been, and I was inside, blinking in a blaze of magnificence.
I've lost my way, I thought disjointedly. We've come through a hack door in space into the Emperor's palace.
But I knew I was wrong. Somewhere a voice whispered that this was the room of a humble bookseller, but my senses, shocked into a moment of clear vision, rebelled.
Humble? Not this! Pictures built into the walls in almost three-dimensional reality were surely the work of genius. The walls themselves glowed with hidden light and subdued color. Shimmering chairs and a davenport squatted on the deep-carpeted floor. An alcove held tall bookcases, and the bookcases held row on row of magnificently bound volumes. In one corner stood an oversized three-dimensional teevee…
The room blurred into a fantasy of color. I threw a hand up in front of my eyes. With the other I caught hard at the edge of the doorway for support…
Siller said something, but it was only a senseless jumble of sounds.
I took one step forward and fell. I was unconscious before I hit the floor.
| Go to Table of Contents |
Chapter Five
I woke up next morning and my education began. I was in a large bed. The room was not the one I had seen last night. I felt rested, but when I tried to move, stiffened muscles screamed their protest. My face felt hard. My hand smarted. There was a knot on the back of my head…
"Where's your gun?" Siller whispered from the doorway. His voice was like the hiss of a snake.
I sat up, groaning, trying to shake the sleep away.
"Where's your gun?:" Siller asked again, even softer, and I noticed that his gun with the long, slim barrel dangled from relaxed fingers.
I pawed at my chest. I found nothing but skin. A rumpling of the smooth, soft blanket revealed only the fact that I was naked.
There was a tiny explosion from the doorway, as if someone had expelled air from between his lips. Something hissed through my cropped hair. I looked up. The gun no longer dangled between Siller's fingers. It pointed straight at me. What a little opening it has, I thought foolishly, no bigger than the head of a pin.
"What—" I began.
Siller cut me off. "If I had been any one of a million men you would be dead by now."
Sheepishly I glanced behind me. Just above my head a small needle was half embedded in the wall.
"All right. I've learned my lesson," I said, and reached up to remove the needle from the wall.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Siller said casually. "It's poisoned."
My finger tips trembled an inch from the needle.
"Lesson number two," Siller said. "Never touch anything you don't understand. Corollary: never become involved in a situation until you know what you hope to gain and what you stand to lose and the extent and quality of the opposition."
With a pair of tweezers, Siller loosened the needle from the wall. He dropped it carefully into a small vial, which he corked and placed in his left-hand pocket.
"Then you don't follow your own advice," I snapped ungratefully, "or you wouldn't have taken me in."
"That," said Siller, "is where you are mistaken."
After that he was silent. When I had dressed and eaten, he gently applied new salve to my face and hand. His hands felt unpleasantly warm and moist.
"I imagine you were never a handsome man," Siller remarked dryly. "So your change in appearance can't be called disfigurement exactly. The face should be completely recovered in a week. Except your eyebrows and lashes and perhaps a little discoloration. The hand may take a little longer. If you live that long.
"But you can claim the distinction of being the only living man who was ever hit squarely by the bolt from a flash gun."
I decided that Siller's suite of rooms was hidden in an abandoned warehouse. From a doorway in his somehow-too-luxurious bedroom, a flight of steps led down to a subterranean level. There was plentiful room for an adequate and secluded practice range. That day, among stones, dirt, insects, and rodents, I learned
I've lost my way, I thought disjointedly. We've come through a hack door in space into the Emperor's palace.
But I knew I was wrong. Somewhere a voice whispered that this was the room of a humble bookseller, but my senses, shocked into a moment of clear vision, rebelled.
Humble? Not this! Pictures built into the walls in almost three-dimensional reality were surely the work of genius. The walls themselves glowed with hidden light and subdued color. Shimmering chairs and a davenport squatted on the deep-carpeted floor. An alcove held tall bookcases, and the bookcases held row on row of magnificently bound volumes. In one corner stood an oversized three-dimensional teevee…
The room blurred into a fantasy of color. I threw a hand up in front of my eyes. With the other I caught hard at the edge of the doorway for support…
Siller said something, but it was only a senseless jumble of sounds.
I took one step forward and fell. I was unconscious before I hit the floor.
| Go to Table of Contents |
Chapter Five
I woke up next morning and my education began. I was in a large bed. The room was not the one I had seen last night. I felt rested, but when I tried to move, stiffened muscles screamed their protest. My face felt hard. My hand smarted. There was a knot on the back of my head…
"Where's your gun?" Siller whispered from the doorway. His voice was like the hiss of a snake.
I sat up, groaning, trying to shake the sleep away.
"Where's your gun?:" Siller asked again, even softer, and I noticed that his gun with the long, slim barrel dangled from relaxed fingers.
I pawed at my chest. I found nothing but skin. A rumpling of the smooth, soft blanket revealed only the fact that I was naked.
There was a tiny explosion from the doorway, as if someone had expelled air from between his lips. Something hissed through my cropped hair. I looked up. The gun no longer dangled between Siller's fingers. It pointed straight at me. What a little opening it has, I thought foolishly, no bigger than the head of a pin.
"What—" I began.
Siller cut me off. "If I had been any one of a million men you would be dead by now."
Sheepishly I glanced behind me. Just above my head a small needle was half embedded in the wall.
"All right. I've learned my lesson," I said, and reached up to remove the needle from the wall.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Siller said casually. "It's poisoned."
My finger tips trembled an inch from the needle.
"Lesson number two," Siller said. "Never touch anything you don't understand. Corollary: never become involved in a situation until you know what you hope to gain and what you stand to lose and the extent and quality of the opposition."
With a pair of tweezers, Siller loosened the needle from the wall. He dropped it carefully into a small vial, which he corked and placed in his left-hand pocket.
"Then you don't follow your own advice," I snapped ungratefully, "or you wouldn't have taken me in."
"That," said Siller, "is where you are mistaken."
After that he was silent. When I had dressed and eaten, he gently applied new salve to my face and hand. His hands felt unpleasantly warm and moist.
"I imagine you were never a handsome man," Siller remarked dryly. "So your change in appearance can't be called disfigurement exactly. The face should be completely recovered in a week. Except your eyebrows and lashes and perhaps a little discoloration. The hand may take a little longer. If you live that long.
"But you can claim the distinction of being the only living man who was ever hit squarely by the bolt from a flash gun."
I decided that Siller's suite of rooms was hidden in an abandoned warehouse. From a doorway in his somehow-too-luxurious bedroom, a flight of steps led down to a subterranean level. There was plentiful room for an adequate and secluded practice range. That day, among stones, dirt, insects, and rodents, I learned
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