sardonically. I know most of what it’s like to be a Makiem except the facts of life. He turned to other, more pressing matters. He carefully felt her jaw-pouch; it definitely had something in it, perhaps a moneybag. He hesitated an instant, then shook her. She didn’t wake up, didn’t even react. He shook her harder. Still nothing.
Satisfied that she was dead to the world, he leaned over and tried to pry her mouth open.
And tried. And tried.
It was shut as tightly as if it were welded in place.
He was about to give up when she gave a great snore, and the mouth opened a bit as she turned slightly on her side. Carefully, he reached inside—and felt a smooth, bone-hard plate that fit so exactly he couldn’t even get a grip on it. And then the mouth shut. She didn’t wake up, it just shut, right on his hand. He tried to pull it free, and couldn’t. He spent the better part of half an hour trying to get his hand out. She turned more, almost pulling him on top of her, but he couldn’t remove that hand.
He was almost in a panic, particularly when her ribbonlike tongue came over to explore the object. He felt its stickiness and felt it wrap around his hand, wondering what he could do. There were no teeth in the front part of the jaw, but there were three rows not far back. If the tongue pulled his hand just a little bit more…! Then, mercifully, the tongue recoiled and her mouth opened. She let out a nasty hiss and turned some more. He almost fell backward into the ditch and cursed softly to himself, nursing his hand, which was now feeling bruised. She must not have liked the taste, he decided with thanks. He sighed, knowing now that personal robbery here, unless it was armed robbery, was pretty near impossible.
He thought things over. He could drift for a while, make do, but only as a beggar and a fugitive. Force was out; he didn’t know how to fight as a Makiem, and they’d probably beat the shit out of him. Furthermore, he would not be able to enter Makiem society at his own pleasure.
The only thing left to do was to turn himself in.
The guards looked bored. They sat there, motionless except for an occasional blink, as only reptiles could —but they were very much awake. Eyes were on him as he approached, and the crossbows were armed and cocked in their hands. Still, they looked like nothing so much as statues.
He marched up to one. “Pardon me, sir, but is this the royal palace?” he asked pleasantly. He had no desire to fall into the hands of local police or lower-level bureaucrats.
The guard stood still, but his eyes gave the newcomer a once-over that could almost be felt. The guard’s mouth didn’t move, showing once again that the sound-producing apparatus was elsewhere, but he said, “Go away, farmboy. No visitors except on Shrivedays.”
“It
“Naw, it’s the headquarters of the limbush-producers union,” the guard responded sarcastically. “Now, go away before you get hurt.”
Trelig decided on another tack. He took a deep breath. “Are you still looking for any Entries like the circulars said?” he asked casually.
The guard’s eyes lit up with renewed interest. “You know of an Entry in Makiem?” The question was sharp, businesslike, but interested.
“I do,” Trelig told him. “Who do I talk to about it?”
“Me,” the guard replied. “If I like what you say, I’ll pass it on.”
Like fun you would, Trelig thought. Only if there was something in it for you. “All right then,” he said flatly, resigned. “If you’re not interested then…” He turned to leave.
“Hold it!” called a different voice, perhaps the other guard. The tone was commanding, and Trelig froze, smiling inwardly.
“If somebody else gets it, and it
“Oh, all right,” grumbled the first. “I’ll do it. But what’s in it for us?”
“I know what we’re in for if he’s okay and we blow it,” the other responded. “Go on.”
Trelig turned back around. “Come on, you. Follow me,” the first guard mumbled resignedly, and came to life, turning and slow-hopping with short motions up the brick-paved walkway. Trelig followed, feeling better. If, as Ortega had said, all the races of this universe—and this world—including humanity had sprung from a single source, all the races so created would have certain things in common reflecting their creators. Human nature was Antor Trelig’s life and profession, and it didn’t matter to him what form that human took.
They entered a side door of the palace, and went into a gas-lit room that was peculiar indeed. A guard was on duty, and nodded slightly to his leader as they entered.
Two walls of the room held a great many strange-looking similar devices. There was a top part that resembled giant padded headphones, and a rubbery suction-cup device with a hole in the center underneath. They were on spring-loaded coils of tubing of the same material. Above each of the dozens of such devices was a plaque with something in that crazy writing.
Trelig watched curiously as the guard took the headphones and placed them over his head, just behind the jaw joints where the tiny ear openings were. Then the suction cup was attached almost to the center of the tattooed insignia on its chest. The guard expanded his chest, letting go an extremely loud and annoying rumble.
Trelig understood the thing now. It transmitted direct sound to various points in the palace, the hollow tube itself moving the air. He suspected the voices sounded hollow, tinny, and terribly far away, but it worked. A primitive, nontechnological telephone.
Nontechnological, hell! he corrected himself. These people were tremendously advanced technologically. Everything that could work they had created, ingeniously.
“Yes, sir,” the guard literally shouted, so loud that Trelig wished he had ear flaps to match the nose ones. “Says he knows of an Entry, yes, sir.” Pause. “No, nothing odd.” Pause. “Personally, sir? But—” Pause. “All right, sir. Right away,” the guard completed the call, detached the suction cup, which coiled back into its built-in holder, and replaced the headphones on their rack. He turned to Trelig.
“Come on, you,” he grumbled. He followed the guard out.
There were no stairs or ramps, and Trelig had a bad time when they reached a high opening, four walls of bare, smooth stone, obviously a junction for the hallways on the multistoried castle, and the guard simply started walking up the wall.
Trelig hesitated, then decided, hell, why not? If it doesn’t work I think I can survive the fall. What he had to do, he saw from the guard, was press his finger-cups solidly on the stone, pull himself up, then use leg-cups on the webbed hind feet to support him while he reached farther up. If he managed it in a smooth series of motions, like climbing a ladder, it would be effortless, but doing so proved awkward and slow for Antor Trelig. He was conscious of the guards’ stares and chuckles in the corridor below, and heard the guard above growl, “Come on, you! Can’t keep the old man waiting!”
He made it, with difficulty, to the third story, thankful that they didn’t have to go any farther.
They passed by great rooms, some sumptuously furnished with silks and fancy rugs and woven tapestries. A few doors were closed, but, no matter what, the place reeked of opulence. There was a lot of fancy metal art, too, and most of it wasn’t brass or iron, either—it was solid gold, often encrusted with jewels of amazing proportions.
Finally they entered what had to be some sort of reception hall. It was rectangular, but too small to be the king’s regular place. The ceiling was still a good ten meters high, and the walls were draped with maroon and gold velvet curtains. There was a thick rug of some soft fur from the door sill to every corner of the room, and a slightly raised dais near the far wall with the most comfortable-looking of those strange cushion-chairs he’d ever seen. He looked around, mentally betting himself that there was another entrance somewhere, probably just behind that dais.
He was right. The curtains behind the chair moved, and an elderly Makiem walked in on all fours, got up on
