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Read Ebook: A trace of memory by Laumer Keith
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Ebook has 1703 lines and 65619 words, and 35 pages
Release date: November 3, 2023
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1962
A TRACE OF MEMORY
Illustrated by BIRMINGHAM
When Legion signed on as a soldier of fortune he did not expect to wind up as the master of a private island. Nor did he expect to cower in ancient Druid pits ... nor fight for his life in the great hall at Okk-Hamiloth, on a planet galaxies away. A master story-teller sweeps you through time and space in a novel of retribution.
He opened his eyes and saw a grey wall where a red light gleamed balefully in the gloom. He lay on a utility mat on a high couch, clad in a gown of strange purple. In his arm there burned a harsh pain, and he saw on his skin the mark of the Hunters. Who could have dared?
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the narrow cot ... and saw the bodies of two men huddled on the floor, blood-splashed. Beyond, at a doorway, lay another, and another.... What carnage was this? Gently he rolled the nearest body on its back--and crouched rigid in shock. Ammaerln, his friend.... Not dead, but the pulse was faint, too faint. And the next corpse? That, too, wore a face that had been dear to him. And the bodies at the entry--his faithful men. All were friends!
Beyond the door the ranged shelves of a library gave back not even an echo when he called. He turned again to his dead. It was fresh death, the blood still wet. Quickly he scanned the room, saw a recording monitor against a wall. He fitted the neurodes to the dying man's temples. But for this gesture of recording his life's memories, there was nothing he could do. He must get him to a therapist and quickly. But no one answered his calls. Was he alone in these chambers of death?
He ran through the library to a great echoing hall beyond. This was not the Sapphire Palace beside the Shallow Sea. The lines were unmistakable: he was aboard a ship, a far-voyager. Why? How? He stood uncertain. The silence was absolute.
He crossed the Great Hall and entered the observation lounge. Here lay another dead man, by his uniform a member of the crew. He touched a knob and the great screens glowed blue. A giant crescent swam into focus, locked, soft green against the black of space. Beyond it a smaller companion hung, blue-blotched, airless. What worlds were these?
When he had ranged the vast ship from end to end he knew that he alone still lived. Seven corpses, cruelly slashed, peopled the silent vessel. In the control sector the communicator lights glowed but to his call there was no answer from the strange world below.
He returned to the recording room. Ammaerln still breathed weakly. The memory recording had been completed; all that the dying man remembered of his long life was imprinted now in the silvery cylinder. It remained only to color-code the trace; that he would do on his return.
His eye was caught by a small object still projecting from an aperture at the side of the high couch where he had wakened. It was his own memory-trace. So he himself had undergone the Change!
He thrust the color banded cylinder into a gown pocket--then whirled at a sound. A nest of Hunters--the swarming globes of pale light used to track down criminals--clustered at the door; then they were upon him.
Without a weapon, he was helpless. He must escape the ship--and quickly! While the suffocating horde pressed close, humming in their eagerness, he caught up the unconscious Ammaerln. The Hunters trailed him like a luminous streamer as he ran to the shuttle boat bay.
Three shuttles lay in their cradles. He groped to a switch, his head swimming with the sulphurous reek of his attackers. Light flooded the bay, driving them back. He entered the lifeboat, placed the body on a cushioned couch. Perhaps he would find help for his friend below.
It had been long since he had manned the controls of a vessel, but he had not forgotten.
The last of life ebbed from the injured man long before they reached the planetary surface. The boat settled gently and the lock cycled. He looked out at a vista of ragged forest.
This was no civilized world. Only the landing-ring and the clearing around it showed the presence of man.
There was a hollow in the earth by a square marker block at the eastern perimeter of the clearing. He carried his friend there and placed him in it, scraped earth over the body. He lingered for a moment, then he rose and turned back toward the shuttle boat....
A dozen men, squat, bearded, wrapped in the shaggy hides of beasts, stood between him and the access ladder. The tallest among them shouted, raised a bronze sword threateningly. Others clustered at the ladder. One scrambled up, reached the top, disappeared into the boat. In a moment he reappeared at the opening and hurled down an armful of small bright objects of varied shapes and textures. Others clambered up to share the loot as the first man again vanished within the boat. But before the foremost had gained the entry the port closed, shutting off a terrified cry from within the shuttle boat.
Men dropped from the ladder as it swung up. The boat rose slowly, angling toward the west, dwindling. The savages shrank back, awed.
The man watched until the tiny blue light was lost against the sky.
The ad read: "Soldiers of fortune seeks companion in arms to share unusual adventure. Foster, Bos 19, Mayport."
I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the general direction of the wire basket beside the park bench, pushed back a slightly frayed cuff, and took a look at my bare wrist. It was just habit; the watch was in a hock shop in Tupelo, Mississippi. It didn't matter. I didn't have to know what time it was.
Across the park most of the store windows were dark along the side street. There were no people in sight; they were all home now, having dinner. As I watched, the lights blinked off in the drug store with the bottles of colored water in the window; that left the candy and cigar emporium at the end of the line. I fidgeted on the hard bench and felt for a cigarette I didn't have. I wished the old boy back of the counter would call it a day and go home. As soon as it was dark enough, I was going to rob his store.
I wasn't a full-time stick-up artist. Maybe that's why that nervous feeling was playing around under my rib cage. There was really nothing to it. The wooden door with the hardware-counter lock that would open almost as easily without a key as with one; the sardine-can metal box with the day's receipts in it; I'd be on my way to the depot with fare to Miami in my pocket ten minutes after I cracked the door. I'd learned a lot harder tricks than petty larceny back when I had a big future ahead with Army Intelligence. That was a long time ago, and I'd had a lot of breaks since then--none good.
I got up and took another turn around the park. It was a warm evening, and the mosquitos were out. I caught a whiff of frying hamburger from the Elite Cafe down the street. It reminded me that I hadn't eaten lately. There were lights on at the Commercial Hotel and one in the ticket office at the station. The local police force was still sitting on a stool at the Rexall talking to the counter girl. I could see the .38 revolver hanging down in a worn leather holster at his hip. All of a sudden, I was in a hurry to get it over with.
I took another look at the lights. All the stores were dark now. There was nothing to wait for. I crossed the street, sauntered past the cigar store. There were dusty boxes of stogies in the window, and piles of home-made fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies under them. Behind them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I passed, looked around, moved toward the door--
A black sedan eased around the corner and pulled in to the curb. A face leaned over to look at me through lenses like the bottoms of tabasco bottles, the hot evening air stirred, and I felt my damp shirt cold against my back.
"Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said.
I just looked at him.
"Passing through town, are you?" he asked.
For some reason I shook my head.
"I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work--for Mr. Foster."
"What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless, a voice used to asking questions.
I remembered the ad--something about an adventure. Foster, Box 19. The cop was still staring at me.
"Box nineteen," I said.
He looked me over some more, then reached across and opened the door. "Better come on down to the station house with me, Mister," he said.
At Police Headquarters, the cop motioned me to a chair, sat behind a desk, and pulled a phone to him. He dialled slowly, then swivelled his back to me to talk. Insects danced around a bare light bulb. There was an odor of stale beer and leather and unwashed bedding. I sat and listened to a radio in the distance wailing a sad song.
It was half an hour before I heard a car pull up outside. The man who came through the door was wearing a light suit that was neither new nor freshly pressed, but had that look of perfect fit and taste that only the most expensive tailoring can achieve. He moved in a relaxed way, but with a sense of power held in reserve. At first glance I thought he was in his middle thirties, but when he looked my way I saw the fine lines around the blue eyes. I got to my feet. He came over to me.
"I'm Foster," he said, and held out his hand. I shook it.
"My name's Legion," I said.
The desk sergeant spoke up. "This fellow says he come here to Mayport to see you, Mr. Foster."
Foster looked at me steadily. "That's right, Sergeant. This gentleman is considering a proposition I've made."
"Well, I didn't know, Mr. Foster," the cop said.
"I quite understand, Sergeant," Foster said. "We all feel better, knowing you're on the job."
"Well, you know," the cop said.
"We may as well be on our way then," Foster said. "If you're ready, Mr. Legion."
"Sure, I'm ready," I said. Mr. Foster said goodnight to the cop and we went out. On the pavement in front of the building I stopped.
"Thanks, Mr. Foster," I said. "I'll get out of your hair now."
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