The Virgin of Zesh & the Tower of Zanid Read Online Free
Author: L. Sprague de Camp
this.” Kirwan pressed buttons and spoke. “Senhor Dom Herculeu? This is Brian Kirwan, the Irish Homer. It’s sorry I am to drag you from bed at such an hour, but it’s a matter of life and death. Can you stagger over to this little crack in the wall you call a transient room? Yes, 2-F, Compound Eleven . . . yes, you’re damned right it’s important. Oh, wait a minute. Althea, have you got your key with you? Foolish question. Herculeu, bring a pass key that’ll open Miss Merrick’s room. Which is that, Althea? One-Q? Sure, sure. And none of your Brazilian procrastination, me lad. Fire all jets.”
Kirwan hung up and turned back to the other two. “Well, comrades, the evening’s turning out a bit different from what I had in mind when the lassie burst in here like Deirdre running away from Conchobar. Though I can’t say I’m sorry, for I’m thinking the man who breaks this filly in has got his work cut out for him.”
“Don’t you think of anything but sex?” said Althea vehemently.
“Sometimes I think of whiskey,” said Kirwan. “If you’d like a drop, now . . .”
Bahr, with a worried frown, said, “What do you plan to do, Brian?”
“With the key, we’ll get Althea’s papers and necessaries from her room. We’ll get this pocket Hercules to forge Gorchakov’s signature on the exit permit—”
“Hei! How do you know he will?”
“I don’t, but I can only find out by asking. And if worse comes to worst, we should be able to raise a small bribe between us. Then we’ll shake that coachman of ours out of bed, make him hitch up his ayas, and be off down the river road before Roqir shows its ugly nose above the horizon.”
“A fine plan,” said Bahr, “if you can execute it.”
“What, the great Brian Kirwan not able to carry out a plan? What nonsense you’re talking. Althea, do you have any rough traveling clothes—none of these sad black nunnery-novice things your heretical so-called church makes you wear, but plain shirt and trousers?”
“No; I was told to bring only my uniforms from Earth, and to buy whatever else I needed at Novorecife.”
Kirwan glanced at himself and at Bahr. “Gottfried, everything of yours’ll be too long and everything of mine’ll be too big around. But with yours, she has only to roll up the legs and sleeves.”
He untied the barracks-bag containing Bahr’s gear, dumped the contents out on the floor, picked a khaki shirt and a pair of slacks out of the mess, and tossed them to Althea.
“Now,” he said, “leap out of that bed and put these on; no nonsense. You, too, Gottfried.” And Kirwan began pulling on his own outer clothing. Bahr, wearing a martyred expression, got out of bed and began repacking his bag.
“Turn your backs,” said Althea. “I won’t get out of bed until you do.”
When Castanhoso knocked on the door a few minutes later, the augmented expedition to Zesh was combing its collective hair and stacking its luggage for departure.
III
The barouche slowed through the Hamda’ east of Novorecife, a little settlement where beings from a dozen planets dwelt in picturesque squalor. The driver swerved to avoid a trio of drunks—an Earthman, a Krishnan, and a reptile-man from Osiris—swinging down the street with arms around each other’s necks. They were singing a song about an English King who lived long years ago.
The carriage reached open country, and the driver whipped his team to a gallop. The barouche raced along the river road, its wheels rattling and the twelve hooves of its two ayas drumming. Overhead Karrim, looking twice as big and four times as bright as the earthly moon, lit up the flat Krishnan landscape. Smaller Golnaz, half-full, had just risen, and little Sheb lay below the horizon.
The driver, a gnarled and taciturn Gozashtandu, was human-looking but for his greenish hair, large pointed ears, and external organs of smell. These last were a pair of feathery antennae, like those of a moth, sprouting from between
Kirwan hung up and turned back to the other two. “Well, comrades, the evening’s turning out a bit different from what I had in mind when the lassie burst in here like Deirdre running away from Conchobar. Though I can’t say I’m sorry, for I’m thinking the man who breaks this filly in has got his work cut out for him.”
“Don’t you think of anything but sex?” said Althea vehemently.
“Sometimes I think of whiskey,” said Kirwan. “If you’d like a drop, now . . .”
Bahr, with a worried frown, said, “What do you plan to do, Brian?”
“With the key, we’ll get Althea’s papers and necessaries from her room. We’ll get this pocket Hercules to forge Gorchakov’s signature on the exit permit—”
“Hei! How do you know he will?”
“I don’t, but I can only find out by asking. And if worse comes to worst, we should be able to raise a small bribe between us. Then we’ll shake that coachman of ours out of bed, make him hitch up his ayas, and be off down the river road before Roqir shows its ugly nose above the horizon.”
“A fine plan,” said Bahr, “if you can execute it.”
“What, the great Brian Kirwan not able to carry out a plan? What nonsense you’re talking. Althea, do you have any rough traveling clothes—none of these sad black nunnery-novice things your heretical so-called church makes you wear, but plain shirt and trousers?”
“No; I was told to bring only my uniforms from Earth, and to buy whatever else I needed at Novorecife.”
Kirwan glanced at himself and at Bahr. “Gottfried, everything of yours’ll be too long and everything of mine’ll be too big around. But with yours, she has only to roll up the legs and sleeves.”
He untied the barracks-bag containing Bahr’s gear, dumped the contents out on the floor, picked a khaki shirt and a pair of slacks out of the mess, and tossed them to Althea.
“Now,” he said, “leap out of that bed and put these on; no nonsense. You, too, Gottfried.” And Kirwan began pulling on his own outer clothing. Bahr, wearing a martyred expression, got out of bed and began repacking his bag.
“Turn your backs,” said Althea. “I won’t get out of bed until you do.”
When Castanhoso knocked on the door a few minutes later, the augmented expedition to Zesh was combing its collective hair and stacking its luggage for departure.
III
The barouche slowed through the Hamda’ east of Novorecife, a little settlement where beings from a dozen planets dwelt in picturesque squalor. The driver swerved to avoid a trio of drunks—an Earthman, a Krishnan, and a reptile-man from Osiris—swinging down the street with arms around each other’s necks. They were singing a song about an English King who lived long years ago.
The carriage reached open country, and the driver whipped his team to a gallop. The barouche raced along the river road, its wheels rattling and the twelve hooves of its two ayas drumming. Overhead Karrim, looking twice as big and four times as bright as the earthly moon, lit up the flat Krishnan landscape. Smaller Golnaz, half-full, had just risen, and little Sheb lay below the horizon.
The driver, a gnarled and taciturn Gozashtandu, was human-looking but for his greenish hair, large pointed ears, and external organs of smell. These last were a pair of feathery antennae, like those of a moth, sprouting from between
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