Wolfling
by Gordon R. Dickson
Chapter 1
The bull would not charge.
James Keil stamped his foot and shouted at the animal, but still it would not charge—and it was programmed to charge. Or rather, it was programmed to still be willing to charge at this point in the bullfight.
There was nothing to be done about it. The finest physical tests available could not measure the probable endurance, or bravery, of a bull. This one was tired. Jim would have to step up the pattern and make the kill, now.
He moved toward the bull, stamped and shouted again, and tempted the weary beast into one more attack. As the near horn swept by, grazing his hip and waist, he sucked his belly in hard, feeling a little streak of internal coldness along the line of the graze. Like the bull, he was programmed; and as long as they both stuck to their programming, he was safe. But he was a bullfighter only by courtesy of six months of intensive training. Also, he had free will, where the bull had not—and free will meant the power to break programming and make mistakes.
If he made a mistake, this bull could still kill him.
Therefore he was careful to make no mistakes, even now. The bull was almost at the end of its strength. He led it carefully through a few more passes, then took his sword and went in over the horns for the kill.
The bull grunted, went to its knees, and rolled over on its side as he withdrew the blade. As he watched its death with an impassive face, a female figure appeared without warning on the sand of the arena beside him, looking down at the fallen bull.
He turned to face her. It was the Princess Afuan, aunt of the All-Emperor and head of the visiting party of Highborn who had occupied the official box across the arena, surrounded there by the short, brown-skinned local humans of Alpha Centauri III. Afuan was neither short nor brown—no more than she was, in height or color, in any way similar to an Earth-born Caucasian like Jim himself.
She was dressed—if that was the word—in some sort of white, filmy, cloudstuff. It left her arms bare but covered her otherwise, from the armpits to the ankles, dividing only with the movement of her legs as she walked. Above that cloudstuff, her skin also was white, but not in the sense that Jim’s skin was “white.”
Afuan’s skin was the color of white onyx, and Jim could see the blue veins pulsing dimly within the marble column of her throat. Her face was narrow, and her eyes were large and a startling lemon yellow in color. So that, even though they lacked any epicanthic fold similar to the Oriental, they gave the impression of being slitted and feline below the whitish eyelashes and eyebrows on either side of her long, straight nose. In a sculptured, abstract way, she could have been called beautiful—and she was as tall as Jim himself, who stood six-feet-six.
“Very entertaining,” she said now to Jim, speaking the Empire tongue with a rapid, almost hissing accent. “Yes, we’ll certainly take you with us, ah—what’s your world name, Wolfling?”
“Earthman, High-born,” Jim answered.
“Yes, well—come to our ship, Earthman. The Throne World will appreciate seeing you,” she said. She glanced past him at the other members of his cuadrilla. “But not these others, these assistants of yours; no point in cluttering up the ship. We can supply you anything you need to perform, once you get to the Throne World.”
She started to turn away, but Jim spoke.
“Excuse me, High-born,” he said. “You can supply me with new assistants; but you can’t supply me with the fighting bulls. They’ve been genetically selected over generations. I’ve got half a dozen more in cryogenic storage with me here. I’d like to take those.”
She turned back to look at him. Her face was completely unreadable. For a moment Jim was not sure but that in speaking up he had angered her, to the point where she would destroy the work of five years by saying she would not take him along to the Throne World after all. But then she spoke.
“Very well,” she said. “Tell whoever takes you aboard our ship that you need these animals shipped too, and that I said they should be.”
She turned away again, then, finally, and stood gazing down with interest at the dead bull. As if her movement was a cue, suddenly a dozen or more members of her retinue had also winked into existence on the sand of the arena and were examining the bull and even the suits and equipment of other members of the cuadrilla. The women were none of them more than an inch or two shorter than Afuan; and the tall, slim, onyx-skinned men ranged between six-feet-ten and seven feet in height. Unlike the High-born women, the men wore short kilts and tunics made out of some material more like ordinary cloth. But in almost all cases the color of their clothing was white, except for a single design in some other color, written on either the front or the back of their tunics.
No one offered to examine Jim, as they were examining the others of the cuadrilla. He turned and walked away, sheathing his sword, across the sand and down under the seats of the arena, along a sloping concretelike passageway illuminated by some source of light apparently within the very material of the walls themselves—one of the Empire luxuries which the local humans of Alpha Centauri III seemed to use without making any effort to understand their workings.
He reached the door of his room, opened it, and stepped inside. Within the windowless main dressing room he saw two things in a single glance.
One was Max Holland, the man from the U.N. Special Committee Section. The other was his own two suitcases, already packed in hopes of the trip to the Throne World, which had now become a reality. But now the suitcases were opened and their contents had been strewn about on the furniture of the room.
“What’s this?” Jim said, stopping and looking down at the smaller man. Holland’s face was dark with anger.
“Don’t think—” he began in a choked voice, and then got control of himself. His voice firmed. “Just because Afuan’s agreed to take you doesn’t mean you’re going to take some of these things to the Throne World!”
“So, you know I’m invited?” Jim asked.
“I’m a good lip-reader,” answered Max thickly, “and I had binoculars on you from the moment you started your bullfight until you walked away, just now.”
“And you came ahead of me down here and decided to have a look at my luggage?” said Jim.
“That’s right!” said Max. He turned sharply and snatched up two items from the couch beside him. One was a Scottish kilt in the Black Watch tartan, with a small knife in a sheath attached to it. The other was a suntan shirt with shoulder tabs, through one of which ran the shoulder belt of a Sam Browne belt, to which was fitted a holster containing a forty-five caliber revolver. Max all but shook these two articles under Jim’s nose.
“You’re going into the Throne World of a human Empire a hundred thousand years old! A world where they outgrew primitive weapons like this so long ago they probably don’t even remember them.”
“That’s just the point in taking them,” said Jim.
He took back the kilt with its small knife and the shirt with its Sam Browne belt from Max’s hands so smoothly that the other for a second did not seem to know that they were gone. Jim carried both items of clothing back over to the open suitcases, where he laid them down. He began calmly to repack the luggage.
“What point?” Max blazed behind him. “Jim, somehow you seem to have got the idea that you’re a loner in this whole project! Just let me remind you—it took a hundred and sixty-two governments, a couple of billion dollars, and the work of thousands of people to train you and bring you here, to the point where you could get yourself invited to play bullfighter on the Throne World!”
Jim, without answering, folded the kilt and placed it back into one of the open suitcases.