Zelazny, Roger - SS - Permafrost.pdf

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PERMAFROST
Roger Zelazny
Many elements mingle to make this remarkable story. Some of these elements belong to the structures of
fantasy, some to those of science fiction. The talent of Roger Zelazny combines then all in a colorful yarn
through which runs the steady thread of the sense of wonder.
High upon the western slope ofMount Kilimanjaro is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. An
author is always necessary to explain what it was doing there because stiff leopards don't talk much.
THE MAN. The music seems to come and go with a will of its own. At least turning the knob on the
bedside unit has no effect on its presence or absence.A half-familiar, alien tune, troubling in a way. The
phone rings, and he answers it. There is no one there.Again.
Four times during the past half hour, while groominghimself , dressing and rehearsing his arguments, he
has received non-calls. When he checked with the desk he was told there were no calls. But that damned
clerk-thing had to be malfunctioning—like everything else in this place.
The wind, already heavy, rises, hurling particles of ice against the building with a sound like multitudes of
tiny claws scratching. The whining of steel shutters sliding into place startles him. But worst of all, in his
reflex glance at the nearest window, it seems he has seen a face.
Impossible of course.This is the third floor. A trick of light upon hard-driven flakes: Nerves.
Yes. He has been nervous since their arrival this morning.Before then, even …
He pushes past Dorothy's stuff upon the countertop, locates a small package among his own articles. He
unwraps a flat red rectangle about the size of his thumbnail. He rolls up his sleeve and slaps the patch
against the inside of his left elbow.
The tranquilizer discharges immediately into his bloodstream. He takes several deep breaths, then peels
off the patch and drops it into the disposal unit. He rolls his sleeve down, reaches for his jacket.
The music rises in volume, as if competing with the blast of the wind, the rattle of the icy flakes. Across
the room the videoscreen comes on of its own accord.
The face.The same face. Just for an instant. He is certain.And then channelless static, wavy lines.Snow.
He chuckles.
All right, play it that way, nerves, he thinks. You have every reason. But the trank's coming to get
you now. Better have your fun quick. You're about to be shut down.
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The videoscreen cuts into a porn show.
Smiling, the woman mounts the man …
The picture switches to a voiceless commentator on something or other.
He will survive. He is a survivor. He, Paul Plaige , has done risky things before and has always made it
through. It is just that having Dorothy along creates a kind of deja vu that he finds unsettling. No matter.
She is waiting for him in the bar. Let her wait. A few drinks will make her easier to persuade—unless
they make her bitchy. That sometimes happens, too. Either way, he has to talk her out of the thing.
Silence.The wind stops. The scratching ceases. The music is gone.
The whirring.The window screens dilate upon the empty city.
Silence, under totally overcast skies.Mountains of ice ringing the place.Nothing moving.Even the video
has gone dead.
He recoils at the sudden flash from a peripheral unit far to his left across the city. The laser beam hits a
key point on the glacier, and its face falls away.
Moments later he hears the hollow, booming sound of the crashing ice. A powdery storm has risen like
surf at the ice mount's foot. He smiles at the power, the timing,the display.Andrew Aldon … always on
the job, dueling with the elements, stalemating nature herself, immortal guardian of Playpoint . At least
Aldon never malfunctions.
The silence comes again. As he watches the risen snows settle he feels the tranquilizer beginning to
work. It will be good not to have to worry about money again. The past two years have taken a lot out
of him. Seeing all of his investments fail in the Big Washout— that was when his nerves had first begun to
act up. He has grown softer than he was a century ago—a young, rawboned soldier of fortune then, out
to make his bundle and enjoy it. And he had. Now he has to do it again, though this time will be
easier—except for Dorothy.
He thinks of her. A century younger thanhimself , still in her twenties, sometimes reckless, used to all of
the good things in life. There is something vulnerable about Dorothy, times when she lapses into such a
strong dependence that he feels oddly moved. Other times, it just irritates the hell out of him. Perhaps this
is the closest he can come to love now, and occasional ambivalent response to being needed. But of
course she is loaded. That breeds a certain measure of necessary courtesy.Until he can make his own
bundle again, anyway. But none of these things are the reason he has to keep her from accompanying him
on his journey. It goes beyond love or money. It is survival.
The laser flashes again, this time to the right. He waits for the crash.
THE STATUE. It is not a pretty pose. She lies frosted in an ice cave, looking like one of Rodin's less
comfortable figures, partly propped on her left side, right elbow raised above her head, hand hanging
near her face, shoulders against the wall, left leg completely buried.
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She has on a gray parka, the hood slipped back to reveal twisted strands of dark blond hair; and she
wears blue trousers; there is a black boot on the one foot that is visible.
She is coated with ice, and within the much-refracted light of the cave what can be seen of her features is
not unpleasant but not strikingly attractive either. She looks to be in her twenties.
There are a number of fracture lines within the cave's walls and floor. Overhead, countless icicles hang
like stalactites, sparkling jewellike in the much-bounced light. The grotto has a stepped slope to it with
the statue at its higher end, giving to the place a vaguely shrinelike appearance.
On those occasions when the cloud cover is broken at sundowna reddish light is cast about her figure.
She has actually moved in the course of a century—a few inches, from a general shifting of the ice.
Tricks of the light make her seem to move more frequently, however.
The entire tableau might give the impression that this is merely a pathetic woman who had been trapped
and frozen to death here, rather than the statue of the living goddess in the place where it all began.
THE WOMAN. She sits in the bar beside a window. The patio outside is gray and angular and drifted
with snow; the flowerbeds are filled with dead plants—stiff, flattened, and frozen. She does not mind the
view.Far from it. Winter is a season of death and cold, and she likes being reminded of it. She enjoys the
prospect of pitting herself against its frigid and very visible fangs. A faint flash of light passes over the
patio, followed by a distant roaring sound. She sips her drink and licks her lips and listens to the soft
music that fills the air.
She is alone. The bartender and all of the other help here are of the mechanical variety. If anyone other
than Paul were to walk in, she would probably scream. They are the only people in the hotel during this
long off-season. Except for the sleepers, they are the only people in all of Playpoint .
And Paul … He will be along soon to take her to the dining room. There they can summon holo -ghosts
to people the other tables, if they wish. She does not wish. She likes being alone with Paul at a time like
this, on the eve of a great adventure.
He will tell her his plans over coffee, and perhaps even this afternoon they might obtain the necessary
equipment to begin the exploration for that which would put him on his feet again financially, return to him
his self-respect. It will of course be dangerous and very rewarding. She finishes her drink, rises, and
crosses to the bar for another.
And Paul … She had really caught a falling star, a swashbuckler on the way down, a man with a
glamorous past just balanced on the brink of ruin. The teetering had already begun when they had met
two years before, which had made it even more exciting. Of course, he needed a woman like her to lean
upon at such a time. It wasn't just her money. She could never believe the things her late parents had said
about him. No, he does care for her. He is strangely vulnerable and dependent.
She wants to turn him back into the man he once must have been, and then of course that man will need
her, too. The thing he had been—that is what she needs most of all—a manwho can reach up and bat the
moon away. He must have been like that long ago.
She tastes her second drink.
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The son of a bitch had better hurry, though. She is getting hungry.
THE CITY. Playpointis located on the world known as Balfrost , atop a high peninsula that slopes
down to a now-frozen sea. Playpoint contains all of the facilities for an adult playground, and it is one of
the more popular resorts in this sector of the galaxy from late spring through early
autumn—approximately fifty Earth years. Then winter comes on like a period of glaciation , and
everybody goes away for half a century—or half a year, depending on how one regards such matters.
During this time Playpoint is given into the care of its automated defense and maintenance routine. This is
a self-repairing system, directed toward cleaning, plowing, thawing, melting, warming everything in need
of such care, as well as directly combating their encroaching ice and snow. And all of these functions are
one under the supervision of a well-protected central computer that also studies the weather and climate
patterns, anticipating as well as reacting.
This system had worked successfully for many centuries, delivering Playpoint over to spring and pleasure
in reasonably good condition at the end of each long winter.
There are mountains behind Playpoint , water (or ice, depending on the season) on three sides, weather
and navigation satellites high above. In a bunker beneath the administration building is a pair of
sleepers—generally a man and a woman—who awaken once every year or so to physically inspect the
maintenance system's operations and to deal with any special situations that might have arisen. An alarm
may arouse them for emergencies at any time.
They are well paid, and over the years they have proven worth the investment. The central computer has
at its disposal explosives and lasers as well as a great variety of robots. Usually it keeps a little ahead of
the game, and it seldom falls behind for long.
At the moment, things are about even because the weather has been particularly nasty recently.
Zzzzt! Another block of ice has become a puddle.
Zzzzt! The puddle has been evaporated. The molecules climb toward a place where they can get
together and return as snow.
The glaciers shuffle their feet, edge forward. Zzzzt ! Their gain again has become a loss.
Andrew Aldon knows exactly what he is doing.
CONVERSATIONS. The waiter, needing lubrication, rolls off after having served them, passing
through a pair of swinging doors.
She giggles. "Wobbly," she says.
"Old Worldcharm," he agrees, trying and failing to catch her eye as he smiles.
"You have everything worked out?" she asks after they have begun eating.
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"Sort of," he says, smiling again.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"Both. I need more information. I want to go and check things over first. Then I can figure the best
course of action."
"I note your use of the singular pronoun," she says steadily, meeting his gaze at last.
His smile freezes and fades.
"I was referring to only a little preliminary scouting," he says softly.
"No," she says."We. Even for a little preliminary scouting."
He sighs and sets down his fork.
"This will have very little to do with anything to come later," he begins. "Things have changed a lot. I'll
have to locate a new route. This will just be dull work and no fun."
"I didn't come along for fun," she replies. "We were going to share everything, remember? That includes
boredom, danger, and anything else. That was the understanding when I agreed to pay our way."
"I'd a feeling it would come to that," he says, after a moment.
"Come to it? It's always been there. That was our agreement."
He raises his goblet and sips the wine.
"Of course.I'm not trying to rewrite history. It's just that things would go faster if I could do some of the
initial looking around myself. I can move more quickly alone."
"What's the hurry?" she says."A few days this way or that. I'm in pretty good shape. I won't slow you
down all that much."
"I'd the impression you didn't particularly like it here. I just wanted to hurry things up so we could get the
hell out."
"That's very considerate," she says, beginning to eat again. "But that's my problem, isn't it?" She looks up
at him. "Unless there's some other reason you don't want me along?"
He drops his gaze quickly, picks up his fork. "Don't be silly."
She smiles. "Then that's settled. I'll go with you this afternoon to look for the trail."
The music stops, to be succeeded by a sound as of the clearing of a throat. Then, "Excuse me for what
may seem like eavesdropping,"comes a deep, masculine voice. "It is actually only a part of a simple
monitoring function I keep in effect—"
" Aldon!"Paul exclaims.
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