Inferno by Niven Larry & Pournelle Jerry

Author:Niven, Larry & Pournelle, Jerry [Niven, Larry & Pournelle, Jerry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780765316769
Publisher: Pocket
Published: 1976-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

16

W

e waded through boiling blood, going up to our chins before the bottom sloped up again. After an eternity we reached the other shore and let ourselves fall, each wrapped silently and solipsistically in his own pain. We lay in full view on what seemed to be rough white concrete. Four targets. If the guardians wanted us they could have us.

A long time later, Corbett found the strength to roll over. “They’re all along the far shore,” he reported, “watching us. Nazis, Indians—”

Benito said, “Never mind. They will not harm us. They do not bother those who wish to go deeper into Hell.”

“That’s a relief,” said Corbett.

I wasn’t so sure, but I held my peace. I inspected my feet, legs, buttocks. The meat was loose on my bones. I should have been dead down there; it should have stopped hurting. Fat chance, Carpentier.

And Billy, who must have hurt just as much as I did, was smiling to himself. I snarled, “What are you so damned happy about?”

“First off, this is the first chance I’ve had to lie down in a hundred years. Second, I don’t have to kill anyone, even if they yell at me. Third, I didn’t much like the company on that island. Maybe I’ll like you better.”

“Maybe. Who are you?”

“William Bonney. Just a cowhand that got done unto and did some back.”

“Bonney?” Corbett sat up suddenly. He’d healed much faster than I had. “Billy the Kid?”

“Friend, there are a dozen men on the island that all claim they was Billy the Kid.”

“And you?”

“I’m the real one.”

I could see the wheels going round in Corbett’s head. Were we supposed to spend eternity wondering if he was telling the truth? Corbett said, “Have it your own way. I was a spaceship pilot.”

“What? You mean like you been to the Moon?”

“Right.”

Benito grunted and surged to his feet, then sat down hard with another grunt of pain. From the waist down he showed bright red skin, very tender looking. Like Corbett he’d healed fast, but he wasn’t in condition to scout.

I asked, “Benito, what are we headed into? It’s for sure we can’t go back.”

“The Wood of Suicides lies ahead. A pleasant place, comparatively, if we can avoid the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“The Wood is punishment for the sin of suicide,” Benito explained. “Each tree holds the soul of one who took his own life. They are not dangerous to us. But the violent Wasters also suffer there, and the dogs are their punishment. There will not be many of the dog packs. It is almost an obsolete sin.”

Corbett looked up. “Since when is a sin obsolete?”

“Customs change. In Dante’s time there were men who would hold a party at which they would burn part of their wealth, to show how wealthy they were.”

“Potlatch!” I cried.

“Gesundheit,” said Corbett.

“No, dammit, listen. There are West Coast Indian tribes that used to do just what Benito’s talking about. Hold a party, burn a lot of valuables. They used to compete at it. I never knew the Italians did the same thing.

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