The Sword of Cain - Henry Sauter, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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HENRY SAUTERSimon Kester's faded blue eyes followed Dr. Halon's puffy hands as they removed the sensors from his wrists, ankles, and major nerve centers. Wires from the sensors led to a wall-enclosed diagnostic computer. Halon let the wires retract, leaving only the sensors neatly aligned, ready for the next patient."Medicine is now on a par with industry," Halon said while he waited for the quietly chuckling machine to produce the customary thick sheaf of papers. "The auto industry really started it?with comparatively simple testers to locate engine troubles. The advance in electro-chemistry-biology has enabled the medical profession to develop this complete physical analysis machine.""Seems to me, Industry's still ahead?in the spare-parts line." Simon's voice was harsh. He sat up, donned his tunic.The doctor flushed, "Births still exceed the death rate. And only from the dead or dying can we get organs, or 'spare parts,' in your words. For every heart, or set of lungs, or arm available, there're two dozen real or fancied emergencies demanding the 'part'. It takes a long time to grow people, and longer until their organs become available for transplant.""Hear tell there're ways to get parts, you got the money." Simon stood up, still tall but beginning to bend with the years. Bony hands buckled on his harness complete with dagger and shortsword; the banning of firearms in Kester's infancy had brought about the revival of cold steel for personal protection. '"Also, hear this . . . Stroud, that his name? . . . can grow new parts from old, without waiting for a death.""Let's talk this over in the office." Halon jerked the sheets of graphs and data from the mouth of the now-quiet computer.Simon followed, noting the typical pear-shape of the desk man; the unsteady walk. There was a something about Halon, and his shakiness. Could be nerves; when Simon had first entered the office there was a slight lingering smell of exotic perfume. Simon wondered who was behind the door set into the paneling on the right wall."Vintage '94, from what was California. Not the best year, but a high alcohol content." Halon handed a glass from the autobar to Simon, took one for himself. "Go ahead, Simon, relax a bit." Halon gulped his wine, poured another glass, sat down to the report.Simon sipped his drink appreciatively, savoring the mellow-sharp taste. He watched Halon; the shakiness, Simon noted, was leaving the doctor, now. Simon had looked long for a doctor; Halon had seemed the man, but it began to appear the doctor enjoyed the good things of life a bit too much. Simon smacked his lips over another sip of wine, glanced again at the door."This place is spy-ray proof; besides, nothing goes out of here." Halon looked up from the report, dialed another glass.Simon shook his head; his glass was still half full."Simon, you've somewhere between six weeks and six months to live.""That short?" Simon had expected something of the sort; but in the face of the reality he handed his glass forward for a refill. "Doctor, granted I'm ninety-four; but I've never had a transplant, never spent a day in the hospital. At my age, I don't have to wear weapons but I've yet to see a man walk away from a challenge to me." Simon gulped down the wine; already he was beginning to feel the effects; he knew he was talking too much."Simon," Halon regarded him narrowly, "ever read 'The One Horse Shay?, I think that's the title.""The . . . poem, isn't it? Probably way back when, in school. Don't go much for poetry.""Well, it is about a shay?buggy that was so well constructed no one part was stronger than another. Came the day, though, when it fell apart?all at once. You're like that buggy. When you go, it'll be all at once. No new heart will do the job, or liver?you need the whole works. You need a complete, live body.""A whole body?" Simon almost whispered the words. Why, a heart, or a hand, alone, would put the ordinary citizen into debt for years. A whole body. Even if obtainable he doubted he had that much money, frugal as he had been all his life."While you're thinking, forget Stroud. I doubt he can do as you said?if he could, we of the medical profession would have known of it. And if he can, the Guild will soon put him out of business. They make too much out of spare parts."Simon knew of the Rocky Mountain Spare Parts Guild; an organization that had grown wealthy and powerful enough so that its openly-hired heavys were engaging in duels, with the Guild using the slain bodies as sources of parts. Maybe ...Halon seemed to read his thoughts: "Take my advice and don't get mixed up with the Guild. I did, just once. With Guildmaster Levitt. Took me two years to pay him off?almost lost my Medic standing a few times, over some of his deals."Simon, you're physically capable and mentally sharp. Just bring me a nice, young body. I'll do the rest. Brain transplant is one of the easiest; though, naturally, it isn't talked about and not even publicly known.""What's your price?" Simon knew Halon had him hooked."Just bring along another body, for me." Halon laughed at the look on Simon's face. The liquor had brought back the doctor's humor. "I'm tired of this hulk, Simon." He patted his paunch. "Besides, it can't last much longer under the treatment I give it."Simon believed that; he had seen the effect of the liquor. Coupled with the perfume, Simon made a downward revision of his earlier estimate of Halon's age."And when you get the two, just come here. But remember, Simon, they have to be young?and alive." Halon paused, studied Simon. "It's a deal?""Well, two seems .....Simon trailed off."Six weeks to six months. Personally, I'd say closer to six weeks.""Deal." The words were reluctant. Simon felt he might know how to get one, but to bring two?at one time . . .Halon stood up, extending his hand, breaking into Simon's train of thought: "My usual office fee." Halon named a figure.Grumbling under his breath, Simon paid. Then he straightened his tunic, loosed his shortsword in its sheath, and walked out into the street.Bright sun slashed through the thin mountain air. Simon stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the glare after the cool light of the office. At this upper level of the city, the doctor's office was in a restricted-by-wealth area; here, there were even sidewalks that did not move. Overhead the stream of varied-level air traffic flowed constantly, seemingly in a bewildering crisscrossing of flights but in reality rigidly restricted to course, altitude, and speed. From habit, Simon glanced around. The walks were free of pedestrians; no moving vehicles on the street. The freedom from the seething crowds, as well as Halon's dubious reputation, had made Simon seek out the doctor. Here, too, he could park his heli on the blacktop of this upper level; not on some crowded roof-deck. The openness and the wealth of the area made it reasonably safe for a man alone.Not that any armed man was truly safe. The Guild?and the free-lancers tolerated because their prey could be bought cheaply by the Guild and sold dearly?had heavys constantly on the prowl to challenge. Alone or in pairs they were picked swordsmen, deadly; and, having dispatched their quarry, would have the body picked up immediately by one of the ever-cruising Guild ships. Eventually, the body would be sold piecemeal to a population demanding more and more transplants. Briefly, the thought of finding a victim in the teeming throngs on the levels below crossed Simon's mind; then he dismissed it.Simon would be of no value?not as parts?and the only problem was that, should he meet Guild heavys, the killers would not know that. In spite of his years, his appearance was that of a man past the prime but with several decades left. One or two swordsmen, he minded not; but in this isolated spot he did not care to run into a hunting party. So he hurried toward the parking lot, and his heli. Abruptly, he stopped at the lot entrance.On the ground, a ways from his copter, lay a heavy; dead, from the slackness of the body. Two heavys masked had a man backed against Simon's copter; evidently, the man had slain one, and was holding the others at bay. Simon stepped back, wanting no part of this just as the heavys drew back, revealing the defender. Instantly, Simon drew his shortsword, raced silently toward the group, holding a finger to his lips to caution the slim, dark-haired youth with bloodied sword. The thought had flashed across his mind that this might be the beginning again; with it, he acted. At the last moment his foot dislodged a chip from the sun-warmed asphalt; the slight sound of its skittering across the blacktop caused the nearer of the two heavys to whirl, sword point raised.Steel met steel; Simon noted no blood on the other's sword. At the first exchange, Simon was disappointed in his opponent. The heavy was good; he knew all the tricks; and the daggered left hand was a constant threat. But the heavy had not been born with lightning reflexes, nor had fourscore years experience at the game, in the bargain. Simon parried easily on the defensive, while he watched the youth, now definitely on the attack. The boy?he was hardly more than that?was fast; almost as fast as Simon. What he lacked in the polish and skill, that comes from a lifetime of the deadly game, he made up in speed. His sword glinted brightly in the sun, raining blows interspersed with thrusts, keeping the trained heavy on the defensive, driving the killer back.Abruptly Simon had seen enough; concentrated on his man. He parried skillfully, lunged, and shifted to the offensive. In the abrupt switch t...
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