The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 6: Multiples: 1983-87 Read online

  “Ah. Ah. The poem. But the actual man—”

  “I know nothing of him, nein.”

  “He is of my stature, very large. His beard is thick, his hair is shaggy, his shoulders are wider even than mine. We journeyed everywhere together. But then we quarreled, and he went from me in anger, saying, Never cross my path again. Saying, I have no love for you, Gilgamesh. Saying, If we meet again I will have your life. And I have heard nothing of him since.”

  Schweitzer turned and stared closely at Gilgamesh. “How is this possible? All the world knows the love of Enkidu for Gilgamesh!”

  Gilgamesh called for yet another flagon. This conversation was awakening an ache within his breast, an ache that made the pain that his wound had caused seem like nothing more than an itch. Nor would the drink soothe it; but he would drink all the same.

  He took a deep draught and said somberly, “We quarreled. There were hot words between us. He said he had no love for me any longer.”

  “This cannot be true.”

  Gilgamesh shrugged and made no reply.

  “You wish to find him again?” Schweitzer asked.

  “I desire nothing else.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Hell is larger even than the world. He could be anywhere.”

  “You will find him.”

  “If you knew how I have searched for him—”

  “You will find him. That I know.”

  Gilgamesh shook his head. “If Hell is a place of torment, then this is mine, that I will never find him again. Or if I do, that he will spurn me. Or raise his hand against me.”

  “This is not so,” said Schweitzer. “I think he longs for you even as you do for him.”

  “Then why does he keep himself from me?”

  “This is Hell,” said Schweitzer gently. “You are being tested, my friend; but no test lasts forever. Not even in Hell. Not even in Hell. Even though you are in Hell, have faith in the Lord: You will have your Enkidu soon enough, um Himmels Willen.” Smiling, Schweitzer said, “The emperor is calling you. Go to him. I think he has something to tell you that you will want to hear.”

  Prester John said, “You are a warrior, are you not?”

  “I was,” replied Gilgamesh indifferently.

  “A general? A leader of men?”

  “All that is far behind me,” Gilgamesh said. “This is the life after life. Now I go my own way and I take on no tasks for others. Hell has plenty of generals.”

  “I am told that you were a leader among leaders. I am told that you fought like the god of war. When you took the field, whole nations laid down their arms and knelt before you.”

  Gilgamesh waited, saying nothing.

  “You miss the glory of the battlefield, don’t you, Gilgamesh?”

  “Do I?”

  “What if I were to offer you the command of my army?”

  “Why would you do that? What am I to you? What is your nation to me?”

  “In Hell we take whatever citizenship we wish. What would you say, if I offered you the command?”

  “I would tell you that you are making a great mistake.”

  “It isn’t a trivial army. Ten thousand men. Adequate air support. Tactical nukes. The strongest firepower in the Outback.”

  “You misunderstand,” said Gilgamesh. “Warfare doesn’t interest me. I know nothing of modern weapons and don’t care to learn. You have the wrong man, Prester John. If you need a general, send for Wellington. Send for Marlborough. Rommel. Tiglath-Pileser.”

  “Or for Enkidu?”

  The unexpected name hit Gilgamesh like a battering ram. At the sound of it his face grew hot and his entire body trembled convulsively.

  “What do you know about Enkidu?”

  Prester John held up one superbly manicured hand. “Allow me the privilege of asking the questions, great king.”

  “You spoke the name of Enkidu. What do you know about Enkidu?”

  “First let us discuss other matters which are of—”

  “Enkidu,” said Gilgamesh implacably. “Why did you mention his name?”

  “I know that he was your friend—”

  “Is.”

  “Very well, is your friend. And a man of great valor and strength. Who happens to be a guest at this very moment at the court of the great enemy of my realm. And who, so I understand it, is preparing just now to make war against me.”

  “What?” Gilgamesh stared. “Enkidu is in the service of Queen Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t recall having said that.”

  “Is it not Queen Elizabeth who even now has sent an army to encroach on your domain?”

  Yeh-lu Ta-shih laughed. “Ralegh and his five hundred fools? That expedition’s an absurdity. I’ll take care of them in an afternoon. I mean another enemy altogether. Tell me this: do you know of Mao Tse-tung?”

  “These princes of the New Dead—there are so many names—”

  “A Chinese, a man of Han. Emperor of the Marxist Dynasty, long after my time. Crafty, stubborn, tough. More than a little crazy. He runs something called the Celestial People’s Republic, just north of here. What he tells his subjects is that we can turn Hell into Heaven by collectivizing it.”

  “Collectivizing?” said Gilgamesh uncomprehendingly.

  “To make all the peasants into kings, and the kings into peasants. As I say: more than a little crazy. But he has his hordes of loyal followers, and they do whatever he says. He means to conquer all the Outback, beginning right here. And after that, have all of Hell subjected to his lunatic ideas. I fear that Elizabeth’s in league with him—that this nonsense of looking for a way out of Hell is only a ruse, that in fact her Ralegh is spying out my weaknesses for her so that she can sell the information to Mao.”

  “But if this Mao is the enemy of all kings, why would Elizabeth ally herself with—”

  “Obviously they mean to use each other. Elizabeth aiding Mao to overthrow me, Mao aiding Elizabeth to push her father from his throne. And then afterward, who knows? But I mean to strike before either of them can harm me.”

  “What about Enkidu?” Gilgamesh said. “Tell me about Enkidu.”

  Prester John opened a scroll of computer printout. Skimming through it, he read, “The Old Dead warrior Enkidu of Sumer—Sumer, that’s your nation, isn’t it?—arrived at court of Mao Tse-tung on such-and-such a date—ostensible purpose of visit, Outback hunting expedition—accompanied by American spy posing as journalist and hunter, one E. Hemingway—secret meetings with Kublai Khan, Minister of War for the Celestial People’s Republic—now training Communist troops in preparation for invasion of New Kara-Khitai—” The emperor looked up. “Is this of interest to you, Gilgamesh?”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “This man is your famous friend. You know his mind as you do your own. Defend us from him and I’ll give you anything you desire.”

  “What I desire,” said Gilgamesh, “is nothing more than the friendship of Enkidu.”

  “Then I’ll give you Enkidu on a silver platter. Take the field for me against Mao’s troops. Help me anticipate whatever strategies your Enkidu has been teaching them. We’ll wipe the Marxist bastards out and capture their generals, and then Enkidu will be yours. I can’t guarantee that he’ll want to be your friend again, but he’ll be yours. What do you say, Gilgamesh? What do you say?”

  Across the gray plains of Hell from horizon to horizon sprawled the legions of Prester John. Scarlet-and-yellow banners fluttered against the somber sky. At the center of the formation stood a wedge of horseborne archers in leather armor; on each flank was a detachment of heavy infantry; the emperor’s fleet of tanks was in the vanguard, rolling unhurriedly forward over the rough, broken terrain. A phalanx of trans-atmospheric weapons-platforms provided air cover far overhead.

  A cloud of dust in the distance gave evidence of the oncoming army of the Celestial People’s Republic.

  “By all the demons of Stygia, did you ever see such a cockeyed sight?
” Robert Howard cried. He and Lovecraft had a choice view of the action from their place in the imperial command post, a splendid pagoda protected by a glowing force-shield. Gilgamesh was there too, just across the way with Prester John and the officers of the Kara-Khitai high command. The emperor was peering into a bank of television monitors and one of his aides was feverishly tapping out orders on a computer terminal. “Makes no goddamned sense,” said Howard. “Horsemen, tanks, weapons-platforms, all mixing it up at the same time—is that how these wild sons of bitches fight a war?”

  Lovecraft touched his forefinger to his lips. “Don’t shout so, Bob. Do you want Prester John to hear you? We’re his guests, remember. And King Henry’s ambassadors.”

  “Well, if he hears me, he hears me. Look at that crazy mess! Doesn’t Prester John realize that he’s got a twentieth-century Bolshevik Chinaman coming to attack him with twentieth-century weapons? What good are mounted horsemen, for God’s sake? A cavalry charge into the face of heavy artillery? Bows and arrows against howitzers?” Howard guffawed. “Nuclear-tipped arrows, is that the trick?”

  Softly Lovecraft said, “For all we know, that’s what they are.”

  “You know that can’t be. H.P., I’m surprised at you, a man with your scientific background. I know all this nuke stuff is after our time, but surely you’ve kept up with the theory. Critical mass at the tip of an arrow? No, H.P., you know as well as I do that it just can’t work. And even if it could—”

  In exasperation Lovecraft waved him to be silent. He pointed across the room to the main monitor in front of Prester John. The florid face of a heavy-set man with a thick white beard had appeared on the screen.

  “Isn’t that Hemingway?” Lovecraft asked.

  “Who?”

  “Ernest Hemingway. The writer. A Farewell to Arms. The Sun Also Rises.”

  “Never could stand his stuff,” said Howard. “Sick crap about a bunch of drunken weaklings. You sure that’s him?”

  “Weaklings, Bob?” said Lovecraft in astonishment.

  “I read only the one book, about those Americans in Europe who go to the bullfights and get drunk and fool around with each other’s women, and that was all of Mr. Hemingway that I cared to experience. I tell you, H.P., it disgusted me. And the way it was written! All those short little sentences—no magic, no poetry, H.P.—”

  “Let’s talk about it some other time, Bob.”

  “No vision of heroism—no awareness of the higher passions that ennoble and—”

  “Bob—please—”

  “A fixation on the sordid, the slimy, the depraved—”

  “You’re being absurd, Bob. You’re completely misinterpreting his philosophy of life. If you had simply taken the trouble to read A Farewell to Arms—” Lovecraft shook his head angrily. “This is no time for a literary discussion. Look—look there.” He nodded toward the far side of the room. “One of the emperor’s aides is calling us over. Something’s going on.”

  Indeed there had been a development of some sort. Yeh-lu Ta-shih seemed to be conferring with four or five aides at once. Gilgamesh, red-faced, agitated, was striding swiftly back and forth in front of the computer bank. Hemingway’s face was still on the screen and he too looked agitated.

  Hastily Howard and Lovecraft crossed the room. The emperor turned to them. “There’s been a request for a parley in the field,” Prester John said. “Kublai Khan is on his way over. Dr. Schweitzer will serve as my negotiator. The man Hemingway’s going to be an impartial observer—their impartial observer. I need an impartial observer too. Will you two go down there too, as diplomats from a neutral power, to keep an eye on things?”

  “An honor to serve,” said Howard grandly.

  “And for what purpose, my lord, has the parley been called?” Lovecraft asked.

  Yeh-lu Ta-shih gestured toward the screen. “Hemingway has had the notion that we can settle this thing by single combat—Gilgamesh versus Enkidu. Save on ammunition, spare the Undertaker a devil of a lot of toil. But there’s a disagreement over the details.” Delicately he smothered a yawn. “Perhaps it can all be worked out by lunchtime.”

  It was an oddly assorted group. Mao Tse-tung’s chief negotiator was the plump, magnificently dressed Kublai Khan, whose dark sly eyes gave evidence of much cunning and force. He had been an emperor in his own right in his former life, but evidently had preferred less taxing responsibilities here. Next to him was Hemingway, big and heavy, with a deep voice and an easy, almost arrogant manner. Mao had also sent four small men in identical blue uniforms with red stars on their breasts—“Party types,” someone murmured—and, strangely, a Hairy Man, big-browed and chinless, one of those creatures out of deepest antiquity. He too wore the Communist emblem on his uniform.

  And there was one more to the group—the massive, deep-chested man of dark brow and fierce and smoldering eyes, who stood off by himself at the far side—

  Gilgamesh could barely bring himself to look at him. He too stood apart from the group a little way, savoring the keen edge of the wind that blew across the field of battle. He longed to rush toward Enkidu, to throw his arms around him, to sweep away in one jubilant embrace all the bitterness that had separated them—

  If only it could be as simple as that!

  The voices of Mao’s negotiators and the five that Prester John had sent—Schweitzer, Lovecraft, Howard, and a pair of Kara-Khitai officers—drifted to Gilgamesh above the howling of the wind.

  Hemingway seemed to be doing most of the talking. “Writers, are you? Mr. Howard, Mr. Lovecraft? I regret I haven’t had the pleasure of encountering your work.”

  “Fantasy, it was,” said Lovecraft. “Fables. Visions.”

  “That so? You publish in Argosy? The Post?”

  “Five to Argosy, but they were westerns,” Howard said. “Mainly we wrote for Weird Tales. And H.P., a few in Astounding Stories.”

  “Weird Tales,” Hemingway said. “Astounding Stories.” A shadow of distaste flickered across his face. “Mmm. Don’t think I knew those magazines. But you wrote well, did you, gentlemen? You set down what you truly felt, the real thing, and you stated it purely? Of course you did. I know you did. You were honest writers or you’d never have gone to Hell. That goes almost without saying.” He laughed, rubbed his hands in glee, effusively threw his arms around the shoulders of Howard and Lovecraft. Howard seemed alarmed by that and Lovecraft looked as though he wanted to sink into the ground. “Well, gentlemen,” Hemingway boomed, “what shall we do here? We have a little problem. The one hero wishes to fight with bare hands, the other with—what did he call it?—a disruptor pistol? You would know more about that than I do: something out of Astounding Stories, is how it sounds to me. But we can’t have this, can we? Bare hands against fantastic future science? There is a good way to fight and that is equal to equal, and all other ways are the bad ways.”

  “Let him come to me with his fists,” Gilgamesh called from the distance. “As we fought the first time, in the Market-of-the-Land, when my path crossed his in Uruk.”

  “He is afraid to use the new weapons,” Enkidu replied.

  “Afraid?”

  “I brought a shotgun to him, a fine 12-gauge weapon, a gift to my brother Gilgamesh. He shrank from it as though I had given him a venomous serpent.”

  “Lies!” roared Gilgamesh. “I had no fear of it! I despised it because it was cowardly!”

  “He fears anything which is new,” said Enkidu. “I never thought Gilgamesh of Uruk would know fear, but he fears the unfamiliar. He called me a coward, because I would hunt with a shotgun. But I think he was the coward. And now he fears to fight me with the unfamiliar. He knows that I’ll slay him. He fears death even here, do you know that? Death has always been his great terror. Why is that? Because it is an insult to his pride? I think that is it. Too proud to die—too proud to accept the decree of the gods—”

  “I will break you with my hands alone!” Gilgamesh bellowed.

  “Give us disruptors,” said Enki
du. “Let us see if he dares to touch such a weapon.”

  “A coward’s weapon!”

  “Again you call me a coward? You, Gilgamesh, you are the one who quivers in fear—”

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”

  “You fear my strength, Enkidu!”

  “You fear my skill. You with your pathetic old sword, your pitiful bow—”

  “Is this the Enkidu I loved, mocking me so?”

  “You were the first to mock, when you threw back the shotgun into my hands, spurning my gift, calling me a coward—”

  “The weapon, I said, was cowardly. Not you, Enkidu.”

  “It was the same thing.”

  “Bitte, bitte,” said Schweitzer. “This is not the way!”

  And again from Hemingway: “Gentlemen, please!”

  They took no notice.

  “I meant—”

  “You said—”

  “Shame—”

  “Fear—”

  “Three times over a coward!”

  “Five times five a traitor!”

  “False friend!”

  “Vain braggart!”

  “Gentlemen, I have to ask you—”

  But Hemingway’s voice, loud and firm though it was, was altogether drowned out by the roar of rage that came from the throat of Gilgamesh. Dizzying throbs of anger pounded in his breast, his throat, his temples. He could take no more. This was how it had begun the first time, when Enkidu had come to him with that shotgun and he had given it back and they had fallen into dispute. At first merely a disagreement, and then a hot debate, and then a quarrel, and then the hurling of bitter accusations. And then such words of anger as had never passed between them before, they who had been closer than brothers.

  That time they hadn’t come to blows. Enkidu had simply stalked away, declaring that their friendship was at an end. But now—hearing all the same words again—stymied by this quarrel even over the very method by which they were to fight—Gilgamesh could no longer restrain himself. Overmastered by fury and frustration, he rushed forward.

  Enkidu, eyes gleaming, was ready for him.

  Hemingway attempted to come between them. Big as he was, he was like a child next to Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and they swatted him to one side without effort. With a jolt that made the ground itself reverberate, Gilgamesh went crashing into Enkidu and laid hold of him with both hands.