The Soul Eater Read online

  “Different things scare different people,” said Tchaka.

  “Nothing scared me,” said Lane. “But I scared it, and it radiated its fear to me. Whenever it got far enough away for some of the tension it felt to dissipate, so did mine.”

  “It seems to me, Nicobar,” said Tchaka, absently scratching his artificial eyeball with the instrument he had been using to stir his drink, “that this is the most complicated rationalization for feeling afraid that I have ever heard in my life, long and filled with fascinating rationalizations as it has been.”

  “Thank you for your confidence,” said Lane dryly.

  “Anything for a paying customer,” said Tchaka with a grin. “By the way, did you feel pain when you shot the beast, Nicobar? I assume you did shoot it.”

  “I used a vibrator on it.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” said Tchaka triumphantly. “If your theory is right, you should have died the second the beam hit the thing.”

  “It doesn't affect my theory at all,” said Lane. “I don't think the Starduster, or Deathdealer, or whatever we're calling it, feels pain. At least, not like you and I do. I suppose, in retrospect, that it's not too surprising. Why would something composed of pure energy have sensations of pain?”

  “Then it can't be killed?”

  “I didn't say that,” said Lane. “It can be killed, all right—and with a vibrator.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “That it didn't feel pain,” said Lane. “That's a whole lot different from saying that it can't be killed.”

  “Not to me it isn't,” said Tchaka.

  “I tried the laser cannon on the creature, and the molecular imploder too,” said Lane. “No effect. But I got a reaction with the vibrator.”

  “But not a pain reaction,” said Tchaka.

  “No.”

  “Then what kind of reaction was it?”

  “A whole bunch of things, some of them too strange to understand, some too vague to clarify. The overwhelming impression I've been able to reconstruct has been tine of great regret, with a goodly chunk of feat of the unknown mixed in.”

  “Could be anything,” said Tchaka.

  “No,” said Lane. “It was something-very specific. It was death.”

  “But you didn't kill it.”

  “I must have destroyed a tiny part of it, a minuscule portion of the totality. Enough to make a creature give me just a little taste of death.”

  “If you say so, Nicobar,” said Tchaka, ‘'But why did it kill only the Mariner and not you too?”

  “Simple,” said Lane. “The Mariner was an old man, ready to die, maybe even eager to do so after finally seeing his Starduster. I'm younger and stronger. I don't want to die yet. Maybe it takes more than a taste of death to kill me.”

  “Give my liquor a chance,” said Tchaka, rising and walking to a bar that was hidden behind the chart rack. “It'll kill you before you ever see the Dreamwish Beast again. Besides, I still say there's no such thing as an emotional sending machine.”

  “Maybe not,” said Lane. “Maybe it receives my emotions, too. There's no way for me to know that. But I know what I felt, and I know what killed the old man. I'd never had a nightmare in my life, but I've been having them every time I go to sleep since I ran into that creature.”

  “It must be quite a beast to give the great Nicobar Lane nightmares,” said Tchaka, pouring himself another drink.

  “It is. It's got one hell of a protective device,” said Lane. “The more severely it's menaced, the more terror its attacker feels.”

  “Outside of you, Nicobar, who or what in the universe would attack it?”

  Lane shrugged. “Something must, or it wouldn't have developed any defense mechanisms at all.”

  “That's the problem with you, Nicobar,” said Tchaka, his gold teeth glinting in the chandelier's light as he allowed himself the luxury of a huge grin. “You view everything through the eyes of a hunter. Maybe there's more than just meat and meat-eaters in the universe.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe God isn't a hunter, Nicobar. Maybe He's a lover.”

  “I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about,” said Lane.

  “That mechanism, if it exists, is a very interesting thing to have. I ask myself: What would Tchaka do with it? And, since Tchaka is nothing if not kind, considerate, generous to a fault, and one hell of a stud to boot, I think I'd let women feel what I feel when I look at them, when I touch and fondle them, when I spurt my seed into them. That's the way I'd use it, Nicobar, and who's to say you're any closer to God's idea of the Dreamwish Beast than I am? Maybe it's a mating mechanism, Nicobar. Maybe it emotes lust and desire to attract other Dreamwish Beasts.”

  “You're going on the assumption that there are other Dreamwish Beasts,” said Lane. “I'm not so sure about that.”

  “Maybe there aren't,” said Tchaka. “But there are no natural enemies, either. Why should you think that this mechanism was created for one thing rather than the other?”

  “If it's a mating mechanism, why would it also be able to broadcast terror, or death?” said Lane.

  “Wouldn't you want a woman to tell you if you were killing her with pleasure?” Tchaka grinned. “But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe only Tchaka can send them to heaven that way.”

  “I thought all your women went to hell,” said Lane.

  “That's where they get their training, Nicobar,” said Tchaka. “Once they've learned their trade, they come to work for me.”

  “I have no empirical evidence to the contrary,” said Lane wryly.

  “Let's go hunting for a little evidence,” said Tchaka, preparing to leave the room.

  “Tchaka,” said Lane, “I've been to Earth once, and I've seen men and beasts on quite a few other worlds, but you are without question the only living entity I've ever found that is all appetite.”

  “It beats the hell out of chasing another spoonful of death.” Tchaka laughed. “Put the question to me, and I'll choose life every time.”

  “Some people might disagree with your definition of life.”

  “What do they know?” scoffed Tchaka. “People who know how to live do it, Nicobar. People who don't know, define it.”

  “Have you ever thought of writing a book composed of your homely little philosophies?” said Lane with a smile.

  “Often,” said Tchaka. “But I have no respect for anyone who has time to read it.”

  “I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense,” said Lane.

  “Of course it does. I'm nothing if not sensible—except lecherous. Let's go back downstairs, Nicobar.”

  “No, thanks. I came up here for a reason.”

  “Other than speaking to Tchaka?. My feelings are wounded.”

  “A little opium or a little blonde and they'll recover just fine,” said Lane. “Somehow, Tchaka, I have difficulty viewing you as an object of sympathy.”

  Tchaka shrugged. “So what did you come up here for?”

  “Why would anyone come up here? To look at maps.”

  “But they're all ancient and outdated,” said Tchaka. “The only people who buy them are collectors.”

  “I know what they are.”

  “Then why waste your time with them?” said Tchaka. “Use one of them to find a water world and you'll wind up on a gas giant.”

  “I'm not looking for planets,” said Lane, walking over to the chart rack and pulling a few maps out at random.

  “Stars? What can you hunt on a star?”

  “I'm not looking for stars, either,” said Lane.

  “Then what else is—?” Tchaka gave vent to a huge belly laugh. “You're looking for the Dreamwish Beast! It must have scrambled your brain, Nicobar; you won't find it on any maps!”

  Lane looked up at the huge man. “Somebody who didn't know what it was could have listed it as a star. In the early days they didn't have our sophisticated sensing devices. Seen through a porthole or viewing screen, and partially o
bscured by the dust cloud, it could have looked like a distant star. If I can find a few such sightings, I can trace its feeding pattern even better.”

  “But what difference does it make?” said Tchaka. “You're not going to go out after it.”

  “Call it curiosity,” said Lane, looking at the first of the charts, then replacing it in the rack.

  “I'll call it idiocy,” said Tchaka as Lane unrolled another map. “The more you hurt it, the more it'll hurt you right back.”

  “I don't want to hurt it,” said Lane. “I just want to learn a little more about it.”

  “That's what they all tell me when they go into the drug den,” said Tchaka. “That thing is death, Nicobar. Come downstairs with me and sample some of the joys of life.”

  “Later,” said Lane, looking at another map.

  “Come on, Nicobar. It'll be on the house.”

  “Not now.”

  “Bah! Why do I give a damn?” shouted Tchaka. “I've never met any man I had less in common with. Why should I care what you do?”

  “You shouldn't.”

  “What would you do if I picked you up and carried you downstairs?” said Tchaka.

  “I'd probably try to kill you,” said Lane.

  “You couldn't do it, Nicobar.”

  “I suppose not. Are you going to try?”

  “If I did, we wouldn't be friends anymore, would we?”

  “No, we wouldn't,” said Lane.

  “Why should Tchaka care if you're his friend or not?”

  “Opposites attract,” said Lane with a smile.

  “Maybe that's why you're so interested in the Dreamwish Beast,” said Tchaka. “You can't get much more opposite than that.”

  “There is a difference between attraction and interest that seems to escape you,” said Lane. “You are attracted to your whores. I am interested in the creature.”

  “Seems like a waste,” said Tchaka. “The damned thing hasn't got any value any longer, now that you know what it's made of.”

  “Hardly as wasteful as a proprietor sampling his stock more often than his customers do,” said Lane, pulling out another batch of charts. “The creature never had a value; your girls used to, before you used them up.”

  “Are you insulting my whores?” demanded Tchaka.

  “Perish the thought,” said Lane. “Only your integrity.”

  “In that case, you're forgiven,” said Tchaka with a laugh. He walked to the door. “I'll send up a girl with some liquor for you.”

  “Not soon,” said Lane, spreading charts across the beautifully woven rug. “And make it coffee.”

  “I weep for you, Nicobar,” said Tchaka.

  “I weep for whoever you're going to bed with tonight.” Lane grinned.

  “Shall I have her send up a glowing testimonial in the morning?” asked Tchaka, but Lane, completely engrossed as he pored over an ancient starmap, did not answer.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  He was three months out of Hellhaven, and his cargo hold was fílled almost to the bursting point.

  It had been a good hunt. Birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, marsupials, fish, and a pair of creatures that simply couldn't be classified, all had fallen before his weaponry and his skill.

  Now, weary at last of slaughter, he sat at the navigational computer of his ship, knowing full well that he had killed his quota and filled his orders and should return to his home base, and knowing full well that he wasn't going home at all.

  He put the dust cloud on the Carto-System, then added all the previous sightings of the Starduster, including the half-dozen he had found on Tchaka's old star charts. Then he varied the intensity of the tiny pinpricks of light that denoted the sightings, making the more recent ones shine even brighter. He had the Deathmaker's master computer estimate the creature's speed and probable course, had the Carto-System zero in on the area, and laid in a course for it.

  It was foolish. He admitted it to himself with the brutal honesty that always characterized his self-appraisals. He didn't have that much fuel left, and he'd probably have to set down for more water if he didn't go straight back to Northpoint right now. Traversing interstellar space didn't take much out of his ship or his wallet; landing and taking off did. And yet, he was within a week's flight of where the creature figured to be. It was too good an opportunity to pass by.

  He took a Deepsleep for six days, leaving the Mufti to fend for itself. When he awoke he made a few minor course corrections, ate a huge meal—Deepsleep only slowed the metabolism to a crawl, rather than stopping it, and he always woke up famished—and began examining his various instrument panels. He did not find what he was looking for.

  He spent the next two weeks in the vicinity, ducking into and out of the dust cloud without ever coming across any intimation of the creature. He remained there until the last possible moment, then made for Belial, a tiny planet possessing two Tradertowns and not much else.

  Upon arriving, he left the Deathmaker in a spaceport hangar, put the Mufti in Deepsleep, and walked to the Palace, a rather rundown counterpart to Tchaka's. He ordered a veal-like dish for dinner, topped it off with two glasses of Alphard brandy, toyed with spending an hour or so in the whorehouse but decided against it, and rented a small room for the night.

  When he awoke he paid his bill, asked at the desk if there were any antiquarian book/tape shops on Belial, managed to keep his temper as the clerk doubled over with laughter, and then walked back to the hangar.

  “Almost ready?” he asked the chief of the service division.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “You didn't say how much fuel you wanted. There's been a strike recently, and prices are a little inflated in these parts, so all I gave you was enough to get home safely. I assume from your ship's registration papers that you're from Northpoint.”

  Lane nodded.

  “Couldn't help looking in the hold when I was cleaning up the ship. You a hunter or something?”

  “Yes,” said Lane.

  “That's some haul,” said the man admiringly. “You must be pretty good at your trade.”

  “The best,” said Lane without humor. “By the way, I want all the fuel you can give me. Ditto for drinking water.”

  “That's gonna cost you, Mr. Lane,” said the man. “Like I said, the price of fuel is—”

  “I know what you said,” said Lane. “I've got an account at the big bank at Alphard and another one at Northpoint. Check them out if you have any problems.”

  “If I'm not sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong, Mr. Lane,” said the man, “just what the devil are you going to hunt that will require all that fuel and still fit in what little cargo area you've got left?”

  “Right the first time,” said Lane.

  “Huh?”

  “You're sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong.”

  The man just stared at him for a long moment, then relayed the order to his work crew.

  Lane took off that afternoon and headed back toward the dust cloud. He arrived three days later.

  There was still no trace of the creature.

  It didn't bother Lane that much. He enjoyed sitting alone at the controls of the Deathmaker, found it much more exhilarating than hunting down alien animals on alien worlds. In the days when the race was still Earthbound, hunters had extolled the virtues of feeling the wind or the salt spray of the sea in their faces, the sun on their shoulders, the intoxication of cool fresh air in their lungs. Lane felt sorry for them. He'd felt not just one sun on his neck and shoulders, but almost fíve hundred of them, had breathed cool clear air on a score of worlds and been on hundreds of worlds where a single breath of unfiltered air would have been instantly fatal, had been above and beneath not just saltwater oceans, but oceans of chlorine, ammonia, and half a dozen other noxious liquids. There was no romance to pitting oneself against the elements; it was a game, a deadly gamble with Nature, that every hunter sooner or later was doomed
to lose. He looked through one of his viewscreens at a myriad of stars, his vision unobstructed by atmosphere or the grim knowledge that the stars were forever beyond his grasp, and wondered what the ancient hunters would feel if they could sit beside him for a few minutes.

  He took the Mufti out of Deepsleep, fed it a handful of dead, dried-up lizards, then allowed it to sit on his lap as he whipped up a snack and returned to the controls. He leaned back in his chair, wedged one foot against the side of the navigational computer, crossed the other over it, and closed his eyes, absently stroking the Mufti's chest and neck with his left hand. A moment later he was asleep.

  The next ten weeks passed uneventfully, and yet he was not discontented. He followed a plain routine: eating, exercising, caring for the Mufti, making sure nothing was rotting in the cargo hold, plotting course corrections, sleeping.

  When he began to get too bored he took mild narcotics and hallucinogens, and once or twice he drank himself into a stupor. For the most part, though, he remained awake, calm, sober, clear-headed, and—the prime quality in a hunter—patient.

  The nightmares remained with him, though he had gotten used to them and paid them no more attention than he would pay to any other irritant. Many times he would wake up screaming and trembling, only to become aware of his surroundings and slowly relax, finally going back to sleep.

  Which is exactly what happened to him ten weeks out from Belial. He woke with a cry and lay in his hammock, shaking so badly that he almost capsized it. Finally his head cleared and he realized that he was within the confines of the Deathmaker, and that he had been having a nightmare.

  But this time the terror didn't leave him. It covered him like a blanket, real and oppressive. He felt a sweet salty taste in his mouth and realized that he had bitten halfway through his lower lip. He shook his head, trying to clear it—and with a cry of elation that somehow worked its way up through layer upon layer of fear, he understood what had happened.

  Jumping out of the hammock, he ran to the main viewing screen—and saw the creature, hovering about three thousand miles away.

  He put the ship on manual control and edged forward, simultaneously locking the vibrator's sights onto the Starduster. The creature backed away, and the Deathmaker increased its pace.