Takeoff. Part 25

Whadda y' mean?

The Kid? Well, h.e.l.l yes. There's a dozen men and more on the Turkey Track Bar who'll swear to it. He was still wet behind the ears, but we all saw him do what none o' the rest of us could do.

All right. You think the Kid is a sissy. All right, go ahead-we thought so, too, on the Turkey Track Bar. But let me tell you, that don't prove nothin" Not one way or another.

Naw; I'll buy. Hey, Sam! Just leave the bottle here; I reckon me and Morty can pour our own.

Thanks.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah.

It was the Kid who spotted the mustang in the first place. Now, I been Tad Jenkins' foreman at the Turkey Track Bar for twelve years, and I got no complaints. He pays a good wage and lets me do my job without always ridin' herd on me, like some bosses do. Tad's a tough old buzzard, and the only weak spot he's got is the way he spoils that kid of his. So when the Kid comes ridin' in after an all-day jaunt, all het up about this golden mustang he seen runnin' with the herd, I could see we were gonna have us a time of it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like Tad Junior, and so do most of the boys, but he just ain't what you'd call a man's man, if you see what I mean. Spends most of his time readin' books, and don't give a d.a.m.n for the ranchin' business.

h.e.l.l, when I was seventeen, I'd been workin' on my own for two years, and I joined the Marine Corps before I was eighteen, back in '42. But that don't make no never-mind.

Anyhow, the Kid comes back, all het up, as I said, about this here horse he seen. He come ridin'

like there was a twister chasin' him, which is doin' pretty good on that horse his old man gave him. She's an old bay; gentle as mother's kiss, and d.a.m.n near as old as the Kid is, seems like. The Kid likes 'em gentle-he ain't exactly what you'd call a bronco buster.

He scoots up to the ranch house, hops offn that bay, and runs inside, a-yellin' for his dad. I'd've figured there'd been an accident or something, except that the Kid's got a big happy grin on his face, so I didn't pay no more attention.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, the Old Man comes moseyin' out toward the corral, where I was oiling some bridles.

"Frank," he says, "you been payin' any attention to them mustangs lately?"

"I got an eye on 'em," I says. "I know pretty well where they are."

He nods, easy-like. He just keeps that mustang herd because his own daddy kept horses. Once in a while, we cut out a few of 'em for the rodeo business, and when we thin out the herd, we shoot the old ones and sell the carca.s.ses to the dogfood packers, but horseflesh ain't what it was worth twenty, thirty years ago, so it don't pay to keep any real close watch on 'em.

The Old Man says, "You didn't happen to notice a big palomino stallion runnin' with 'em, did you,Frank?"

I thought for a minute and had to allow that I hadn't. "Mostly browns, greys, and bays," I told him.

"Course," I went on, "I ain't seen 'em all. I figure, long as I know about where they are and about how many we got, why, if we need any more information, we know where to get it."

"Sure, that's right, Frank," he says. "But young Tad was ridin' up near Smoky Bend, and he saw this mustang. Now, that herd ain't bred a palomino for as long as I can remember, so I figure that maybe someone's horse run away and joined up with my herd."

"A stallion?" I said, sort of questionin' like.

"Well, young Tad seemed to think so," the Old Man says. "But he didn't get too close. Likely he couldn't be too sure." Then he sort of looks off up at the sky as if he was figurin' the weather, which he wasn't. "Tad's got another idea, though. He thinks, what with all the bomb-testin' and stuff they've been doin' in these parts, he thinks maybe we got a mutation on our hands."

What? Well, Mort, the way I understand it, a mutation is an animal that don't turn out exactly like his folks-sort of a freak, you might say, This here radiation from the atom bombs is supposed to cause it.

Anyway, the Old Man says, "Tad says this mustang looks different, somehow." And he sort of looks off towards the hills. "Why don't you round up some of the boys, Frank, and we'll go have us a look."

That's when I got the whole picture. The Kid had taken a notion that he wanted that horse, and the Old Man was going to give it to him. Well, it wasn't any of my business-I don't mind cuttin' out a horse for the Kid any more than I mind cuttin' one out of the herd for a rodeo. In fact, I sort of cherished the idea of watchin' the Kid try to ride a wild mustang. Might be worthwhile watchin"

Well, me and some of the boys saddled up and rode out with the Old Man and the Kid to find this here golden horse.

Morty, let me tell you that we had the dangdest time catchin' that ornry animal. He was skittish as a new bride and a d.a.m.n sight faster on his feet.

We spotted the herd out near Smokey Bend and reined up a quarter of a mile away to look 'em over. We were on that little rise just north of the river and we could look down on the mustangs and see most of 'em.

Naturally, we spotted the palomino right off. You couldn't of missed him. The Old Man got his field gla.s.ses out and took a good, long look, and pa.s.sed 'em to me.

Well, sir, I never seen a horse like that'n before. I could see what the Kid meant when he said it was different. It was a golden blonde all over, except for a white spot on its forehead and the dark hooves. And it wasn't just the color, either-the neck and head were just a shade too long to look natural on a horse, and his chest was as broad as a Percheron's. And there was one other thing queer about him that I didn't notice until I'd looked for a while.

Now, you mightn't believe this, Mort, but that mustang's eyes were as blue as sapphires! Yes, sir, just as pretty a blue as you'd ever want to see.

Oh, you'd heard, eh?

Well, anyway, I handed the gla.s.ses back to the Old Man and said, "Pretty eyes."

"Mighty pretty," he says, looking at me peculiar. "Mighty pretty."

We both knew right then that this wasn't no horse that had strayed off from n.o.body's ranch and gone wild. If anybody had ever had a blue-eyed blonde for a horse, we'd of heard about it, and if anybody'd lost such an animal, there'd of been a reward out, you can sure bet.

The Old Man looks for a mite longer, then he says, "Okay, boys, let's corral that beauty. And watch yourselves. Anybody causes that animal to break a leg, I'll shoot him instead of the horse."

So we started down the slope gentle-like, so's not to spook the herd. The Kid stayed back on the rise to watch.

Well, sir, I tell you that horse didn't no more want to be caught than a bar of soap in a bathtub. We tried to box her up by goin' in easy, but she was the first one to notice what we was up to, and she spooked the rest of 'em. She-What?

Well, sure I said, "she." The Kid thought she was a stallion, and so did the rest of us until we got close up and down level with her. But she wasn't-she was the biggest, toughest-looking mare you ever seen.

And run! We couldn't even get close to her if she didn't want us to. Every time we got up near, that horse would take off like a stray piece of lightning, left our nags so far behind that we knew we'd just have to find a better way.

The trouble was, that horse was smart. She knew that we didn't intend to hurt her, so we couldn't scare her any. She'd just as soon come at us as run away, and she was slick as b.u.t.tered gla.s.s. And the d.a.m.n critter didn't really try to run very far. She'd only circle around, stayin' just out of range.

Pretty soon, the rest of the herd was so spooky that they took off down toward Barton's Creek, but that mare didn't go with 'em. She just stuck around to laugh at us poor fools tryin' to catch her.

Well, finally, we circled around her and started closin' in. We figured we had her this time, but she just waited until we were really close-just stood there, chompin' gra.s.s until we were almost on top of her-and then she took a flyin' leap between me and the Old Man and tore up the rise toward the Kid.

Well, clanged if that Kid didn't have his rope out. That mare is comin' at him at a full gallop, and he just sits there, waitin', with his la.s.so ready.

The Old Man bellows at him "Tad! Don't you rope that horse. She'll break a leg at that speed!"

But the stupid young sprite don't even hear-all he sees is that horse.

And when she gets close enough, he throws the loop over her neck.

Now, you know as well as I do that that would have killed any ordinary horse. But not this baby.

She comes down on all fours and skids herself to a stop as if she'd had air brakes. Didn't even tighten the loop much. Then she just stands there, meek and peaceful as you please, while we ride up.

The Old Man tries to chew the Kid out for usin' a rope, but there ain't much he can really say. That horse had made fools out of the rest of us, and the Kid had caught her slicker'n a whistle, so the Old Man had to pretty much let it go.

Well, we led that mare back to the ranch and put her in the corral, and the Old Man gave orders to break her to saddle.

Three days later, there wasn't a man on the ranch that didn't have bruises allover him. Jake Moffat had a busted arm, Ed Lowey had a dislocated shoulder, and I had a sprained ankle. There wasn't a man in the outfit that had stayed on that mare more than thirty seconds.

The Kid wanted to try-he was the only one who could get close enough to her to put a saddle on her. But the Old Man said No, and he said it loud and hard.

And then, one mornin', we hear a ruckus at the corral. I limp over on my game leg as fast as I can, and the rest of the boys come, too' as best their bruises will let 'em.

And there's the Kid, sit tin' on that golden horse, holdin' on for dear life, while she cavorts around the place. But he sticks with her, and finally she gentles down and trots around as nice as you please.

Some of the boys said she wasn't buckin' as hard by a long shot as she had when they were on her, but I figure that's just a mite of jealousy creepin' in.

Well, of course, when the Old Man hears about it, he gives the Kid all kinds of h.e.l.l for disobeyin'

orders, but, again, there ain't much he can really say. Actually, he's pretty proud of the Kid, and he can't help showin' it.

That evenin', a bunch of the boys decide they're gonna take the Kid in to town and show him a real good time. They figure it's worth a little celebration.

Oh, you saw it, Morty? Yeah, they had him in here, all right. Sam knows the Kid ain't old enough to drink, but he let on that he didn't.

The Kid said something about losin' a few bucks at Blackjack. Said it wasn't his lucky night.

Where'd they go from here, Mort? Oh? Well, I guess that bunch really painted the town red, eh?

Bet Mabel and the girls were glad to see 'em, huh?

Yeah, I know he did a lot of braggin' about his gold horse. That's why he decided to ride her into town the next day-just to show off that horse. What happened? Well, that night in town hadn't done him much good, I guess, 'cause he climbed on, that filly took one leap into the air, and the Kid hit the ground. Knocked colder than an Amarillo blizzard-busted his collar bone and his left arm and had a concussion for a week.

The horse cleared that corral fence like she was flyin' and took off. We ain't seen her since.

Was she a mutation? Well, she must've been. The Kid said that that spot on her forehead was the nub of a horn, and who in the h.e.l.l ever heard of a horse with a horn?

...NO CONNECTIONS.

By Randall Garrett

Isaac Asimov is, I think I dare say , more widely known to the general public than any other science fiction writer [His only rivals are Ray Bradbury and Arthur C. Clarke. A. B. C. ?], but not, I fear, for his science fiction. For the past two decades his straight science articles and other works, ranging from Biblical commentary to learned discussions of Shakespeare, have outgrossed his science fiction wordage by a ratio of-at a guesstimate-something like a hundred to one.

Twenty years ago, he was merely one of the top science fiction writers in the world. For my money, he still is.

The basic gimmick of this story actually was given to me by John Pomeroy, whose "Progress Report" belongs in a collection like this one. I think the gimmick came from Dr. Albert Einstein's remark, "If I had it to do allover again, I'd have become a plumber."

When John suggested it, I thought, "Mmmmm. Given a hundred thousand years, that ought to put the action somewhere in the middle of Isaac's Second Empire. What the h.e.l.l-why not?"

"Imitation," said Ducem Palver, "is supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery, isn't it?"

Dr. Nikol Buth inspected what was left of his cigar and decided that between the ash and the chewed stub there was not enough tobacco to make further puffing worthwhile. He dropped it into the disposal and watched the bright flash of light that marked the question that Palver had asked.

"In a way, I suppose-if you can call it imitation to take a hint from a myth and develop something from it."

Ducem Palver leaned back in his chair. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle beneath his slightly arched brows, although there was no obvious trace of a smile on his round face. "Then," he said, "you consider mathematical treatment of vast numbers of human beings to be a myth?"

Dr. Buth considered that for a moment. He hardly knew how to speak to his visitor. Palver, he knew, occupied some small post in the Imperium-Imperial Librarian, Third Cla.s.s-but Buth wasn't sure just how important the man was nor exactly why he had come. Nor did he know how much Palver knew of archaeology.

Buth said: "I realize that people once believed in such a thing-seven or eight hundred years ago.

But the barbaric period of the Interregnum, before the establishment of the Second Galactic Empire, was hardly a period of vast scientific knowledge." He gestured with one hand. "Oh, I'll grant you that there may just possibly be something to the old story that a mathematical treatment of the actions of vast ma.s.ses of human beings was worked out by a scientist of the First Empire and then lost during the Interregnum-but I don't believe it."

"Oh?" Palver's face was bland. "Why not?"

"It's ridiculous on the face of it. Discoveries are never lost, really. We still have all the technological knowledge that the First Empire had, and much more; myths and legends, on the other hand, have no basis, except in easily explained exaggerations."

Palver looked the slightest bit defensive. "Why do you call them legends? It seems to me to be a bit too pat to say that those arts which were not lost were real and that those which were lost are legendary."

Dr. Nikol Buth had long since made up his mind that Ducem Palver was nothing but another small-time, officious bureaucrat who had decided, for some reason, to make a thirty thousand light-year trip from the Imperial capital just to get in his, Buth's, hair. Inwardly, he sighed. He had walked on eggs before.

Outwardly, he was all smiles. "I'll admit it sounds odd when you put it that way. But look at it from another angle. We have fairly accurate information on the history of the First Empire; the last ten thousand years of its existence are very accurately doc.u.mented, thanks to the information found in the oldImperial Library. And we have no mention of 'lost arts' or anything else like that. None of the records is in the least mysterious. We know that one nonhuman race was found, for instance. Nothing mysterious there; we know what happened to them, how they escaped the First Imperial Government, and their eventual fate."

Dr. Buth fished in his pocket for another cigar and found none. He got up and walked over to the humidor on his desk, saying: "On the other hand, the records of the Interregnum are scanty, inaccurate, and, in some cases, patently falsified. And it is during the Interregnum that we find legends of supermen, of mental giants who can control the minds of others, and of 'lost' sciences which can do wonders."

Buth lit his cigar, and Ducem Palver nodded his head slowly.

"I see," the librarian said at last. "Then you don't believe that a mathematical treatment of the future actions of a ma.s.s of people could be formulated?"

"I didn't say that," Dr. Buth said, somewhat testily. "I said that I did not believe it was ever done in the past." Then he forced a smile back onto his face and into his voice. "Not having any such thing as a mathematical system of prediction, I can hardly predict what may be done in the future along those lines."

Ducem Palver steepled his hands pontifically. "I'm inclined to agree with you, Dr. Buth-however, I understood that you had evolved such a system."

Dr. Buth exhaled a cloud of smoke slowly. "Tell me, Mr. Palver, why is the Imperial Government interested in this?"

Palver .chuckled deprecatingly. "I am sorry, Dr. Buth. I didn't intend to lead you to believe that the Imperium was interested. In so far as I know, they are not." He paused, and his blue eyes seemed to sparkle for a moment with an inner, barely hidden mirth. "Ah, I see that you're disappointed. I don't blame you; it would be quite a feather in your cap to have your work recognized by the Imperium, would it not? I'm truly sorry if I misled you."

Buth shook his head. "Think nothing of it. As a matter of fact, I should be...uh...rather embarra.s.sed if my work came to Imperial notice at this time. But..."

"...But, then, why am I here?" Palver finished for him. "Purely out of personal curiosity, my dear sir, nothing more. Naturally, the records of your published works are on file in the Imperial Library; my position at the Library is that of Keeper of the Files. Have you ever seen the Files?"

Dr. Buth shrugged. "No-but I've read descriptions."

"I'm sure you have. It's a vast operation to feed all the information of the galaxy into that one great machine to be correlated, cross-indexed, filtered, digested, and abstracted so that it may be available at any time. Only about one billionth of the total information flowing into that machine ever comes to my direct notice, and even then it is fleetingly glanced over and forgotten.

"But my hobby, you see, is History." He p.r.o.nounced the word with a respect touching on reverence. "I'm especially interested in the-as you pointed out-incomplete history of the Interregnum.

Therefore, when your mathematical theories of archaeology came to my attention, I was interested. It happens that my vacation period came due some weeks ago, so I decided to come here, to Sol III, to...ah...have a chat, as it were."

Dr. Buth dropped some cigar ash into the dispenser and watched it flare into oblivion. "Well, I'm afraid you may find you've come for nothing, Mr. Palver. We're not investigating Interregnum history, you see."