Bill 3 - on the Planet of Bottled Brains (12 page)

It was inside that portion of the city known as the Sacred Enclosure — a squat black building within which was an enormous amphitheater, its roof open to the blinding African sun. As at a bullfight, there were sunny seats and shady, and these were sold for different prices. Box holders had clay shards with curious figures inscribed on them. Season passholders had to have a man along to carry the massive clay tablet on which was inscribed the dates of the performances and the patron's seat number. When not used for contests, the Black Theater, as the locals called it, staged ballets, music festivals, defloration ceremonies and other priestly fund raisers for the local gods.

The arena was circular, and there were steep tiers of seats up the sides. Already the stands were half full, and more people were streaming in through the entry slits in the basalt walls. Sand had been strewn on the arena floor. It was a bright yellow, in contrast to the black walls of the building, and the gaily colored pennants that flew from four tall masts. Peddlers in long gray smocks trudged up and down the steep steps selling fermented mares' milk, which tasted about as loathsome as it sounds, squirrel sausages and other local specialities. A group of acrobats was already on the arena floor, and a comic actor in satyr mask and three-foot phallus was really warming up the crowd.

In caverns below the arena, Bill was having an argument with Splock.

“I'm not going out there,” Bill said, “without a weapon.” Bill had refused to put on a special gladiator's costume. Nor had he accepted any of the edged weapons which were laid out before him on a table.

“These look perfectly suitable,” Splock said, splanging the edge of one of the swords with his fingernail. “I fail to understand your difficulty.”

“I don't know anything about swords, that's my difficulty.” Bill said. “I want a gun.”

“But these people do not have guns,” Splock said.

“I know. That's why I want one.”

“That would be hardly sporting,” Splock pointed out.

“Sport!” Bill shrieked. “Those mothers want to kill me! Whose side are you on, anyhow?”

“I serve the truth, unemotionally and coolly,” Splock said. “And anyhow, I don't have a gun.”

“You've got something, though, haven't you?”

“Not really. Only this laser pen. But that's hardly suitable —”

“Gimme!” Bill said, and grabbed it. “What's its range?”

“About ten feet. Three meters, to be exact. At that range it can burn a hole through two-inch steel plating. But Bill, I have to tell you —”

Just then Hannibal and two guards came into the room. “Well?” Hannibal asked. “Is the man from the future ready?”

“Ready,” Bill said, putting the pen into the pocket under his pouch and zipping it.

“But you have no sword or lance!”

“You're right. Just pass one of those daggers over. A small one, that's it.”

“Guards, escort him to the arena!”

Bill, flanked by guards with lances, marched out into the sunlight. When the crowd caught a look at him, shambling along and blinking in the sunlight, cleaning his nails with the tiny dagger the odds on Bill fell from ten to one to a hundred to one.

“You better take some of that,” Bill called out to Splock.

“Bill!” Splock shouted. “There's something I must tell you! That laser pen —”

“I'm not going to give it back,” Bill told him.

“But it's discharged, Bill! It hasn't any current left! Bill, not only is it out of energy, it also leaks. I was going to get it fixed at the next Boffritz we passed.”

“You can't do this to me!” Bill screamed.

But now he was alone in the middle of the arena. The crowd had fallen silent. Not a sound could be heard except for a faint rustling noise under his tunic.

Bill opened a button. A Chinger stuck out its tiny green head.

“Still with you, Bill,” the lizard said.

“Who am I talking to?”

“The computer, of course.”

“You'll zap whatever comes up, won't you, computer?”

“Alas, Bill, I am not capable of taking any action in my present form. But I will observe everything and report your struggles to your next of kin.”

Just then an iron gate in the arena wall opened. While Bill watched, slack-jawed, something came shambling out.

It was a strange-looking beast indeed. At first Bill mistook it for a lion, because the first thing he looked at was its head. The head was definitely leonine, with a full tawny mane, big almond-shaped yellow eyes, and the sleepily ferocious look that lions have, at least in Carthage. But then he noticed that its body was as thick around as a barrel, and tapered down to a thin scaled tail. So he thought it was a snake with a lion's head. But then he noticed the sharp little hooves, just like the hooves on the goats back home.

“Well, bless my electronic soul,” the computer said in a squeaky lizard voice since, of course, it was utilizing the Chinger's body as a source of communication. “I do believe we are looking at a chimera! In my studies of the history of the human race — and a rather sordid history it is — I have come across references to the creature. Always regarded as mythological. It was long believed that these creatures were mere figments of the ancient imagination. Now we see that they existed literally. And, if I'm not mistaken, the creature is breathing fire, just like Pliny said it would.”

“Do something!” Bill cried.

“But how can I?” the computer said. “I am a mere disembodied intelligence in this world.”

“Then get out of that Chinger and let Illyria back in!”

“What would a Tsurisian farmgirl know about chimeras?” the computer asked.

“Never mind! Just do it!”

The computer must have done it, because a moment later Bill could hear Illyria's voice, unmistakable even when projected through the larynx and soft palate and unusual dentition of a Chinger.

“Bill! I'm here!”

This talk took place fairly rapidly, although several of the points had to be repeated since the crowd noises made it difficult to hear finer shades of discourse. The chimera was not motionless during this colloquy. First the dreaded beast pawed the ground, scraping aside the sand and scoring the basalt floor of the arena with grooves three inches long with a single strike of its adamantine hooves. Then, noticing Bill, it snorted a double snort of flames, bright red ones with an unhealthy-looking green tinge at their base. Then, fixing its gaze upon Bill, it began to walk, then run, then canter, and at last gallop, toward the intrepid trooper with what appeared to be a four-armed lizard on his shoulder.

“Illyria! Do something!”

“What can I do?” the unhappy girl moaned. “I'm only a tiny green Chinger! Albeit a heavy one from a 10G planet —”

“Shut up!” Bill hinted in a shout of quiet desperation. “Don't you have the power to take over the minds of other creatures? Isn't that a Tsurisian speciality?”

“But of course! What a clever idea! You mean you want me to take over the chimera!”

“And fast,” Bill said, running away full tilt now, the chimera breathing flames behind him and gaining rapidly.

“I'm not really sure I can take over the brain of a mythical beast,” Illyria vacillated.

“The computer said it was real!” Bill gasped, dodging as the goat-lion-serpent reared above him, ready to strike downward with fangs that dripped green poison.

“Bill, there's something I haven't had a chance to tell you yet —”

“Get into that chimera!” Bill roared.

“Yes, darling,” Illyria said. In the next instant the chimera had halted itself in mid-flight and flung itself at Bill's feet. Its eyes rolled upward and its long forked tongue came out to lick Bill's feet.

“How am I doing?” Illyria asked through the chimera's throat and tongue and soft palate.

“Fine,” Bill said. “Just don't overdo it.”

And the crowd, of course, was going wild. Bill's triumph was complete, though there was one complication. After the congratulations for quelling the chimera, there were throaty shouts of “Kill! Kill!” and, “Let's see some green blood!” That sort of thing. As well as, “Save me a bit of the sirloin!” It was then Bill realized that he was supposed to slay the heraldic beast. It is customary in this sort of affair to feast everybody after the killing on broiled chimera steaks and other choice tidbits. The flesh tastes like a combination of goat, serpent and lion, and there's just a faint hint of turkey, although nobody knows where that came from. Another virtue of chimera steaks is the fact that, since the chimera is a flame breather, its steaks can be cooked in its own internal heat, as long as you do that in the first hour or two after it has been dispatched. “No way,” Bill said. “No way.”

His point of view was not appreciated. This was carefully explained to him by Hannibal's chamberlain, a fat and unctuous individual who kept rubbing his hands together, and, when he thought that no one was looking, he pinched his sallow cheeks to give them a little color.

“No,” Bill says, “you can't have the chimera. No way. This is my chimera.”

“But sir, it is customary for the victor to sacrifice the chimera for the public good. That's what all the other victors do. In fact, chimeras are becoming rare in these parts.”

“All the more reason,” Bill said, “not to sacrifice this one.”

“The chimera must be killed,” the chamberlain says. “Otherwise it means ten years bad luck, and that is the last thing in this world Carthage needs.”

“I won't kill the chimera, and that's that.”

“I will confer with Hannibal and the City Elders,” the chamberlain said. “They will have to make the final decision.”

“OK by me,” Bill said. “And on the way out would you tell Mr Splock that I need to see him right away?”

“Impossible,” the chamberlain said, rubbing his hands together. “He has returned to his own time. He left this for you.”

He handed Bill a note and exited, bowing low and smiling unctuously. Bill opened the note, which was folded thrice, and read: Congratulations on your well-deserved victory. Have returned to put Dirk into the picture. Tell Hannibal to assemble his forces; we will be back soon with suitable transport.

“That's a hell of a note,” Bill said. “Just when I need him! Why couldn't he have used the telephone?”

“Because it hasn't been invented yet,” Illyria, within the chimera, said.

“I know that. But time travel hasn't been invented yet, either, and he's doing it.”

“Oh, Bill,” Illyria the chimera said, “what are we going to do?”

“Could you take over some other body for a while? That way we could let them have the chimera and get ourselves out of here.”

“I told you I had trouble controlling mythological beasts,” Illyria said. “It was hard taking over this one. It is going to be very difficult indeed to get out again. What I need, Bill darling, is a suitable host body.”

“Where can we find one? How about one of those dancing girls we saw earlier? The one on the left end of the line was kind of healthy-looking in a very plumpish way,” Bill finished, because he noted a frown crossing the chimera's leonine face.

“She's not at all suitable,” Illyria said. “First of all, because you're interested in her. I will not be a party to perversity.”

“What are you talking about, perversity?” Bill asked. “She'd be you!”

“Or I'd be her,” Illyria Said. “That would suit you nicely, wouldn't it?”

“Illyria! I've never heard you talk like this!”

“Oh, Bill, I don't want to sound jealous. It's just that I'm so crazy about you. You and your darling alligator foot with shining claws. It's little things like that that strike a woman's fancy. But I couldn't take over your charming little dancing girl even if I wanted to. A suitable host can only be found back on my own planet in my own time. Please, don't let them kill me!”

“They'll kill you over my dead body,” Bill said gallantly.

“I would much prefer they didn't do it at all.”

“That's what I meant. Come on, Illyria, I think we'd better get out of here.”

“Perhaps they'll listen to reason,” Illyria said wistfully.

“I doubt it,” Bill said. He had heard the sound of marching and turned to see a squad of ten or so Carthaginian soldiers, heavily armored and armed, with Hannibal himself at their head, looking grim and purposeful, the way people look just before they kill a chimera.

“Come on,” Bill said, grabbing Illyria by her lion's ruff, and tugged her toward the exit.

“I'm coming,” Illyria said. “But where are we going?”

“Away!” he shouted leading the way as they fled. Out the exit and across a busy street, dodging between the pedestrians and horses, the squad right behind them, into a tall building and, huffing and puffing, up the stairs. Behind them he could hear the soldiers in the lower part of the building. They were already mounting the stairs with measured tread. They reached the top floor which was very interesting. Particularly since all of the doors were locked.

“Eeek!” Bill gurgled. “We're trapped like rats.”

“Don't give up, Bill! Try the window,” Illyria advised.

Bill threw the window open and looked out at the straight drop below. Then at the rain gutters. Leaning out he tested the nearest one that ran above the window. They seemed strong enough; they were bronze and half an inch thick, and fastened to the side of the building with heavy copper rivets. They really knew how to build in these days.

“We're going over the roof,” Bill said, climbing out.

“Oh dear,” Illyria said, pausing irresolute in the window. “I don't think I can climb. I have hooves, you know.”

“But you also have a snake's body. For your life, Illyria, slither!”

The brave Tsurisian girl in the mythological disguise backed out of the window and wrapped her tail around a stanchion conveniently located some five feet away. Trembling but resolute, she followed Bill onto the roof.

The rooftops of Carthage presented a multi-colored display of levels and angles. The hot African sun beat down, because it was summer, and the cold African sun had gone to the underworld to rest and revive himself, or so it was claimed in the ancient annals of the city. Bill raced across the rooftops, scrambling up the higher levels and jumping down the lesser ones. Behind him came armed soldiers, running clumsily in their heavy armor, lances at the ready. As Bill raced along, with Illyria close behind and staying up, he felt a tickling sensation under his tunic next to his ribs. He realized that it was the Chinger lizard that had formerly been Illyria.