, he expected to be paid for it. So there was no reason not to squander what cash he had.

  And he had a night at Jeddle's Nest coming, on Garikoff. He didn't much like the idea of taking something from a
man who had held him prisoner and threatened him, but he guessed he wouldn't mind having a few stiff bangers, and if there was a stoker he liked, maybe that, too. But he'd pay for his own dinner tonight.

  They had dinner in a quiet place he knew. Together, they chewed their way through two main courses and a dessert, then went back to the rooming house. They didn't stay; Panglor simply paid for one more night in the same room and left his bag there. Franken, as usual, sat coiled near the lift tube. "Back tonight, gone tomorrow, eh, sir?" Franken said, startling him. Panglor stared at him uneasily. Franken seemed innocent enough, but his odd remark was too accurate for comfort, as though the man had sources for his insights. Panglor turned away, grunting, "Begone, yourself." Ghost. And he walked out of the lobby and into the street, wondering how soon a report of his actions would reach Garikoff.

  After wandering a while, stalling, he gave up and went into Jeddle's Nest. The place set him on edge at once; it was crowded, the music was jarring, and the small holographic figures that danced lewdly in the air both tantalized and annoyed him. He considered leaving—but no, he was here for a few bangers, and maybe more, and he was going to have them. He pushed his way through to the bar, then leaned over toward the bartender and explained that he was on Garikoff's tab. The bartender scrutinized the bartop as he talked, but nodded when he was finished. "Then—I'll have a Feldman," he said. An instant later, he realized that ethanol was really not what he wanted; but it was already in front of him. The bartender was fast.

  He shrugged and moved away from the bar, sipping the drink. LePiep was perched nervously on his shoulder. The alcohol spread in a fine mist over the sensory endings of his brain, and he knew that this wasn't the right drink for tonight. This would make him groggy; what he needed was a stiff dose of jeeric acid to liven him up. LePiep bounced up and down on his shoulder, whistling. "Does that mean I'm right?" he asked her. Or was she just excited by the scandalous things those holographic figures were doing to each other over the tables?

  Edging back to the bar, he put the Feldman down and asked for a double jeeric acid (and vaguely wondered how much Garikoff was going to let him spend). He picked his teeth thoughtfully and looked at the glass. The jeeric acid was yellow, with a reddish haze above its surface. He sipped, inhaling the fumes; the effect was like a draft of scented air flowing over his mind, splitting apart the congested lobes, and freeing and re-channeling certain emotional energies.

  Feeling faintly exhilarated, he headed for the back room. Normally he wouldn't, not so quickly, anyway—but what was the point in delaying? LePiep murmured excitedly in his ear; she wanted him to go ahead. He passed through a shimmer-curtain and looked around. Several stokers were lounging about; he ignored the male and the androgyne and studied the three females. After a moment, he went to the second closest one and asked, "Are you taken? I have credit with the house tonight."

  The woman looked up, startled. She had dark-tanned skin and black, shoulder-length hair cut in serrated fashion, and wore a silky lounging robe. She glanced at her companions, chuckled, and said, "That wasn't much of a fair-game opening. Don't you want to play? You might win me for free—or Evella, and she's more expensive."

  "Are you taken?" Panglor repeated, trying not to let himself become irritated.

  "Wouldn't you like to win me for free? The all-night stoke?" she said, blinking slyly.

  "No," he said, "I told you, I have house credit." He remembered now: Jeddle's Nest had some ridiculous system of competing for your stokers in a gambling game—the kind of thing he hated.

  "You don't—"

  "No." He pulled at his jeeric acid. The fumes moved powerfully through his head, and in a few minutes more he might not care; he'd occupy himself for the night with the fabulous mazes being opened in his mind by the jeer. But that wasn't what he wanted. The jeer was just to enhance his mood.

  She watched him thoughtfully. "What's your name?" she asked, rising, with a shimmer of cloth.

  "Panglor Balef. What's yours?"

  "Taleena." She did something behind the railing where she had been sitting, then pointed to a plate on the rail and said, "Print there. You want the night?" Panglor nodded and touched where she had indicated. Satisfied, she straightened up and looked at him. Suddenly she frowned. "Is your animal safe?"

  Panglor chuckled. "Sure she's safe. Haven't you ever seen an ou-ralot before? Gentlest animal there is."

  Taleena didn't look entirely convinced, but she shrugged. "Seen some girls chewed up by strange pets before, that's all." She motioned for him to follow, and led him back through a dim hallway into a stoking room. The door opaqued behind them. LePiep was purring audibly now, and bunching her wings. Taleena looked at her with a softer expression and cautiously reached out to stroke the ou-ralot. Her hostility toward Panglor seemed to disappear. Either she had decided that she liked him, or she had slipped completely into her professional role. Panglor rather hoped that it was the latter; he could do without the entanglement of genuine liking.

  He looked at her and didn't know what to say. The stoking room was comfortable, with a soft mat and wall hangings, and soft lighting; and it was well equipped—the problem was to choose his favorite stoking enhancement. The truth was, he had little experience in this kind of thing. Taleena gestured along the wall. "We have wire, or lucigenic, or sensamp. And we have some special Kili devices, for something different."

  Panglor stared, thinking. He chose the Kili devices.

  With the barest of preliminaries, they undressed in silence. They touched, in the Kili field. Soon Panglor was aswarm in the warmth of Taleena's body; his senses rearranged themselves in a sea of electrified darkness. Sight and taste and touch ebbed from his awareness, but hearing and smell expanded and occupied new perceptual pathways in his mind. He heard the sound of his accelerating heartbeat, the rumbling and rushing of blood, and from his ear the huffing and vocalizations of Taleena's quickening breath. Musk penetrated his thoughts, and salt from the organic sea, funneled along live olfactory nerveways. Touch returned, from the inside. His skin became hot, and sensitive to the contractions of his own muscles. It quivered at the touch of Taleena's skin, the pressure of her bones, of her muscle and blood. An itching heat sent a runner of sensation up the back of his spine and then sank—a ball of warmth—into his stomach and pelvis. From his pelvis, he felt a stiff, tingling lance culminating in a point of itching fire.

  Slowly he moved, aware of his shifting perspective in relation to Taleena; now she surrounded him more, now less, and the angles of touch changed, and with them changed the pressure of the itch that grew from the back of his pelvis forward. Visual awareness expanded. Her gaze bored into him with haunted desire, two eyes with auburn irises, pupils large; they began to revolve, to spin, to spiral into his mind. Electrical fire danced in her eyes, glowed in her cheeks. Musky incense penetrated his skull, stirring him to speed his movements. Nerves and spine became hollow pathways for energy: tiny orange flames darting and licking their way up and down, and out and back, and expanding into the back of his pelvis, stuttering. A fire was burning in the focal point, feeding forward, flickering out to the muscles, to the base of the skull. Emotions roiled darkly, seeking release, seeking daylight, seeking to be burned clean.

  There was a gasping and huffing of air, and dizzily he focused on the sound to realize that it was Taleena panting with mounting ferocity; it was his own breath, too, and the two winds met and split in tongues. The flames danced hotter and flickered yellow and white through his inner space, and leaked out and toasted his skin, and her skin. Hotter still, they smoked of incense, and forged him strong and stiff and hard, glittering at the tip. The focus moved quickly, thrusting, sliding out of rhythm, hard—and erupted from the base of his spine, from the pelvis, firing forward through the lance and out from the tip in two, five, seven shock waves into the surrounding medium. And the medium bucked back, reflecting the shock waves, and across the continuum Taleena gasped and vocalized, her sound waves swarming upon his thoughts.
And then the fire was spent, but still the medium rocked with echoes of the eruptions, the waves lifting him and squeezing and dropping suddenly, washing over him like the breath of a hot fan.

  Time echoed in its own waves through the continuum, and after certain passages of time, the contact points slid and parted. Electricity leaked away, heat radiated, but the smoke lingered and was the last vestige of the fire to pass away.

  * * *

  Gradually Panglor emerged from the Kili field, his awareness returning to reality. Taleena rolled back from him, her hair tussled, her face glistening. He smiled hesitantly. She returned the smile, and for a moment he was afraid. But the fear danced away. A great charge of emotion had been burned from him, vented in blissful release, and he almost felt sane. He gave her a half-smile and half-frown, and lay back and looked at the Kili field instrument, now dark, its work done, and wondered what the Kili had designed it for.

  Be careful now. Keep the thoughts and the wits together.

  LePiep touched him gently with her nose. She crouched at the edge of the stoking mat and watched him; she was content from his pleasure, and only at the edge of her peacefulness was there an echo of his uncertainty—bewilderment, in these glowing, fuzzy moments after stoking. Panglor stroked her with a finger, wondering how long he could feel calm.

  "She enjoyed it, didn't she?" Taleena asked, pushing herself up on one elbow to watch LePiep.

  Panglor nodded. Really, he didn't want to talk about LePiep with a stoker. LePiep was personal to him, and personal matters shouldn't be involved here.

  Taleena nodded, as though understanding. She got up. "Come on," she said, tugging at him. "We have ten minutes in the massage." She paled a door in the far corner of the room and went out into a hallway. Panglor watched her rear bouncing, and then hurried after her, stumbling as he tried to pull on his pants. When he caught up with Taleena in a warm, tiled chamber, she chuckled and said, "Throw your pants back in the other room. They'll be all right." Reluctantly he obeyed, tossing them over LePiep's head as she crept in behind him. Taleena did something at the far wall.