Analog Science Fiction And Fact - June 2014 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
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mass-murdering monster, Tajok was an embezzler who had diverted some of the funds allocated to finance his research. He'd used the money to buy shiroz crystals. The irony of that did not escape him. His shiroz hoard was stashed away in a depository on the island of Izmir.
But he couldn't withdraw it without verifying his identity. He had to give his actual name.
The news that Tajok had resurfaced spread like a nervous thrill.
To no one's surprise, Tajok's health was very precarious. He could afford to live comfortably—even luxuriously—but he was too frail and too weak to enjoy it. He was only killing time while he waited for time to return the favor.
The
Herald
had run the story, but the story hadn't been broken by the
Herald.
Baldwin's personal involvement had been limited to proof-reading copy obtained from other news agencies. Now—three years and hundreds of deadlines later—Baldwin had forgotten most of the details.
Unlike the Dokharans.
Forgive and forget
was not a Dokharan motto. The atrocities Tajok committed hadn't been forgotten by his countrymen—definitely not. As for forgiving him... The Dokharans were very forgiving. They were for giving him a death sentence, and they were furious with the Izmirites for granting him asylum. Diplomatic fireworks ensued.
The Izmirites? They had been neutral during the war, were determined to remain neutral now that the war was over. They had no extradition treaty with Dokhara, flatly refused to deport Tajok, listened to appeal after appeal with deaf ears. They were of the opinion that life itself had sentenced Tajok to death. The sensible thing to do was nothing. Let nature take its course.
4.
And it did.
Tajok's obituary appeared in the
Izmir Herald
three days after Escoli's. Unlike Escoli, Tajok's death was attributed to natural causes, and—unlike Escoli—he wouldn't be missed. Escoli's funeral had been well attended. The only mourner bidding farewell to Tajok would be Luhor, and even that was by no means definite. When Baldwin interviewed him, Luhor hadn't seemed grief-stricken so much as emotionally numb. Baldwin attributed that to three years in the shiroz mines. An ordeal like that would presumably make a stoic out of anyone.
Kroydhun Ankurda 12-16 was an unpretentious dwelling in an unpretentious neighborhood. Doorbells and knockers were unknown on Bukkara. Visitors announced their arrival by whistling into the mouthpiece of a speaking tube. Bukkarans took pride in developing their own, distinctive whistles. Baldwin's consisted of the first seven notes of the theme from
The High and the Mighty
—another classic film that Baldwin admired.
The door was opened by the most nondescript Bukkaran Baldwin had ever encountered. He wasn't short or tall, slender or heavy, ugly or handsome, and his face was a neutral mask, as blank and expressionless as the image on an ancient coin. Was it possible to have a more undistinguished and forgettable appearance? Baldwin was doubtful. If asked to describe him, Baldwin could have done so only in terms of what he wasn't.
Baldwin introduced himself. In addition to looking like nothing much, Luhor had nothing much to say. "I've already made an official statement," he declared. "You can obtain a copy from the authorities. I have no desire to expand on it."
"You're assuming that I've come to ask you about Tajok." A headshake. "I haven't."
"No?"
"A colleague of mine—Escoli—was here seven days ago. She was accompanied by her rulf hulke: Tumanzu."
"That is correct. She was." A frown. "She's a reporter? She didn't identify herself as such."
"She wasn't on assignment. She was Tumanzu's self-appointed escort. She was accommodating a visiting cousin. Being courteous."
"Courteous?" Luhor spat the word. "It wasn't courteous of her to bring him here. Not at all. Tormenting someone who's on his deathbed... that's not my idea of courtesy."
Baldwin gave him a look that should have turned him to stone, but Luhor remained
But he couldn't withdraw it without verifying his identity. He had to give his actual name.
The news that Tajok had resurfaced spread like a nervous thrill.
To no one's surprise, Tajok's health was very precarious. He could afford to live comfortably—even luxuriously—but he was too frail and too weak to enjoy it. He was only killing time while he waited for time to return the favor.
The
Herald
had run the story, but the story hadn't been broken by the
Herald.
Baldwin's personal involvement had been limited to proof-reading copy obtained from other news agencies. Now—three years and hundreds of deadlines later—Baldwin had forgotten most of the details.
Unlike the Dokharans.
Forgive and forget
was not a Dokharan motto. The atrocities Tajok committed hadn't been forgotten by his countrymen—definitely not. As for forgiving him... The Dokharans were very forgiving. They were for giving him a death sentence, and they were furious with the Izmirites for granting him asylum. Diplomatic fireworks ensued.
The Izmirites? They had been neutral during the war, were determined to remain neutral now that the war was over. They had no extradition treaty with Dokhara, flatly refused to deport Tajok, listened to appeal after appeal with deaf ears. They were of the opinion that life itself had sentenced Tajok to death. The sensible thing to do was nothing. Let nature take its course.
4.
And it did.
Tajok's obituary appeared in the
Izmir Herald
three days after Escoli's. Unlike Escoli, Tajok's death was attributed to natural causes, and—unlike Escoli—he wouldn't be missed. Escoli's funeral had been well attended. The only mourner bidding farewell to Tajok would be Luhor, and even that was by no means definite. When Baldwin interviewed him, Luhor hadn't seemed grief-stricken so much as emotionally numb. Baldwin attributed that to three years in the shiroz mines. An ordeal like that would presumably make a stoic out of anyone.
Kroydhun Ankurda 12-16 was an unpretentious dwelling in an unpretentious neighborhood. Doorbells and knockers were unknown on Bukkara. Visitors announced their arrival by whistling into the mouthpiece of a speaking tube. Bukkarans took pride in developing their own, distinctive whistles. Baldwin's consisted of the first seven notes of the theme from
The High and the Mighty
—another classic film that Baldwin admired.
The door was opened by the most nondescript Bukkaran Baldwin had ever encountered. He wasn't short or tall, slender or heavy, ugly or handsome, and his face was a neutral mask, as blank and expressionless as the image on an ancient coin. Was it possible to have a more undistinguished and forgettable appearance? Baldwin was doubtful. If asked to describe him, Baldwin could have done so only in terms of what he wasn't.
Baldwin introduced himself. In addition to looking like nothing much, Luhor had nothing much to say. "I've already made an official statement," he declared. "You can obtain a copy from the authorities. I have no desire to expand on it."
"You're assuming that I've come to ask you about Tajok." A headshake. "I haven't."
"No?"
"A colleague of mine—Escoli—was here seven days ago. She was accompanied by her rulf hulke: Tumanzu."
"That is correct. She was." A frown. "She's a reporter? She didn't identify herself as such."
"She wasn't on assignment. She was Tumanzu's self-appointed escort. She was accommodating a visiting cousin. Being courteous."
"Courteous?" Luhor spat the word. "It wasn't courteous of her to bring him here. Not at all. Tormenting someone who's on his deathbed... that's not my idea of courtesy."
Baldwin gave him a look that should have turned him to stone, but Luhor remained
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