Chapter 17
Well what else was there to do? I hadn’t come this far, getting myself shot, hashed on the head and well stomped, just to arrest her. I mean I was going to arrest her, of course, but it was next to impossible in the center of the Count’s stronghold. Besides that, I wanted to find out a bit more about the Count’s proposed uprising, since this would certainly come within the jurisdiction of the Special Corps .If I was going to reenlist I had better bring along a few prizes to show my good intentions. Anyway–I wasn’t so sure I wanted to reenlist. It was a little hard to forget that scuttling charge they had tried to blow up under me. The whole thing wasn’t so simple. There were a lot of things mixed up in this. One fact being that I enjoyed Angelina and most of the time I was with her I forgot about those bodies floating in space. They returned at night all right and chopped at my conscience, but I was always tired and went to sleep quickly before they could get through and bother me. Life was a bed of roses, and I might as well enjoy it before the blossoms withered. Watching Angelady at work was a distinct pleasure, and if you stood my back to the wall and made me swear, I would be forced to admit that I learned a thing or two from her. Single-handedly she was organizing a revolution on a peaceful planet–and it stood every chance of succeeding. In my small way I helped. The few times she mentioned a problem to me I had a ready answer and in all the cases she went along with my suggestions. Of course I had never toppled governments before, but there are basic laws in crime as in everything else, and it is just a matter of application. This didn’t happen often. Most of the time during those first few weeks I was a plain bodyguard, keeping a wary eye out for assassins. This position had a certain ironical angle that appealed to me greatly. However there was a serpent in our little Eden of Insurrection, and his name was Rdenrundt. I never heard much, but from a word caught here and there I began to see that the Count wasn’t really cut out to be a revolutionary. The closer we came to the day the more pallid he became. His little physical vices began to add up, and one day the whole thing came to a head. Angelegant and the Count were in a business session and I sat in the anteroom outside. I shamelessly eavesdropped whenever I could, and this time I had managed to leave the door open a crack after I had checked her into the room. Careful manipulation with my toe opened it a bit more until I could hear a murmur of their voices. An argument was progressing nicely–there were a lot of them at this time–and I could catch a word here and there. The Count was shouting and it was obvious that he wouldn’t give in on some simple and necessary piece of blackmail to advance the cause. Then his tone changed and his voice dropped so I couldn’t hear his words, strain as I might. There was a saccharine wheedle and whine in his voice, and Angelina’s answer was clear enough. A loud and positive no. His bellow brought me to my feet. “Why not? It’s always no now and I’ve had enough of it!” There was the sound of tearing cloth and something fell to the floor and broke. I was through the door in a single bound. For a brief instant I had a glimpse of a struggling tableau as he pulled at her. Angelina’s clothing was torn from one shoulder and his fingers were sunk into her arms like claws. Clubbing my pistol I ran forward. Angelina was a bit faster. She pulled a bottle from the table and banged it into the side of his head with neat efficiency. The Count dropped as if he had been shot. She was pulling up her torn blouse when I came roaring to a halt. “Put the gun away. Bent–it’s all over,” she said in a calm voice. I did, but only after making sure the Count was really out, hoping an extra slam might be needed. But she had done a good job. When I stood up Angelina was already halfway out of the room and I had to run to catch up with her. The only other thing she said was “Wait here,” when she steamed into her room. It took no great power of divination to see that there was trouble coming–if it hadn’t already arrived. When the Count came to with a busted head he would undoubtedly have some second thoughts about Angelina and revolutions. I thought cm these and related subjects while I matched coins with the guards. A few minutes later Angelina called me in. A long robe covered her arms so the bruises he had made weren’t visible. Though outwardly composed there was a telltale glint in her eyes that meant she was doing a slow bum. I spoke what was undoubtedly the uppermost thought in her mind. “Want me to fix it so the Count joins his noble ancestors in the family crypt?” She shook her head no. “He still has his uses. I managed to control my temper–so you had better hold yours.” “Mine’s in great shape. But what makes you think you can still get work or cooperation out of him? He’s going to have an awful sore head when he comes to.” Minor factors like this didn’t bother her; she dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. ‘ I can still handle him and make him do whatever I want–within limits. The limitations are his own natural abilities, which I didn’t realize were so slight when I picked him to head this revolt. I’m afraid his cowardice is slowly destroying any large hopes I might have had for him. He will still have value as a figurehead and we must use him for that. But the power and decisions must be ours.” I wasn’t being slow, just wary. I chewed around her statements from all sides before I answered. “Just what is this we and ours business? Where do I fit in?” Angelilith leaned back in her chair and tossed a lock of her lovely golden hair to one side. Her smile had about a two thousand-volt charge and was aimed at me. “I want you to come in with me on this thing,” she said with a voice rich as warm honey. “A partnership. We’ll keep the Count of Rdenrundt out in front until the plan succeeds. Then eliminate him and go the rest of the way ourselves. Do you agree?” “Well,” I said. Then with brilliant inspiration, “Well . . .” again. For the first time in a lifetime of verbal pyrotechnics I found the flow shut off. I paced the room and pulled my scattered wits together. “I hate to look a gift rocket in the tubes,” I told her, “nevertheless–why me? A simple but hard working bodyguard, who will guard your person, labor for the cause and look forward to the restoration of his stolen lands and title. How come the big jump from office boy to board chairman?” “You know better than to ask that,” she said and smiled, and the temperature of the room rose ten degrees. “I think you can handle this job as well as I can, and enjoy doing it. Working together, you and I will make this the cleanest revolt that ever took over a planet. What do you say?” I was pacing behind her as she talked. She stood up and took me by the arm, stilling my restless walking. I could feel the warmth of her fingers burning through my thin shirt. Her face was in front of me, smiling, and her voice pitched so low that I barely heard it. “It would be something, wouldn’t it. You and I . . . together.” Wouldn’t it! There are occasions when words can’t say it all and your body speaks for you. This was a time like that. Without physical deliberation my arms were around her, pulling her to me, my mouth pushing down on hers. For the briefest of instants she was the same, her arms tight on my shoulders, her lips alive. Just for a sliver of time so brief that afterwards I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t imagined it. Then the warmth was suddenly drained away and everything was wrong. She didn’t fight me or attempt to push back. But her lips were lifeless under mine and her eyes open, looking at me with a sterile emptiness. She did nothing until I had dropped my arms and stepped away, then she seated herself stiffly in the chair again. “What’s wrong?” I asked not trusting myself to say more. “A pretty face–is that all you think of?” she asked, and the words seemed pulled from her in sobs. Expressing real emotions didn’t come easily with her. “Are you men all alike–all the same-?” “Nonsense!” I shouted, angered in spite of myself. “You wanted me to kiss you–don’t deny it! What changed your mind?” “Would you want to kiss her?” Angelina screamed, torn by emotions I couldn’t understand. She pulled at a thin chain around her neck. It snapped and she half threw it at me. There was a tiny locket on the chain, still warm from her body. It had an image enlarger in it, and when held at the right angle the picture inside could be seen clearly. I had the chance for only a single glimpse at the girl in the photograph, then Angelina changed her mind and pulled it away, pushing me towards the door at the same time. It slammed behind me and I heard the heavy safety bolts thud home. Ignoring the guard’s raised eyebrows I stamped down the hall to my own room. My emotions had triumphed nicely over my powers of reason, and apparently Angelina’s had too–for just an instant. Yet I couldn’t understand her cold withdrawal or the significance of the picture. Why did she wear it? I had only had a single glimpse of the contents but that was enough. It was the photo of a young girl, a sister perhaps? A tragic thing, one of those horrible proofs of the law of chance that an almost infinite number of combinations are possible. This girl was cursed with ugliness, that is the only way to describe it. It was no single factor of a bent back, adenoidal jaw or protruding nose. Instead it was the damning combination of traits that combined to form a single, repellent whole. I didn’t like it. But what did it matter…. I sat down suddenly with the clear realization that I was being incredibly stupid. Angelina had given me a simple brief glimpse into the dark motivations that had made her, shaped her life. Of course. The girl in the picture was Angelina herself. With this realization so many other things became clear. Many times when looking at her I had wondered why that deadly mind should be housed in such an attractive package. The answer was clearly that I wasn’t looking at the original package that had shaped the mind. To be a man and to be ugly is bad enough. What must it feel like to a woman? How do you live when mirrors are your enemies and people turn away rather than look at you? How do you bear life when at the same time you are blessed–or cursed–with a keen and intelligent mind that sees and is aware of everything, makes the inescapable conclusions and misses not the slightest hint of repulsion. Some girls might commit suicide, but not Angelina. I could guess what she had done. Hating herself, loathing and detesting her world and the people on it, she would have had no compunction about committing a crime to gain the money she wanted. Money for an operation to correct one of those imperfections. Then more money for more operations. Then someone who dared to stop her in this task, and the ease and perhaps pleasure with which she killed him. The slow upward climb through crime and murder–to beauty. And during the climb the wonderful brain that had been housed in the illformed flesh had been warped and changed. Poor Angelina. I could be sorry for her without forgetting the ones she had killed. Poor, tragic, a lone girl who in winning half the battle had lost the other half. Purchased skill had shaped the body into a lovely–truthfully an angelic–form. Yet in succeeding, the strength of the mind that had accomplished all this had been deformed until it had been made as ugly as the body had been in the beginning. Yet if you could change a body–couldn’t you change a mind? Could something be done for her? The very pressure and magnitude of my thoughts drove me out of the small room and into the air. It was nearing midnight and the guards would be stationed below and all the doors locked. Rather than face the explanations and simple mechanical difficulties, I climbed upwards instead. There would be no one in the roof gardens and walkways this time of night; I could be alone. Freibur has no moon, but it was a clear night and the stars cast enough light to see by. The roof guard saluted when I went by, and I could see the red spark of a cigarette in his hand. I should have said something about it, but my mind was too occupied. Passing on I turned a corner and stood leaning on the parapet, looking out unseeingly at the black bulk of the mountains. Something kept gnawing for attention and after a few minutes I recognized what it was. The guard. He was there for a purpose and smoking on duty wasn’t considered the best behavior for a sentry. Perhaps I was being finicky, but it is a failing of mine. Take care of all the small factors and the big ones take care of themselves. In any case, simply thinking about it was bothering me, so I might as well go around and say a word to him. He wasn’t at his usual post, which was optimistic; at least he was making the rounds and keeping an eye on things. I started to walk back when I noticed the broken flowers hanging from the edge of the garden. This was most unusual because the roof gardens were the Count’s special pleasure and were practically manicured daily. Then I saw the dark patch in among the flowers and had the first intimation that something was very, very wrong. It was the guard, and he was either dead or deeply unconscious. I didn’t bother to find out which. There was only one reason I could think of for someone to be here at night like this. Angelina. Her loom was on the top floor, almost below this spot. Silently I ran to the decorative railing and looked over. Five meters below was the white patch of the balcony outside her window. Something black and formless was crouched there. My gun was in my room. For one of the few times in my life I had been so disturbed that my normal precautions were forgotten. My concern over Angelina was going to cost her her life. All of this I realized in a fraction of a second as my fingers ran along the balustrade. A shiny blob was fixed there, anchoring a strand so thin that it was invisible, yet I knew was as strong as a cable. The assassin had lowered himself with web spinner, a tiny device that spun a thin strand like a spider. Only the strand’s substance was formed of a single long-chain molecule that could support a man’s weight. It would slice my hands like the sharpest blade if I tried to slide down it. There was only one way I could reach that balcony, a tiny square above the two-kilometer drop into the valley below. I made the decision even as I was leaping up onto the rail. It had a wide flat top and I sat for an instant to catch my balance. Below me the window swung open noiselessly and I dropped, my heels extended, aiming for the man below. I turned in the air and instead of hitting him squarely I caromed off his shoulder and we both sprawled onto the balcony. It shivered under the impact, but the ancient stone held. The fall had half-stunned me, and with pain-blurred reasoning I hoped that his shoulder felt as bad as my leg. For a few moments I could do nothing but gasp for breath and try to scramble towards him. A long, thin bladed knife had been knocked from his hand by the impact and I could see it glittering where he reached for it. His fingers clutched it just as I attacked. He grunted and made a vicious stab at me that brushed my sleeve. Before he could draw back I had his knife wrist in my hand and clamped on. It was a silent, nightmare battle. Both of us were half-dazed from my drop, yet we knew it was life we were battling for. I couldn’t stand because of my bruised leg and he was instantly on top of me, heavier and stronger. He couldn’t use the arm I had landed on, but it took all the strength of both my arms to hold away the menacing blade. There was no sound other than our hoarse panting. This assassin was going to win as weight and remorseless strength brought the knife down. Sweat almost blinded me, but I could still see well enough to notice the twisted way his other arm hung. I had broken a bone when I hit–yet he had never made a sound. There is no such thing as fair fighting when you are struggling for your life. I squirmed my leg out from under him and managed to bend it enough to dig the knee into his broken arm. His whole body shuddered. I did it again. Harder. He twisted, trying to pull away from the pain. I heaved sideways, throwing him off balance. His elbow bait as be tried to save himself from falling and I put all my strength in both hands turning that sinewy wrist and driving the hand backwards. It almost worked, but he was still stronger than I was and the point of the blade merely scratched his chest. Even as I was fighting to turn the hand again he shuddered and died. A ruse would not have tricked me–but this was no ruse. I felt every muscle in his body tighten rock-bard in a spasm as he fell sideways. My grip on his wrist didn’t lessen until the light came on in the room behind me. Only then did I see the ugly yellow stain halfway up the blade of the knife. A quick-acting nerve poison, silent and deadly. There, on the sleeve of my shirt, was a thin yellow mark where the blade had brushed me. I knew these poisons didn’t need a puncture, they could work just as well on the naked skin. With infinite caution, struggling against the fatigue that wanted my hands to shake, I peeled my shirt slowly off. Only when it had been buried on top of the corpse did I let myself drop backwards, gasping for air. My leg could work now, though it hurt hideously. It must have been bruised but not broken since it supported my weight. Turning, I stumbled to the high window and threw it open. Light streamed out on the body behind me. Angelina was sitting up in bed, her face smooth and her hands folded on the covers in front of her. Only her eyes showing any awareness of what had happened. “Dead,” I said with a dry throat, and spat to clear it. “Killed by his own poison.” I slumped into the room, testing my leg. “I was sleeping, I didn’t hear him open the window,” she said. “Thank you.” Actress, liar, cheat, murderess. She had played a hundred roles in countless voices. Yet when she said those final words there was a ring of unforged feeling to them. This murder attempt had come too soon after the earlier traumatic scene. Her defenses were still down, her real emotions showing. Her hair hung to her shoulders, brushing the single ribbons of her nightgown which was made of some thin and soft fabric; intimate. This sight, on top of the events of the evening, removed any reserve I might have had. I was kneeling by the bed, holding her shoulders and staring deep into her eyes, trying to reach what lay behind them. The locket with the broken chain lay on the bedside table. I grabbed it in my fist. “Don’t you realize this girl doesn’t exist except in your memory,” I said, and Angelina didn’t move. “It’s past like everything else. You were a baby–now you’re a woman. You were a little girl–now you’re a woman. You may have been this girl–but you are not any more!” With a convulsive movement I turned and hurled the thing out of the window into the darkness. “You’re none of those things of the past, Angelina!” I said with an intensity louder than a shout. “You are yourself . . . just yourself!” I kissed her then and there was no trace of the pushing away or rejection there had been before. As I needed her, she needed me.