Find the Changeling Read online

  “How do you get up there?” he asked the Alvean, speaking from the shelter of the doorway.

  The Alvean, who had not moved from his place in the center of the room, bustled with sudden energy. “I will bring the ladder.” It was made of wood and hidden beneath the couch. In a few moments the Alvean had placed the ladder so that it poked through the hole in the ceiling.

  Fain knew he’d be live bait perched on the open rungs of the ladder. “Start climbing,” he told the Alvean.

  “But, good sir, I cannot, without permission, enter the private offices of the Supreme Commander. To do so would—”

  “I want you to climb the ladder ahead of me,” Fain said slowly. “That’s an order. You must obey.”

  “I must obey,” the Alvean said. He shrugged, stepped up to the ladder, and began to climb.

  Fain never took his eye off the opening in the ceiling as he entered the room. He waited at the foot of the ladder until the bulk of the Alvean nearly blocked his view, then began to climb. He had risen two steps when the Alvean, reaching the top, spread his arms through the opening. If something was going to happen, it ought to come now, Fain thought. He raised his heatgun.

  The Alvean fell.

  It caught him totally by surprise.

  A hundred kilos of Alvean flesh fell three meters down from the ceiling and landed upon Fain. The wooden rung upon which he stood cracked. He fell. He hit the floor, the Alvean on him. For a moment he saw nothing. All he felt was pain. The heatgun fell from his hand.

  Joseph Fain lay pressed beneath the bulk of the unconscious Alvean, unarmed and in full view of the hole in the ceiling.

  He knew he ought to be dead. He stood up.

  His ribs ached and his left wrist felt sprained. The Alvean slept in a Vertil stupor. Fain kicked once, then again. He heard a snap as the Alveans ribs, concealed beneath the fat, broke. He raised his leg, then stopped.

  Fain felt soiled and foolish. He felt like—to use an antique expression, however meaningless—like a man caught with his pants down. He breathed heavily. His hands were shaking.

  Slowly, calmly, he crossed the room and retrieved his heatgun.

  He climbed the ladder alone, carefully avoiding the broken rung.

  The room at the top was empty. He had known by now that it had to be but his anger was barely tempered. He searched the room. It was dark and narrow and filled with smoke. He tore open drawers and scattered files. He ripped at the furniture and splintered a chair. There was no meaning to his search, only a certain order. He started at one end of the room and worked toward the other.

  Halfway down the length of the room, in a wide wall cupboard, he found the body of an Alvean. There could be no doubt this time. A hole the size of a fist had been burned in the Alvean’s chest and his garment, a flowing white silk gown, was a mass of dried blood.

  Fain didn’t have to think for more than half a second before identifying the dead Alvean. From his clothes, from where he had been found, the solution was simple.

  Fain shut the cupboard and allowed General Nokavo to rest undisturbed.

  He wasn’t surprised. He had seen similar deaths before, on Revolium and elsewhere. Assuming another man’s identity presented the Changeling with only one crucial problem: what to do with the original article. In this instance the Changeling had undoubtedly acted instinctively. It had killed General Nokavo, assumed his person and identity for a few critical moments, and then gone on.

  Or had it?

  Fain tensed suddenly. His gun was in his hand and raised. He spun, pointed toward the hole in the floor, and fired.

  From below there was no response.

  Fain dropped to his knees, crawled across the floor, and looked down.

  The room below was empty.

  Fain remembered lying down there with the broad, foul, huge bulk of the Alvean soldier sprawled upon him.

  That Alvean soldier had been the Changeling.

  He knew it now as certainly as he should have known it at the beginning.

  The Changeling had tricked him, taunted him, ridiculed him. The Changeling had made him look like a fool, an amateur.

  And, what was worse, Fain realized the Changeling had not acted entirely on its own. Fain himself had helped the Changeling all the way.

  He should have suspected something: one lone Alvean still awake while dozens of others slept. One lone Alvean who just happened to know exactly where General Nokavo was hiding. One lone Alvean who was the Changeling.

  Cautiously, controlling the anger that rose like a wave in him, Fain descended the ladder. As he reached the bottom he heard, deep in the distance the murmur of an aircraft engine. The sound deepened as Fain stood poised. He tried to follow its direction and compare with his own quicktreatment knowledge of Alvean geography. South by southwest. Yes, of course: Kalic. The city. The Changeling was headed there, toward Skallon.

  Fain holstered his gun and began to run. When he reached the street a sea of smoke shrouded the base. The padding he wore made running awkward; in the Alvean heat he was panting after only a few hundred meters. But he did not stop. He did not slow down. Five years of failure boiled up within him. Inside he knew there was his cold and certain center, the gyroscope that guided him. He would run now, and sweat out the years of lassitude. He would drive himself until the softness left his body and his mind. He would work from his center, his sureness. When the rest had burned away he would be able to think clearly again and he would track down this Changeling and he would kill it.”

  3

  To be on a world again is good. The ponderous will of gravity forms the air, tells each particle to step in the Dance. The Changeling moves forward in the clattering machine of the air, carving the wind, staying only slightly above the froth of vegetation below. Speed it must have. And lightness. It sees below a spot, and, learning from the awkward clanking machine as the thing tries to do what it should, what the instant requires, the fleshy cargo comes fluttering to rest among the packed wealth of life. Here are animals. They seek the gas plants, making prayer and seizing the plants with little sharp claws. The herd rejoices. They separate the respiratory bulb from the photon-eating pads. The plants, in anguish, release gusts of rich gas. The Changeling plucks a few, eats, takes knowledge of this world. Its cool snout nuzzles the herdbeasts. It sees and licks. It feels the moment coming and rises up. The hand forms into blade and down it falls, slicing red and wide. Guts spill on the dry ground. Wet richness slops and steams. Globes of offal sour the air. The Changeling sucks in this vast cargo, brought to it on hooves. It cuts and chews and slurps in quivering full life, the aroma of flesh, the juices of gasping finish. And is renewed. It must add mass for what is to come. Its ribbed flesh absorbs the moist feast Cells swell in thanks, sacs fill with seeping liquid, joints pop and creak as the body absorbs through pores and blood the richness of the welcoming world.

  4

  With his muddy boots casually tossed upon the crumpled white sheets, Fain sat with his hands behind his neck and glared at the wooden rectangle of the door. Skallon. Where was Skallon? Even an idiot should know better than to go out alone at night on a planet he barely knew.

  Fain could have smoked a tobacco cigarette. The habit was one he had only lately acquired, but it was a strong one. The drug was apparently unknown on Alvea. Fat people rarely smoked anyway.

  The doorknob turned. Catching the hint of motion, Fain reached easily for his heatgun. He gripped the butt but did not draw the weapon. A foot appeared through an open crack in the door. A hinge creaked, then an arm joined the foot. Fain relaxed but did not release his grip. When all of William Skallon finally showed in the dim light of the outer corridor, Fain let his anger and impatience take control. “About time,” he said.

  Skallon stopped dead. His mouth hung open and his eyes went wide. He stared at the spot where Fain’s muddy boots stained the clean white sheets. “What?” he said. “What are you doing here’

  “Get in here,” said Fain.

  “Ye
s,” said Skallon. “Yes, of course.” He complied passively. The room was lit by the single flickering gas lamp. Skallon made no effort to sit. There was only the bed.

  ‘Where have you been?” Fain said.

  “I—I could ask you the same thing.”

  Fain smiled thinly. “And I’d tell you. But, right now, I asked first.”

  “Out,” Skallon said. His surprise over, he spoke casually, no attempt at bluster. T attended a funeral ceremony and saw—observed—other native practices. That is supposed to be my job here, isn’t it? I am supposed to be the expert on Alvean culture. I thought that was why we—”

  “Your job,” Fain said, “is to do what you re told. By me.”

  T don’t think the situation is quite as simple as that—

  Fain shrugged. The thrust of Skallon’s thought did not interest him, and he never argued. Argument implied equality, and Fain seldom granted that quality to any man. “Where’s the dog? You didn’t take him with you?”

  “No, of course not. I was alone. Completely alone. Scorpio has his own room. The innkeeper, Kish—”

  “We’ll move him in with me for tonight It was stupid leaving him alone. Scorpio is a lot more valuable to this mission than either of us. Remember that.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” Skallon glowered, slipping toward the brink of real anger.

  Fain decided to be soothing. He sat up—the native beds, stuffed with some cheap, lumpy stuff, were not made for comfort. “I don’t mean to be completely negative, Skallon, but you’ve got to remember certain definite facts. You and I are strangers on this world. I don’t care how many books you’ve read or tapes you’ve screened, these people are aliens. They don’t look or act or think like us. They’re bug-eyed monsters and we’re real people. Don’t trust the innkeeper. Don’t trust his wife or her son. Don’t—”

  “But I didn’t mean—”

  “Shut up,” Fain said. “I heard you talking in the courtyard and it wasn’t smart. We have a job to do. It’s an important one and we could both get killed. Understand? Now, from now on, when we go out, we go out together. No more wandering around looking for easy thrills. That goes for me same as it does you. We don’t have to like each other but we do have to protect each other. Nobody else is going to do the job. Is that clear?”

  “I suppose it is, Fain.” He was angry, but he was also listening, and it was the last part that was crucial.

  “Okay,” said Fain. “Now, one other thing. In the course of all your wanderings, did you happen to bump into the Changeling?”

  “How did you know he’s in Kalic?”

  “I’ve been chasing its trail all day. At the air base I almost caught up with it, but it gave me the slip and stole a skimmer. It must have downed that somewhere outside the city. The trail wasn’t hard to follow. The Changeling has a supply of Vertil and it’s not hesitant about using it. The last definite sign I found wasn’t a kilometer from here. Two of your Alveans knocked cold from the drug.”

  Skallon said, “What I don’t understand is how it could get—”

  “The Vertil?” Fain shrugged. “Only one way-infiltration.”

  “On Earth?”

  “Why not? They’ve infiltrated the backworlds. What makes Earth so special? It wasn’t luck that got it this far. By now it probably knows who we are. These disguises aren’t going to fool it.”

  “No,” said Skallon, softly. “No, I suppose not.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. Fain climbed to his feet. Skallon seemed to be taking this awfully hard. What was it? he wondered. The idea of a Changeling intelligence net on Earth? Had that disturbed Skallon’s precarious sense of order? Utter chaos so close to home? Fain was amused.

  “Get up,” he said. “Get up and take me to Scorpio. I want to see him and I want to eat. Wake up the innkeeper.”

  “But it’s the middle of the night, Fain.”

  “So? Don’t worry. He won’t argue. I’m loaded with Vertil.” Fain pointed to his mouth.

  Skallon stood up, showing a sudden and unexpected flash of anger. “What are you doing like that?”

  “I had to get here, didn’t I? I had to hurry. I couldn’t afford to play around with my accent and my clothes. The Changeling was way ahead of me all the way. I didn’t have time to be polite and ask for everything I wanted.”

  “But wasn’t that rather—rather—” Skallon seemed flustered, upset. “Fain, wasn’t that stupid?”

  “Stupid?” Fain let his anger take over. “Who the hell are you to—”

  But Skallon seemed sure of himself now. “Fain, these are people we’re dealing with, not animals. Look at you.” Skallon did so now himself, as if seeing Fain for the first time. “Your robes are a mess, your makeup is running. You wouldn’t fool anybody into thinking you’re a Doubluth.”

  “I said there wasn’t time for the niceties. “

  “Are you sure of that? Vertil ought to be a luxury. The way you’re using it, you don’t care about these people. I thought we were supposed to be different from the Changelings. I thought we were supposed to be saving the Alveans from them.”

  That’s what some people say.” It was a point Fain could have argued. He knew full well—even if Skallon did not—that they were here to protect the best interests of the Earth Consortium. Alvea entered the picture only where her interests and those of the Earth happened to coincide. Fain could have argued all this with Skallon, but he remembered in time that he never argued. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “Then you stay back. You stay out of the way. No Vertil.”

  Fain grinned. He already had a hand on the door. “It’s a deal.”

  But, as the two men moved uncertainly down the dim corridor, Fain couldn’t help wondering. What if Skallon was right? Had his decision to use Vertil really been the wisest means of reaching Kalic quickly, or only the most obvious, the easiest?

  Have I made another mistake? Fain wondered. If so, how many more can I afford?

  It was not a question he enjoyed contemplating; the answer was again too obvious.

  Licking the empty plate set on the floor, Scorpio murmured in guttural satisfaction. Lifting his big head, the neodog said, “Skallon. Feed. Scorpio. One. Time.”

  Fain glared at Skallon seated across the table from him. “Scorpio eats three meals a day. You should have known that.”

  “I did. I forgot. Sorry.” Skallon yawned. It was plain his late night walk through the city was catching up with him.

  “Warm. Here,” said Scorpio, moving over to where a wood fire burned in a broad brick fireplace. “I. Sleep.” The room smelled of smoke, but the odor was not wholly unpleasant. Even Fain had never before seen anybody burning real wood merely for heat.

  “Bring me another helping, please,” Fain said, holding up his plate. As Kish, the Alvean innkeeper, approached, Fain turned his head deliberately away. The Vertil had almost certainly worn off by now, but he was trying to please Skallon. At first Kish had flatly refused to provide a late meal. Skallon had been forced to beg and plead and entreat, while Fain, smiling to himself, waited patiently in the corridor. When Kish, muttering, finally appeared with Skallon, Fain said nothing.

  “Additional meat?” asked Kish.

  “It’s not something we get on Earth.”

  “Dead animal flesh,” said Skallon, coming awake long enough to frown in disgust.

  “No worse than dead vegetable flesh,” said Fain.

  As Kish waddled away and disappeared into the adjoining room—the kitchen—Skallon started in again. “Look, Fain, I happen to be tired and if all you want from me is someone to look on while you eat—”

  “Shut up,” said Fain. He had just heard something—a sound like a cough—coming from behind the kitchen door. And the sound—the cough—was too high-pitched to have been made by Kish. There was someone else in that room. Fain motioned Skallon to keep silent, then stood, reaching for his heatgun. He could have kicked himself. How could he have neglected to check the other rooms? It was
yet another mistake—and so soon.

  Softly, on the balls of his feet, Fain crossed the room. Scorpio, beside the fire, came awake in an instant. He eyed the scene carefully through hooded eyes. Reaching swiftly out, Fain gripped the knob and jerked open the door. At the same moment, he drew his heatgun and pressed the trigger lightly.

  He saw three figures. Kish was close to a burning stove. The second, a woman. The third, a young boy, yelped as soon as he saw Fain. The cry might have been one of surprise or even delight.

  “Shut up,” Fain said, moving slowly into the room. He jerked his weapon toward Kish. “Who are these people?”

  T can tell you that, Fain.” It was Skallon standing in the doorway behind. ‘The lady is Joane, who happens to be Kish’s wife, and the boy is Danon, their son.

  ‘They’re not fat.” Fain turned the heatgun on the woman now. She seemed to realize its function and backed away. The far wall stopped her.

  “Only adult male Alveans eat to excess. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that yet.”

  “I haven’t had time to notice anything.” But Fain did notice, to his own surprise, that this woman was surprisingly pretty. Not beautiful—not like Bateman’s daughters—but oddly sensual, more corporeal, a firm and powerful presence rather than something formed from bits of silk, fluff, and finery. “The Changeling would have noticed, though.”

  “Joane isn’t the Changeling.”

  “How do you know?”

  T don’t, but Scorpio does. And he’s gone back to sleep again.”

  Fain glanced back to be sure Skallon was correct and, when he saw the slumbering dog, holstered the heatgun. “I’m sorry,” he told Kish, “but we can’t be too careful. Skallon has told you why we’re here. The enemy might be anywhere—or anyone.”

  “I know, I know, but—” Kish was staring at the floor, where Fain’s second helping of meat lay in a moist heap covered by bits of broken dish. There is more. I will bring—”

  “No,” said Fain. “Forget it. We’ve kept you up late enough. Go to bed. You, too.” He meant the boy, who had said nothing the whole time, content to stare in wide-eyed wonder. ‘Tour wife can bring us anything we need.”