Carl stood at the door. He showed his decaying teeth in a brown smile without humor. “I came back,” he said. “Felt so damn tired ‘n beat I just couldn’t go to work…”
She fluttered a little. She could feel the tiny muscles jumping all through her body. Muscles she had never known she had.
“So that’s what’s been goin’ on, huh Madge? I shoulda guessed you’d get up the gut one day soon. I’ll haveta think back an’ see if I can figger out what this Kit included. It’ll be fun. My three was real wowzers, y’know.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. Had he found her Kit, and had she not noticed?
“I rekcanize the pamphlet,” he explained with a wave of his meaty hand. “I sent for one of them things over three months ago.” His voice altered with incredible swiftness. Now casual and defacing, now harsh and bitter as sump water. “But how’n a hen could I of used it around someone like you…you’d of noticed the first lousy little trap that I’d’a set…you’d of vacuumed an’ swept an’ pried an’ found it.
“I know you’ve hated me—but Gawd A’mighty, how I’ve hated
Madge Rubichek had been a methodical woman…
So she could not check the dying statement that came bubbling to her lips:
“There’s…a…double…money…back…”
His voice came from far away. “I know,” he said.
And in the electronically-keyed mechfiles of the Guatemalan Patent Authority, deep in the heart-banks, three assigned designates were cancelled out. Three patents drawn on a firm called simply DoMur Products, Inc
A firm that had only a few seconds before filed bankruptcy proceedings with the Midwestern Commercial Amalgum. A firm called simply DoMur Products, Inc
A firm that had unfortunately operated on a very, very narrow margin of profit.
The Silver Corridor
Simply put, an adventure. A fable of futurity. A pastiche of men in conflict, in another time, another place, where the strength of the inner man counts for more than the bone and muscle and cartilage of the outer man. A swashbuckler and a fantasy, perhaps, but in the final analysis, when all the geegaws, foofaraws and flummery are cleared away, don’t we all fight our own particular, contemporary, pressing problems in a kind of half-world of thought and phantasmagoric perception like
“We can’t be responsible for death or disfigurement, you know,” reminded the Duelmaster.
He toyed with the Company emblem on his ceremonial robe absently, waiting Marmorth’s answer. Behind him, across the onyx and crystal expanse of the preparation chamber, the gaping maw of the Silver Corridor opened into blackness.
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” snapped Marmorth impatiently. “Has Krane entered his end?” he asked, casting a glance at the dilation-segment leading to the adjoining preparation room. There was fear and apprehension in the look, only thinly hidden.
“Not quite yet,” the Duelmaster told him. “By now he has signed the release, and they are briefing him, as I’m about to brief you, if you’ll kindly sign yours.” He indicated the printed form in the trough, and the stylus on the desk.
Marmorth licked his lips, mumbled something half-heard, and flourished his signature on the blank line.
The signing was done hurriedly, as though he was afraid he might forget his name, should he hesitate.
The Duelmaster glanced quickly at the signature, then pressed the stud on the desk top. The blank slipped out of sight in the trough. He carefully took the stylus from Marmorth’s unfeeling fingers, placed it in his pouch. They waited patiently for a minute. A soft clucking came up through a slot in the side of the desk, and a second later a punched plastic plate dropped into a basket beneath it.
“This is your variation-range card,” explained the Duelmaster, lifting the plate from the basket. “With this we can gauge the extent of your imagination, set up the illusions, send you through the Corridor at your own mental pace.”
“I understand perfectly, Duelsman,” snapped Marmorth. “Do you mind getting me in there! I’m freezing in this breechclout!”
“Mr. Marmorth, I realize this is annoying, but we are required both by statute of law and rule of the Company to explain thoroughly the entire sequence, before entrance.” He stood up behind the desk, reached into a cabinet that dilated at the approach of his hand.
“Here,” he said, handing Marmorth a wraparound, “put this on till we’ve finished here.”
Marmorth let breath whistle between his teeth in irritation, but donned the robe and sat back down in front of the desk. Marmorth was a man of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples and forelock, a middle- aged stomach bulge. He had dark, not-quite-piercing eyes, and straight plain features. An undistinguished man, yet one who seemed to have a touch of authority and determination about him. An undistinguished man, a middle-aged man, a man about to enter a duel.
“As you know—” began the Duelmaster.
“Yes, yes, confound it!
“Mr. Marmorth,” resumed the Duelmaster patiently but doggedly, “if you don’t settle yourself, we will call this Affair off. Do you understand?”
Marmorth chuckled ruefully, deep in his throat. “ After the tolls Krane and I laid out? You won’t cancel.” “We will if you aren’t prepared for combat. It’s for your own survival, Mr. Marmorth. Now if you’ll be silent a minute, I’ll brief you and you can enter the Corridor.”
