Symbiography Read Online Free PDF Page A

separated his hiding-place from the curving crystal and silver minarets of the house. He never planned on coming this far. Simply to have stolen some fruit would have been sufficient triumph; to risk this much was madness. But Buick was following a scent which lured him still, past any thought of danger. He was intoxicated by the wind-borne aroma of roasting meat. Now he was close enough to hear the sizzle of melting fat and see pennants of white smoke reaching through the rain from below the circular terrace.
    Buick covered the distance to the stairs in five long strides, nearly slipping on the wet flagstones before he reached the shelter of a carved balustrade. He started down, one step at a time, his back pressed against the rough ashlar masonry of the terrace wall. At the bottom, out of sight of the house, stood a hidden pavilion and under the blue and gold awnings, a spitted calf turned, glazed and dripping, over a bed of coals.
    Of all the wonders seen today, the splendor of food in such profusion was by far the most magical and bewitching. The Nomad wandered spellbound in front of a long cloth-covered table, trying to associate trout jellied in aspic, terrine of pheasant, grilled spring lamb, fruit heaped on silver platters with his own memories of eating roots and porridge, when a bit of dog or an occasional rat trapped among the grainsacks was a prize addition to the stewpot.
    The rain whispered against the taut canopy of the pavilion; the coals hissed and snapped. Buick waited, barely moving. There wasn’t much time. The banquet table was prepared, the guests must not be far behind. Although his every instinct told him to hurry, Buick approached the feast with the dignity of an invited God.
    A hind-quarter from the broiled calf stood on a thick wooden salver. The Nomad leaned his musket against the table and cut a slice with a surgically keen carving-knife. He had never tasted anything so good. He would take as much meat as he could carry. The knife, too. It was a beautiful knife; no one else in the clan owned such a knife. He leaned forward and cut another slice.
    “Good, good,” the voice behind him said. “Eat.”
    The Nomad spun about, grabbing for his musket, gagging on a mouthful of meat. His instincts had betrayed him. He wasn’t alone. A pink-faced, hairless fat man stood only feet away, his long silk robe shining in the fire-light. “Don’t be alarmed,” the Lord Citizen said. “Eat what you want. Take. This is for you.”
    Buick steadied his musket against his shoulder and fired. The Lord’s face was lost for a moment in the sulfurous smoke, but his smile was intact when the air cleared. Buick knew this was magic. His gun carried a load of scrap-metal; ancient bottlecaps, nails, screws and bolts; rusted, unrecognizable lumps from the machine age found anywhere in the desert by scratching the surface with a stick. In battle, warriors reloaded by scooping handfuls of the stuff off the ground. With a three-ounce charge of crude black powder behind it, the load erupted from the smooth-bore like a swarm of angry bees. At close range, there was no such thing as missing. Buick was fighting a phantom. He drew his cutlass and rushed forward, wildly carving the empty air.
    “Do you see? Do you see?” Par Sondak exulted among the displays and monitors of the control room. The image of the Nomad slashing with his sword appeared on rows of holo screens arranged along the far wall: close-ups, wide-angles from above, teleholo views. “Look at him. Isn’t he a savage?” The Dreamer switched off the hologram-projector and addressed the bewildered face on the three-dimensional wall displays. “It is useless to fight. You cannot harm me. You are at the mercy of my power.” Sondak turned off the audio. “How much longer before it takes effect?”
    “Within three to five minutes, sir,” the computer said. “If the dosage were any higher it would kill him.”
    “I’ll keep him amused.” The Dreamer