The Cyborg from Earth Read online

  He was approaching the stands and the riding ring. Even from a hundred yards away he fancied he could see the flies and smell the dung, sun-warmed leather, and pungent liniment.

  He had no watch on him, but he glanced up at the sun. He had taught himself to estimate the time from its position in the sky.

  Close to noon; half an hour, then came the draw for first contestant; less than an hour to the first round. He had inspected the eight-fence jump course earlier in the day, and it didn't look too bad.

  Predictably, Myron was already over by the horses. He was tightening girths and talking softly to his white-speckled stallion, Lysander. He saw Jeff approaching, stopped work, and strode in his direction.

  "I'm almost done. Do you need a hand with Domino?"

  Jeff shook his head, not sure of his voice. His problem wouldn't be with the saddling and grooming, he rather enjoyed doing that. As for Myron, as usual he was picture-perfect. His tunic was spotless and creaseless, its silver buttons and epaulets shining in the midday sun. His breeches fitted perfectly, and his knee-high riding boots were highly polished and free of scuff marks. Jeff's cousin was tall, blond, and decisive, every inch the Space Navy recruit most likely to succeed. His older sister, Myra, was already in the navy and doing marvelously.

  Myron held out his hand. "Good luck. Though I'm sure neither of us will need it."

  Jeff took the outstretched hand and mumbled his own words of encouragement. As usual with Myron, Jeff couldn't tell how much of what his cousin said was genuine, and how much was for appearances. It was certainly as important a day for Myron as it was for Jeff.

  As for not needing luck, that was a joke. Myron had seen Jeff in the past. While Myron responded well to pressure and in a stress situation did better than usual, Jeff couldn't help imagining what might go wrong—and as a result, many times it did. He wished that, just once, Myron would miss a jump, or finish his round sprawled over the horse's neck.

  As soon as he could, he escaped to prepare Domino. The brown mare turned her head as Jeff approached and nuzzled at his shoulder in a friendly way. When Jeff walked to where the saddles were draped over the saddle rack, Domino calmly followed. The horse cooperated as Jeff lifted her hooves to examine them. If anything does go wrong today, Jeff thought gloomily, it won't be her fault.

  And what had his mother meant, when she said that Jeff had Drake's genes? Although Uncle Drake had been dead and gone for years and years, most of the family were still reluctant to talk about him. When they did talk, they didn't agree. His father had been the kindest.

  "There was no holding Drake." Nelson Kopal's eyes took on a strange little smile when he spoke of his brother. "He had the oddest mind you can imagine, a new wild idea a minute. I could never keep up with him, even though I was three years older. If he had lived, and grown a bit more mature, he might have . . . ." The smile faded and was replaced with a look of sad reminiscence. "But he didn't. Didn't grow up when he was young, and he never had time after that. The idea that killed him, node-hopping without a defined destination—that was so typical, and so crazy. I tried to talk him out of it. I'd have managed to persuade most people." Nelson shook his head. "But not your uncle."

  Except for Uncle Lory Lazenby, who was nice about everything, Jeff's other relatives had not been nearly as charitable. Aunt Willow, Father's cousin and a board member of Kopal Transportation, was the most direct.

  "I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, Jefferson, but your uncle Drake was totally irresponsible, from the day that he was born. Irresponsible, and totally obstinate. All the family traditions, everything that your Great-grandfather Rollo"—you could hear the reverent capitals in Aunt Willow's voice—"worked so hard to establish, Drake ignored. He had no respect for family or military standards. He took no interest in our business, or in the company's finances. We could have gone bankrupt and all ended in the Pool for what he cared. He was worse than poor Lory! I tell you, Jefferson, I'm not one to speak ill of anyone." Aunt Willow drew in breath through her nose, and her nostrils pinched. "Not of anyone. But in my humble opinion it was a blessing in many ways when Drake was lost. That foolish space game he insisted on playing! Ridiculous, for a grown man. It's his own fault that he isn't around anymore to bring shame on his family."

  Just as I'm bringing shame on the family, Jeff thought as he stood at Domino's side, cinching a girth. "You've got Drake's genes, Jeff." Sure. Not much doubt what that means. But I wish I'd been older when Uncle Drake had his accident, so I'd understand what they're all getting at.

  Then there was Uncle Giles. He was always smiling, and he smiled when he spoke of Drake. But his words didn't match his grin. "Drake had everything a man could wish for, Jefferson—money, power, position, family. He was missing just one thing. Character, the big one, that's what he lacked. And without that, a man or woman has nothing. Drake would not get serious. He wanted to fiddle his life away, nothing but playing with machines and computers and those queer gadgets he'd build."

  But did that mean you didn't have character? If it did, then Jeff had no character, either. What was so wrong with trying to make an old aircar fly again, without the tools and the manuals? Did the whole world have to be either military tradition or running a transportation company?

  A shadow fell across Jeff's hands. He turned, half expecting to see Uncle Giles's white-toothed smile or Aunt Willow's tight-faced glower. Instead it was Myron again.

  "I thought you might like to know the draw," he said. "Since you weren't there for it."

  "Already?" Jeff wondered how long he had been daydreaming.

  "Five minutes ago. You're fifth up—next to last. I go first." Myron grimaced. "If anything's wrong with the setup that we didn't notice on the walk-through, I'll be the one who finds out. But at least I'll get mine out of the way early, and that's a blessing."

  Jeff nodded. He didn't believe for a moment that Myron was suffering from nerves. He was just saying that for Jeff's benefit, rubbing it in. Myron knew from past experience how twitchy Jeff became when it was close to contest time.

  Like now.

  Jeff glanced down and saw that the rein he held was shaking from the tremor in his hands. He stood up, placing it behind his back so that Myron couldn't see.

  "How long before you do your round?"

  "Ten minutes." Myron glanced toward the circuit. "I'd better get over there."

  "Sure. I'll come watch you, as soon as I'm done here." And then—he couldn't help it—he asked, "Who's there?"

  He didn't need to explain. His cousin was being judged, as well as Jeff himself.

  "Pretty much the whole family." Myron grinned. "Plus, of course, the three navy representatives. Cross your fingers, Jeff. This is the big one. Think 'clear round.' "

  He turned and walked away. Jeff looked after him, sure that Myron didn't need crossed fingers. Like his older sister, Myron was totally poised and assured.

  Instinctively, Jeff looked down to see if he had mud on the knees of his breeches. He didn't—for a change. And the presence of representatives from the navy had one advantage. Since he was not supposed to try to influence their judgment, he wouldn't be allowed to go into the stand where they and senior members of the family were seated. His own awkwardness and lack of confidence would not be revealed.

  He led Domino to a position where he could see all the jumps without being in sight of the judges' stand. The weather was changing. The sun was still bright, but the day was hotter and more humid. There was the weight of an afternoon thunderstorm in the air, and he could feel perspiration dampening the armpits of his tight uniform. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He should have brought a handkerchief.

  Myron was ready and waiting. Jeff didn't see the signal, but suddenly his cousin was trotting Lysander in a circle, then cantering toward the first jump. They took it cleanly, and the next three. They turned, and Lysander changed lead leg smoothly for the second half of the course. The fifth fence offered no problem, but at the sixth M
yron's horse clipped and dislodged the top rail. He recovered well, and they took the other two jumps rapidly and without a problem. There was hearty applause from the stand as Lysander walked past it. Myron removed his riding helmet and inclined his blond head to the judges. He had an excellent time, and he knew it.

  Competitors were not supposed to speak to each other, but as Myron continued out of the ring and passed the waiting Jeff, he muttered out of the side of his mouth, "That sixth fence, it's a bitch. Doesn't look it, but it's out of alignment for a straight approach."

  Jeff stared at the jump. From his angle it looked fine. There would be no adjustment unless Myron made a formal complaint, and from the look of him he was not about to do that. His round was not clean, but it was close.

  The next competitor's effort didn't give Jeff any useful information. Her horse, a rawboned gelding three sizes too big for her, decided what it would jump and when. It meandered around the course and never went near the troublesome sixth fence. The rider was red-faced and would not look at the judges' stand when the round ended, but the spectators gave her a good round of applause. She was only eleven or twelve, and it was her first contest.

  The third rider had problems with four fences, including the troublesome sixth, but struggled through. The one who came after him had obviously been watching closely. She turned unusually wide after the fifth fence, so that her mare could add a stride and pick up a little extra pace on the approach to the sixth. They went over cleanly, then finished the rest of the course smoothly and easily.

  A clear round. But Jeff was hardly aware of the applause. If the previous rider could do it, why couldn't he? He had their experience of the course to build on.

  He moved into position, waiting for the signal, concentrating all his attention on the first jump. His stomach was churning, and he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

  Domino caught the start signal almost before he did. The mare trotted through the preliminary circle, then accelerated smoothly forward and glided over the first fence with almost no guidance from Jeff. He settled back in the saddle, shortened the reins, and took Domino through the second, third, and fourth jumps without a problem. The mare changed lead leg smoothly, and they began the second half of the course.

  The fifth fence was easy, everyone had cleared it without trouble. As Domino approached the jump Jeff could see the hoof marks of other horses in the soft, powdery earth. He did not pay much attention to them. Already he was thinking ahead, to the difficult sixth. For a clean round it would be necessary to take it without an error.

  Thinking beyond the present was a mistake. Jeff had pressed Domino a little too hard, so that the jump over the fifth fence was made too close to it. The mare went high but not far, catching the heavy top rail with her left hind leg. She landed off balance, and Jeff—never a great horseman—tilted far forward in the saddle instead of settling back. The change in weight distribution affected Domino, who came awkwardly to the sixth fence. At the last moment, knowing there was no chance of clearance, the mare refused.

  Jeff went over Domino's neck and crashed headfirst into the heavy timber of the top rail. The helmet he was wearing saved his skull, but the blow was hard enough to knock him dizzy. He couldn't protect himself with his hands as he fell over the fence and tumbled down the other side.

  His left shoulder hit the ground, then his head. He did not lose consciousness, not quite, but he was far enough gone that when he tried to stand up he had no idea where he was.

  Domino, having refused the jump, had walked quietly around the fence and was standing head-down just a few feet away. Jeff had fallen off enough in past practices for his instincts to take over. He rose unsteadily, placed a foot in the stirrup, and climbed without thinking onto the mare's back.

  He sat swaying, not sure what had happened. When Domino started forward it took all Jeff's strength to hold on. The horse went easily over the last two fences, then cantered to a halt by the judges' stand.

  Jeff, head buzzing and stomach rolling, tried to dismount. He would have fallen flat on his face, but other people were suddenly there to help him. He was grabbed and lowered, until his feet met the ground. And finally he could obey the urge that had grown stronger and stronger as he lurched and rocked over those final fences. He leaned forward and threw up breakfast and lunch onto three pairs of polished riding boots.

  When his swimming eyes at last cleared, he saw that the boots all bore at their top a little embossed pattern of silver stars. He peered at them.

  Riding boots? No. Not riding boots at all. They were Space Navy boots.

  Jeff decided that he was as far from a clean round as you could ever get.

  Chapter Three

  IT should have marked the end of his misery, to be hauled off in an electric cart, prodded by a doctor, scanned, questioned, and put to bed. It didn't, of course. He had been told to sleep, but when he closed his eyes he saw again the faces of his aunts and uncles, clustered around the vomit-spattered navy representatives. Uncle Giles wore a fixed and ghastly smile, as though his perfect teeth had locked into position like a row of piano keys. Uncle Terence and Aunt Willow had their mouths open, gasping for air like landed fish. Aunt Delia was green and looked ready to throw up herself. Even Uncle Fairborn's attention was distracted from the exotic young woman he had brought with him to the meet.

  Only Uncle Lory, hovering on the edge of the group, appeared unaffected. But that was Lory for you, never quite all there. Maybe that's why Jeff liked him.

  It was past ten o'clock, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, no matter what the doctor had advised. He eased out of bed, dressed, and examined his monitor. The single message was from his mother. I'm at the hospital now. The operation will be late tomorrow. I'll call you after it. Good luck.

  Good luck. They all wished him luck, but it hadn't done any good. He headed for the corridor and wandered along it. He didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to see anyone. What he needed was a long walk, by himself. The promised thunderstorm had arrived, and he could see through the corridor windows that it was raining like mad. He didn't mind that. It would feel good to walk alone under the dark night sky, even to get soaked through.

  The air outside was cool. As he walked toward the pasture the driving rain lashed his exposed face. He didn't try to use his hood. Maybe the rain could wash away the feeling of failure. It couldn't wash away the worry. What was he going to do now? No one in the Kopal and Lazenby families ever asked the terrible question: What if you are not accepted into the navy?

  Would he be abandoned, thrown into the great pool of the unemployed and the unemployable? Surely his mother would not let that happen—if she were alive and able to stop it.

  Water was inside his raincoat and trickling into his shoes. Myra, on one of her leaves from navy duties, had told him and Myron that water was plentiful through the outer solar system—but almost never as a liquid. Earth, and the interior of Jupiter's moon Europa, were the only water worlds.

  He turned and retraced his steps, squelching across the sodden ground. By the front doors of the house he paused. He didn't want to go in. He wanted to turn, and walk, and never stop walking.

  No. Get it over with. He could almost hear his mother saying that into his ear.

  He went inside, took off his raincoat and shoes, and dried himself as much as he could. His shirt was soaked around the collar, and his socks left damp patches on the floor wherever he walked. He needed a complete change of clothes.

  He walked from the hall toward the rear of the house. Uncle Lory was sitting by a flight of stairs that descended to the first basement level, his back resting against the end post of the banister. He did not move as Jeff slowly approached.

  "Feeling better?" he said, when Jeff was a few feet away.

  "I'm not sick anymore." Better was not the right word for the way he felt. "Thanks, Uncle Lory, I'm all right."

  "Good." Lory said not a word about Jeff's sodden appearance. "They're in there."

>   He nodded his head toward a door on the left side of the ground-floor rear corridor. Two antechambers and the big conference room lay beyond them.

  "Who?" Maybe Jeff wasn't as recovered as he thought. In spite of the cool drenching, the inside of his head felt woolly and unfocused.

  "Oh, you know. The board. Everyone was here for the meet, so Uncle Giles scheduled a board meeting."

  That ought to have been a sore point with Lory Lazenby. He, a grandchild of Rollo Kopal, had not been invited to serve on the board of Kopal Transportation. But he didn't mind at all—or if he did, it never showed.

  When Jeff was smaller he had not understood. Uncle Lory was the nicest of the whole bunch, the only one of the Lazenby aunts and uncles with whom he felt totally comfortable. Why shouldn't Lory be on the board with the rest? But now he knew why. Uncle Lory was out of step with the rest of the world. He was always pleasant and kind. He just wasn't smart, and he had trouble understanding things. No one had ever considered him a candidate for Space Navy service.