The Overlords of War

Chapter 6

The landing stage was soft under his boots—correction: under his sandals, now. A pang of alarm struck him as he looked around. He could have stayed longer with Floria, picked up a lot more information… As far as he could tell, his haste to get away stemmed from an ancient soldier’s reflex: never stay longer than you have to in a temporary hideout. Keep moving, always keep on the move!

So his present behavior was still conditioned by a war over a millennium old, which he had resigned from the night before. But he was aware of something else, too. Floria was young, lovely, and very likely available. He himself came from an epoch of total war, where practically every ounce of human energy was devoted to combat or to the industrial effort which made fighting possible. He was suddenly exposed here to the possibilities of a world where individual happiness appeared to be the only law. The contrast was too much for him. He had left the ship because in Floria’s company he suspected he would not be able to think straight.

He reached the end of the landing stage and studied with mistrust narrow gangways fitted with handrails, steeply slanting ramps. He was worried that he might draw attention to himself by his nervousness, but he soon realized that nobody was likely to notice. In his universe, a stranger was instantly assumed to be a spy even though it was absurd to imagine that a Urian would risk entering a city held by humans. A spy scare had an additional purpose apart from maintaining security. It kept people’s minds busy. He was cynical enough to recognize the fact.

These inhabitants of Dyoto displayed a lot of courage. They leaped from one ramp to another even if they were twenty or thirty meters away. Corson thought for a moment that they must have miniaturized antigrav units hidden in their clothes, but soon realized he was wrong. At his own first attempt he jumped from a height of three meters, landed with his knees bent, and nearly fell over. He had expected a much more violent impact. Emboldened, he tried a dive of twelve meters or so, and saw coming straight toward him a tiny aircar. The machine had to swerve to avoid him and its pilot turned a face pale with rage or fright. He told himself he must have broken a traffic regulation. He moved on quickly, afraid of finding some sort of patrolman at his heels.

Most of the time the people around him seemed not to be heading anywhere special. They spun and wheeled like insects, darted down three stories, let themselves be swept up by invisible air currents which set them down six levels higher, chatted for a moment with an acquaintance, and continued on their senseless way. From time to time somebody entered one of the buildings that formed the skeleton of the city.

Loneliness overcame Corson some three hours later. He was hungry and he felt tired. His initial excitement had subsided. He had assumed he would locate, without difficulty, a public restaurant or a dormitory, or the two combined, such as existed on all planets occupied by the Solar Powers for the benefit of soldiers and travelers, but he had failed to spot one. He dared not question any of the passers-by. Eventually he decided to enter one of the larger buildings. Beyond its door there was a vast hall. Things were laid out on immense counters. Thousands of people were milling around and helping themselves.

Was it theft to take something from here? Theft was severely punished by the Solar Powers and Corson had been strongly conditioned against it. A society at war could not tolerate such antisocial tendencies. When he found an array of foodstuffs, he stopped worrying. He selected items that resembled what Floria had prepared for him, stuffed them in his pockets, rather expecting to hear an alarm go off, and beat a retreat toward the entrance by a devious route, taking care not to follow for a second time the aisles he had used on his way in.

At the moment when he was about to cross the threshold, a voice made him jump. It was deep, pleasantly inflected, rather friendly. “Haven’t you forgotten something, sir?”

Corson looked about him. Nothing!

“Sir?” the bodiless voice persisted. “Mister—?”

“My name’s Corson,” he muttered. “George Corson.” There was no point in concealing his name on a world where it would mean nothing to anybody.

“Perhaps I have overlooked some formality,” he admitted. “You see, I’m a stranger here. Who are you?”

The most amazing thing was that the people passing by seemed not to hear the voice.

“The accountant for this establishment. Perhaps you wish to speak to the manager?”

By now he had worked out where the voice was coming from: a point in midair, about shoulder height and a meter away.

“I’ve broken a regulation?” Corson said. “I suppose you’ll have me arrested, then.”

“Sir, no credit account has been opened in the name of Corson. If I’ m not mistaken, this is the first time you have visited our premises. That is why I took the liberty of addressing you. I trust you will not hold that against me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any credit, no. Naturally, I can return what I’ve taken—”

“But why, Mr. Corson? You can pay in cash if you like. We accept currency from any recognized world.”

Corson started. “Would you say that again?”

“We accept money from any recognized world. Any type of currency certificate will settle the matter.”

Dumbfounded, Corson said, “Money? I don’t have any money!” The word burned his mouth. Money for him was an archaic concept, and rather a disgusting one. He knew, as everyone did, that it had been used—long before the war—as a medium of exchange on Earth, but he had never seen the stuff. The army had always provided everything he needed. He had practically never felt the urge to acquire anything other than what he was allotted. He had been led like all his contemporaries to regard money as an obsolete custom, barbaric in fact, inconceivable in an advanced society. It had never for a moment crossed his mind that he would need money when he left Floria’s ship.

“I—uh…” He cleared his throat. “I could maybe work in exchange for what I’ve taken?”

“Nobody works for money, Mr. Corson. Not on this planet, at least.”

“But what about you?” Corson said incredulously.

“I am a machine, Mr. Corson. Let me suggest a way out of this. While waiting for your credit to be established, could you perhaps name a person who would serve as your guarantor?”

“I only know one person here,” Corson said. “Floria Van Nelle.”

“That will suit admirably, Mr. Corson. Forgive me for troubling you. We hope to see you again.”

The voice fell silent. Corson shrugged, annoyed at feeling so upset. What would Floria think when she found that he had embezzled credit from her? Well, that had been a stroke of bad luck. But that voice was what had really shaken him. Was the “accountant” omnipresent here, able to speak simultaneously with a thousand customers, advise them, inform them, tell them off? Were invisible eyes spying on him all the time, hidden as it were by crannies in the air?

He shrugged again. At any rate it seemed that he was free to go.