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On New Pompeii, an Asteroid
Circling the Uninhabited
System of the Star Asta

New Pompeii was a large asteroid, a little over four thousand kilometers at its equator. It was one of those few small bits that inhabit all solar systems that deserved to be called a planetoid; it was fairly round, rounder than most planets, and its core was made up of particularly dense material, giving it a gravity of .7 G when balanced against its ample centrifugal force. The effect took a little getting used to, and people tended to do things faster and feel tremendous. But since it was a government-owned resort, that was all to the good.

Its orbit was relatively stable, by far more circular than elliptical, although night and day were hard to take; thirty-two sunrises and sunsets in a Council-standard twenty-five hours did tend to be unsettling to people's internal clocks.

The discomfort was partially offset by the fact that half the entire planetoid was encased in a great bubble made of a very thin and light synthetic material; the bubble was a good light reflector and blurred the view, so it merely seemed to get darker, then lighter, and so forth, the effect being similar to that on much nicer and more natural worlds on a partly cloudy day. Accounting for the glow effect, was a thin—less than a millimeter—gauze material in somewhat liquid form between the two layers of the bubble. Any punctures were instantly sealed. Even a large one could if necessary be closed long enough to activate safety bubbles around the human centers inside. Compressed air, aided by the lush vegetation planted all over, kept the environment stable.

Theoretically, this was a place for party leaders on New Outlook to get away from the pressures for a bit. Actually the resort's existence was known to only a few people, all intensely loyal to Antor Trelig, who was, after all, the party chairman. Protected by computer battle systems erected both on nearby natural dust specks and in special ships, no one could approach within a light-year without being blown apart, not unless Antor Trelig or his people approved.

The place was unassailable politically, too; it would take a majority vote of the Council to enter over Trelig's diplomatic immunity and sovereignty, and Trelig controlled the largest bloc of votes on the Council.

When they brought Nikki Zinder to New Pompeii she didn't really pay much attention to her surroundings. All she could think of was Ben and Ben's promise that he'd come for her. They put her in a comfortable room; quiet, faceless human servants brought her food and cleared it away. She lay around most of the day, hugging pillows, pretending that he was there. She used some pencils and paper she found to draw innumerable pictures of him, none very good but all showing him as an angelic superman. She determined to lose some weight for him, to surprise him, but his absence, aided and abetted by the tremendous variety of natural foods offered, caused just the reverse. Every time she thought of him she ate, and she thought of him constantly. Already overweight, by the end of six weeks she had gained almost eighteen kilos. She didn't really notice.

They also took pictures of her at various times, even had her read some words to a recorder. She didn't mind. It wasn't important to her.

Time was meaningless to her; every minute was terrible and drawn out as long as he wasn't there. She wrote childish love poems to him and endless reams of letters, which they said they'd deliver.

It took eight weeks before Gil Zinder completed all the procedures necessary to shut down the project and prepare to move. Yulin's role in all that had happened was still unknown to him, but he was somewhat suspicious of the younger scientist when the man so eagerly volunteered to work on the new Trelig project. As for Trelig, he kept Zinder at least satisfied that his daughter was still alive by providing coded messages along with fingerprint and retinal-pattern ID to go with the pictures. The fact that she read the statements did not disturb her father; it indicated to him that she still could read normally and that Trelig was being a man of his word on neutralizing the sponge.

For the final transfer of the master computer center and console to New Pompeii, they had to disconnect Obie from the apparatus that could alter or affect reality. And when they did, they made a startling discovery.

Zetta, who they had made younger and more attractive, remained the way they'd designed her, but now she suddenly realized that she had been changed. The old equations were restored when Obie broke with the mechanism; she was still transformed, because they had used the machine to transform her—but now she knew she had been transformed.

She was coming with them, of course, so there was no danger that a third person who realized the potential of the device would spread the news, but that worried Ben.

For good reason.

* * *

Nikki Zinder sat in her room on New Pompeii. She was eating and daydreaming as usual, when, suddenly, it seemed that a fog simply disappeared from her mind, and she began thinking with crystal clarity.

She looked around the room, cluttered with the remains of a long habitation, as if she were seeing it for the first time. She shook her head and tried to reason out what had happened.

She felt as if she were coming down from some sort of drug high. She remembered going to sleep, then she remembered getting this tremendous crush on Ben, who took her out and handed her to some people who brought her here. She didn't understand any of it, though, nor could she relate to it. What had happened was dreamlike, as if it had happened to someone else.

She got up from the little table still littered with food and looked down at herself. She could see enormous breasts and, just barely, some sort of bulge below; but she couldn't see her own feet. With a gasp she went over to a closet mirror and looked at herself.

She felt like crying. She waddled more than walked; her legs were sore from rubbing against each other every time she moved. Her face was rounder than usual, and she had several chins. Her hair was always long, but now it was uncombed, unkempt, and tangled.

And, worst of all, she was hungry.

What's happened to me? she wondered, then broke down and cried. It eased her panic but did little to relieve the misery she felt.

"I've got to get out of here, got to call Daddy," she murmured aloud, then wondered if even he would still love her as she was now. There was little else to do, though, and she hunted for some clothes. I'm going to need a twelve-person field tent, she thought morosely.

She found her old nightgown, neatly washed and folded, and tried to get it on. It was too tight now, and it didn't come down nearly far enough. Finally she gave up and thought for a moment. She spied the rumpled sheet on the bed and, with some difficulty, managed to pull it off. Folding and tying it, she managed to make at least a covering. Then she found a paper clip on the writing desk. By unraveling the clip and using it as a pin, she was able to bind the sheet.

She paused at the desk, looking down at a half-finished, multipaged letter. It was her handwriting, all right, but it read like some insane erotic mishmash. She couldn't believe she'd written it, although she had vague memories of writing others like it.

She walked over to the door and put her ear up to it, listening. There seemed to be no sound, so she pressed the stud and it opened. Beyond was a corridor, lined in some kind of fur, that ran on in one direction past a lot of doors. In the other direction it was only a short way to an elevator door. She rushed to it, tried to summon the elevator, but she could tell from the call strip that it was keyed. Looking around, she discovered some stairs behind what looked like a laundry room, and she started climbing. It was an easy choice—they only went up.

After only two dozen or so steps, she was already panting, feeling dizzy and out of breath. Not only did the extra weight get to her, but she had had no exercise to speak of for—how long? In over eight weeks of constant eating, she had put on over three kilos a week.

Panting, heart beating so hard she could feel it, she started up again. She again felt dizzy, her head ached, and she could hardly go on. Once she was so dizzy that she almost slipped and fell. Looking down, she saw she'd climbed less than a dozen meters. She felt as if she had climbed a tall mountain and realized she couldn't go on much farther. Finally, one more landing, one more turn, and she saw a door. Gasping, she almost crawled the last few meters.

The door opened, and a rat-faced little man looked down on her with mixed scorn and disgust.

"Well, well, well," he said. "And where do you think you're going, baby hippo?"

* * *

It took three of them to carry her, exhausted, back to the elevator and down to her room. From their questions and her reactions, they did find that whatever spell she'd been under was now broken. Their docile idiot had somehow become a near-hysterical captive.

The rat-faced man gave her a shot to calm her, and it did help a little. While the sedative was taking hold, he used a wall intercom outside her room to call and report her new status and to get instructions. This didn't take long, and he returned to the room and looked at her. She was still breathing hard, but she looked at him and pleaded, "Will somebody please tell me where I am and what is going on?"

Rat-face smiled evilly. "You're the guest of Antor Trelig, High Councillor and Party Chairman of New Outlook, on his private planetoid of New Pompeii. You should feel honored."

"Honored, hell!" she spat. "This is some scheme to get at my father, isn't it? I'm a hostage!"

"Bright girl, aren't you?" the man replied. "Well, yes, you've been sort of hypnotized for the past two months, and now we have to deal with you as you are."

"My father—" she started hesitantly, "he isn't—isn't going to . . . ?"

"He'll be here with his whole staff and everything within a week," the man replied.

She turned her head. "Oh, no!" she moaned. Then, for a second, she thought about him seeing her—like this.

"I'd rather die than have him see me like this," she told the man.

He grinned. "That's all right. He loves ya anyway. Your condition is a byproduct of a drug we gave you as an insurance policy. Normally we just give a measured dose of the sponge, but we had to make sure that nothin' happened to spoil your mind as long as we need your old man, so we kinda overdid it. ODs affect different people different ways. In your case the stuff makes you eat like a horse. Believe me, better than the other way. Better than some other OD reactions, too, which usually gets you in the sex department somewheres, gets girls all hairy and deep-voiced, sometimes worse."

She didn't know what sponge was, but she had the idea that they had addicted her to some kind of drug that would rot her mind if untreated.

"My daddy can cure me," she told him defiantly.

The rat-faced man shrugged. "Maybe he can. I don't know. I just work here. But if he can, he'll do it only because the boss lets him, and, in the meantime, you'll continue to grow. Don't worry—some likes 'em big."

She got upset at that, and at the tone of the remark. "I won't eat another thing," she resolved.

"Oh, yes you will," he replied, clearing out the other two men and setting the door to external operation by key only. "You won't be able to stop. You'll beg for food—and we got to keep you happy, don't we?" He closed the door.

It took her only three minutes to verify that the door wouldn't open and she was as much a prisoner as ever, only now she knew it.

And then hunger gnawed at her.

She tried to go to sleep, but the hunger wouldn't let her. It consumed her, triggered by the drug overdose affecting different areas of her brain.

The little man had been right; inside of an hour she was starving, and could think of nothing but food.

The door opened, and a table full of food was pushed in by a person Nikki could only think of as the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. The serving lady took her mind off the food for a second, first because here was human, not robot service, and second because the woman was so stunning. Then she tore into the food, and the other turned to go, a sad look on her face.

"Wait!" Nikki called. "Tell me—do you work here, or are you a prisoner, too?"

The woman's face was sad. "We're all prisoners here," she replied in a sad, high, lyrical voice. "Even Agil—that's the one who found you and brought you back. Agil and I—well, we know about sponge ODs and Antor Trelig's sadism first-hand."

"He beats you?" Nikki gasped.

The tall, beautiful woman shook her head sadly. "No, that's the least of what goes on in this chamber of horrors. You see," she concluded, turning slowly at the door, "I am a fully functioning male. And Agil is my sister."

 

Aboard the Freighter Assateague 

The small diplomatic ship inched close to the interspace freighter airlock. The freighter pilot watched the ship dock on her forward screens, then checked her computer equipment and scanners to make certain the seal was complete.

"Make fast, allow boarding," she said in a strong, accentless, and surprisingly deep voice.

"Affirmative," responded a mechanical-sounding version of the same voice, as the ship's computer locked in.

"Keep station until further orders," she told the computer, then rose and started the long walk back to the central airlock.

Why couldn't they put the locks closer to the bridge? she wondered irritably. But, then again, she'd only been boarded in space twice before.

She was a tiny woman for such a big, rich voice, barely 150 centimeters in her bare feet; when dressed, she wore shiny black boots almost up to her knee, which, invisibly, added an additional thirteen centimeters to her height. She was still short, but it did add something, and it added far more psychologically. She was also very thin, at her waist almost impossibly so. She certainly weighed no more than forty-one kilograms, if that. Her small breasts seemed in perfect proportion to the rest of her, and she moved like a cat. She was dressed in her best: a thick, form-fitting black body-stocking with a matching sleeveless black shirt that also seemed form-fitted and a black belt with a golden, abstract dragon design as its buckle. The belt hung on her hips, not as decoration, but as a carryall for a number of things in hidden compartments and a holster, with a sleek, jet-black pistol that wasn't hidden.

Her face was an oval sitting perfectly atop a long neck; it was extremely Chinese in appearance, much more so than the norm, although everyone looked vaguely Oriental in some way. Her coal-black hair was cropped short, in the spacer's style.

She wore no jewelry other than the buckle. Her fingernails were long and sharp and looked as if they were painted slightly silver. But this was not the case; they'd been medically toughened and surgically altered. The nails were like ten sharp, pointed steel claws.

Although she seldom thought about her appearance, and never when in space, she stopped just before reaching the lock and studied herself in the mirrored surface of polished metal. Her skin, a dark yellowish-brown, was creamy-smooth; although she wore many scars, none were visible in that outfit.

Satisfied, she keyed the lock. There was a hissing sound as the pressure equalized, and then the red light over the lock winked out and the green winked on. She pulled the handle, opening the lock.

All locks could be opened only manually, and only from the inside. It was a safety precaution that had saved many a freighter captain's life.

Through the lock and into the ship walked an ancient, chiseled in stone. The woman had been a big one once, but age had stooped her, and flesh sagged all over. She looked as if she were about to drop dead.

But she cursed when offers from her ship and a gesture from the freighter captain for aid were tendered. Her face showed a pride and arrogance born of experience and self-knowledge, and her dark eyes burned with an almost independent intensity.

She stepped clear of the lock, gathered her white robe about her, and let the captain close the lock behind them.

The young captain, much smaller than the matriarch, offered a chair to the visitor. The captain sat on the deck, Buddha-like, and stared at her visitor.

And the stare was returned. Councillor Lee Pak Alaina's incredibly alive eyes studied every inch of the tiny spacer.

"So you're Mavra Chang," the councillor said at last, in a voice that cracked not only with age but with authority.

The captain nodded respectfully. "I have that honor," she responded. Her tone was respectful, but it lost none of its firmness or confidence.

The old woman looked around the ship. "Ah, yes. To be young again! The doctors tell me one more rejuve and I'll lose my mind." She looked back at the captain. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven," she replied.

"And already a ship commander!" the old woman exclaimed. "My, my!"

"I inherited it," the captain responded.

The councillor nodded. "Yes, indeed. I know quite a lot about you, Mavra Chang. I have to. Born on Harvich's World three hundred twenty-seven months ago, oldest of eight children born to a traditionalist couple, Senator Vasura Tonge and her husband, Marchal Hisetti, a doctor. Picked up when, despite their best efforts, the world went Com twenty-two years ago. Some connected friends got you smuggled to Gnoshi spaceport when they nabbed the rest of your family, and placed you in the custody of Mak Hung Chang, a freighter captain who was bribed to get you to safety. Citizen Chang pocketed the money and raised you herself, after getting a disbarred doctor to alter your appearance more in line with the captain's."

Mavra looked up, mouth open. How could anyone possibly have traced her beyond Maki?

"Maki Chang arrested for smuggling prohibited items into Comworlds, leaving you to find your own way on the barbarian world of Kaliva at the age of thirteen. Made it by doing just about everything, legal and illegal. Met and fell in love with a handsome freighter captain named Gimball Nysongi at the age of nineteen. Nysongi killed by muggers on Basada five years ago, and since then you've run this ship alone." She smiled sweetly. "Oh, yes, I know you, Mavra Chang."

The captain studied the old woman in increasing wonder. "You've gone to an awful lot of trouble to find out about me. I assume that those are just the parts you want to mention?"

That sweet smile broadened. "Of course, dear. But it's the unmentionable parts that bring us together here today."

Suddenly Mavra became businesslike. "What's it about? An assassination? Smuggling? Something illegal?"

The old woman's smile vanished. "Something illegal, yes, but not on my part or yours. We studied the profiles of thousands of scoundrels before contacting you."

"Why me?" the young woman asked, genuinely intrigued.

"First, because you're politically amoral—laws and regulations don't bother you. Second, because you retain some moral principles—you hate the Com even as you supply it, and with good reason."

Mavra Chang nodded. "It's more than that. Not just what they did to me—it's what they do to people. Everybody looks alike, acts alike, thinks alike, except for the party, whatever it is. Happy little anthills." She spat to illustrate her feelings.

Councillor Alaina nodded. "Yes, that, too. Additionally, you've got guts, you're tough inside and out, your upbringing having made you smart in ways most people never dream. And being a small, pretty woman doesn't hurt either—people tend to underestimate you because of your size, and, for this job, a woman will be far less suspect than a man."

Mavra shifted, bringing both legs up in front of her, resting her arms on her knees. "So what is it you want done that a councillor can't do herself?"

"Do you know Antor Trelig?" Alaina asked sharply.

"Big shot," Mavra responded. "Heavy Council influence, also heavy in the rackets. Practically controls New Outlook as his personal kingdom."

The old woman nodded. "Good, good. Now I'll tell you a few other things. You know of the sponge syndicate, of course."

Mavra nodded.

"Well, dear, darling Antor is its leader. The biggest of them all. We've had some success against them, but the drug is pervasive, the party structure close-knit and inbred, and through it and good political moves, Antor has managed to come within thirteen votes of a majority on the Council."

The young captain gasped. "But that would give him control of the terror weapons!" she exclaimed.

"It would indeed," Alaina agreed. "He would control all of us, every last human being in the sector. He's been at a dead end for some time, but now he's announced—secretly, of course, and indirectly—that he has achieved the ultimate weapon, a weapon that can turn whole worlds Com or whatever he wants overnight. He's invited fifteen councillors to a demonstration of this new weapon next week. He thinks the effect will be so tremendous that those of us from politically divided worlds will have to vote with him."

Mavra was disturbed. "What will he do if he gets control?"

"Well, Antor has always idolized the Roman Empire at its height," the old woman responded, then noticed the blank look. "Oh, don't worry about it. That's a minor footnote in history, really. But it had an absolute emperor everyone was taught was a god, a huge slave class, and was known not only for its ability to conquer and hold huge territory but for its depravity as well. What they could have done with the technology we have today can only be guessed at in our wildest nightmares. That's Antor Trelig."

"And does he have this weapon?" Mavra asked.

Alaina nodded. "I believe he does. My agents became suspicious when a noted physicist named Zinder suddenly refused to continue his grant at Makeva and picked up, lock, stock, computer, and research staff, and vanished. Zinder's ideas were unorthodox, and he was never popular with the scientific community. He believed the Markovians converted energy into matter by merely wishing it. He believed he could duplicate the process." She paused, looking straight at the captain. "Suppose he was right? Suppose he has succeeded?" the councillor theorized.

Mavra said more than asked, "And you think Zinder's gone to work for Trelig?"

"We do," replied the old woman. "Not willingly, I don't think. My operatives traced a suspicious flight out of Makeva about nine weeks ago, a freighter charted by Trelig, his own pilot, no cargo. Some operatives saw them carry a large bundle, shaped like a body, into Trelig's shuttle. Moreover, we dug and found out that a Dr. Yulin, Zinder's top assistant, had his education sponsored by a known associate of Trelig and is, in fact, a grandson of one of the sponge bosses."

"So he knew when Zinder got results, and he has someone else able to check the work. Who do you think was snatched?" Mavra Chang asked.

"Zinder's daughter. She has vanished, gone long before the project closed down. He doted on her. We think she's a hostage, held to make Zinder build a big model of whatever he had at Makeva. Think of it! A weapon you point at a world, then tell it what you want that world to be, to look like, to think, whatever—and presto! There it is!"

Mavra nodded. "I'm not sure I can believe in something like that, but—" she paused, remembering. "Way, way back, when I was tiny, I can remember my grandparents telling stories about something like that, about a place built by the Markovians where anything was possible." She smiled wistfully. "Funny, I never remembered that until just now. They were fairy tales, of course."

"Antor Trelig isn't," Alaina responded flatly. "And neither, I think, is this device."

"And you want me to wreck it?" Mavra guessed.

Alaina shook her head. "No, I don't think you could. It's too well defended. The best we can shoot for—and even this is close to impossible—is to get Dr. Zinder out. And, if our guess is correct, that means rescuing his daughter, Nikki, too."

"Where is this installation?" Chang asked, all business again.

"Antor calls the place New Pompeii," replied the old woman. "It's a private planetoid, his own personal property and preserve. It's also the center of the sponge syndicate and source of supply for the entire sector."

Mavra whistled. "I know it. It's impregnable. You'd need the force Trelig wants to command to get there. Impossible!"

"I didn't say you had to get into it," the councillor pointed out. "I said you had to get two people out. We have to know what they know, have what they have. I can get you in—I'm considered such a doddering old relic that everyone would be amazed I had even traveled this far. I have been invited to the demonstration, but they don't expect me to come personally. Like some of the others, I'll send a representative close to me, someone I can trust. You."

Mavra nodded. "How long will I have on this asteroid?"

"Antor has asked for three days. One day he'll use to entertain and to show off New Pompeii. The second day he'll give his demonstration. On the third—well, the ultimatums and more sugary charm over them."

"Not much time," Mavra Chang commented. "I have to find two probably widely separated individuals, get them out—all under the nose of Trelig's watchdogs, on his schedule, and on his turf."

Alaina nodded. "I know it's impossible, but we have to try. At least get the daughter away. I'm sure they've hooked her on sponge, but that can be worked out. Make sure nothing worse happens to you, too. Sponge is the ugliest of narcotics, and that may only be a prelude to what Antor is capable of."

"Suppose he just hooks us all on sponge in our after-dinner drinks," Mavra worried.

"He won't," Alaina assured her. "No, he won't want anything to happen to the representatives that could spoil his party. He wants everyone hale, healthy, and in their right minds to be suitably terrified into telling people like me to surrender. But if he discovers your real purpose, he'll write me off and do what he wants with you. You understand that."

Mavra nodded silently.

"Will you do it?"

"How much?" was the young captain's response.

Alaina brightened. "Anything at all if you succeed, and I mean that. To half succeed, bring Nikki out. With his daughter gone, I'm sure Zinder will foul up the works. For that, shall we say—ten million?"

Mavra gasped. Ten million would buy the Assateague. With that much and the ship, she could do just about anything.

"Failure means death," the councillor warned, "or worse—slavery to Antor Trelig, or slow death by the sponge. Only once in every century, sometimes not for a millennium, are men like Antor Trelig born. Ruthless, amoral, sadistic, dominant monsters. In the end they've all been stopped, but countless millions are dead because of them. Antor is the worst. New Pompeii will convince you of that all by itself, I feel certain. See what he thinks of people and worlds, and then you'll know." 

"Half in advance," responded Mavra Chang.

Councillor Alaina shrugged. "If you fail, what good will money be anyway?"

 

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