Read Online The Fourth Profession by Larry Niven - Free Book Online
Authors: Larry Niven
Tags: Sci-Fi
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me that way. He used obscure words and phrases from mathematics and Latin and Fan vocabulary. He got nowhere. There wasn't any way to trick me.
At two in the afternoon he had someone drive me home.
Every muscle in me ached; but I had to fight to maintain my exhausted slump. Else my hindbrain would have lifted me onto my toes and poised me against a possible shift in artificial gravity. The strain was double, and it hurt. It had hurt for hours, sitting with my shoulders hunched and my head hanging. But now, if Morris saw me walking like a trampoline performer...
Morris's man got me to my room and left me.
I woke in darkness and sensed someone in my room. Someone who meant me no harm. In fact, Louise. I went back to sleep. .
I woke again at dawn. Louise was in my easy chair, her feet propped on a corner of. the bed. Her eyes were open. She said, "Breakfast?"
I said, "Yah. There isn't much in the fridge."
"I brought things."
"All right?' I closed my eyes.
Five minutes later I decided I was all slept out. I got up and went to see how she was doing.
There was bacon frying, there was bread already buttered for toasting in the Toast-R-Oven, there was a pan hot for eggs, and the eggs scrambled in a bowl. Louise was filling the percolator.
"Give that here a minute," I said. It only bad water in it. I held the pot in my hands, closed my eyes and tried to remember.
Ah.
I knew I'd done it right even before the heat touched my bands. The pot held hot, fragrant coffee.
"We were wrong about the first pill," I told Louise. She was looking at me very curiously. "What happened that second night was this. The Monk had a translator gadget, but he wasn't too happy with it. It kept screaming in his ear. Screaming English.
"He could turn off the part that was shouting English at me, and it would still whisper a Monk translation of what I was saying. But first be bad to teach me the Monk language. He didn't have a pill to do that. He didn't have a generalized language learning course either, if there is one, which I doubt.
"He was pretty drunk, but he found something that would serve. The profession it taught me was something like yours. I mean, it's an old one, and it doesn't have a one-or-two-word name. But if it did, the word would be prophet."
'Prophet," said Louise. "Prophet?" She was doing a remarkable thing. She was listening with all her concentration, and scrambling eggs at the same time.
"Or disciple. Maybe apostle comes closer. Anyway, it included the Gift of Tongues, which was what the Monk was after. But it included other talents too."
"Like turning cold water into hot coffee?"
"Miracles, right. I used the same talent to make the little pink amnesia pills disappear before they hit my stomach. But an apostle's major talent is persuasion.
"Last night I convinced a Monk crewman that blowing up suns is an evil thing.
"Morris is afraid that someone might convert him back. I don't think that's possible. The mind reading talent that goes with the prophet pill goes deeper than just reading minds; I read souls. The Monk is my apostle. Maybe he'll convince the whole crew that I'm right.
"Or he may just curse the hachiroph shisp, the little old nova maker. Which is what I intend to do."
"Curse it?"
"Do you think I'm kidding or something?"
"Oh, no!' She poured our coffee. "Will that stop it working?"
"Yes."
"Good," said Louise. And I felt the power of her own faith, her faith in me. It gave her the serenity of an idealized nun.
When she turned back to serve the eggs, I dropped a pink triangular pill in her coffee.
She finished setting breakfast and we sat down. Louise said, "Then that's it. It's all over."
"All over." I swallowed some orange juice. Wonderful, what fourteen hours' sleep will do for a man's appetite. "All over. I can go back to my fourth profession, the only one that counts."
She looked up quickly.
"Bartender. First, last, and foremost, I'm a bartender. You're going to marry a bartender."
"Good," she
At two in the afternoon he had someone drive me home.
Every muscle in me ached; but I had to fight to maintain my exhausted slump. Else my hindbrain would have lifted me onto my toes and poised me against a possible shift in artificial gravity. The strain was double, and it hurt. It had hurt for hours, sitting with my shoulders hunched and my head hanging. But now, if Morris saw me walking like a trampoline performer...
Morris's man got me to my room and left me.
I woke in darkness and sensed someone in my room. Someone who meant me no harm. In fact, Louise. I went back to sleep. .
I woke again at dawn. Louise was in my easy chair, her feet propped on a corner of. the bed. Her eyes were open. She said, "Breakfast?"
I said, "Yah. There isn't much in the fridge."
"I brought things."
"All right?' I closed my eyes.
Five minutes later I decided I was all slept out. I got up and went to see how she was doing.
There was bacon frying, there was bread already buttered for toasting in the Toast-R-Oven, there was a pan hot for eggs, and the eggs scrambled in a bowl. Louise was filling the percolator.
"Give that here a minute," I said. It only bad water in it. I held the pot in my hands, closed my eyes and tried to remember.
Ah.
I knew I'd done it right even before the heat touched my bands. The pot held hot, fragrant coffee.
"We were wrong about the first pill," I told Louise. She was looking at me very curiously. "What happened that second night was this. The Monk had a translator gadget, but he wasn't too happy with it. It kept screaming in his ear. Screaming English.
"He could turn off the part that was shouting English at me, and it would still whisper a Monk translation of what I was saying. But first be bad to teach me the Monk language. He didn't have a pill to do that. He didn't have a generalized language learning course either, if there is one, which I doubt.
"He was pretty drunk, but he found something that would serve. The profession it taught me was something like yours. I mean, it's an old one, and it doesn't have a one-or-two-word name. But if it did, the word would be prophet."
'Prophet," said Louise. "Prophet?" She was doing a remarkable thing. She was listening with all her concentration, and scrambling eggs at the same time.
"Or disciple. Maybe apostle comes closer. Anyway, it included the Gift of Tongues, which was what the Monk was after. But it included other talents too."
"Like turning cold water into hot coffee?"
"Miracles, right. I used the same talent to make the little pink amnesia pills disappear before they hit my stomach. But an apostle's major talent is persuasion.
"Last night I convinced a Monk crewman that blowing up suns is an evil thing.
"Morris is afraid that someone might convert him back. I don't think that's possible. The mind reading talent that goes with the prophet pill goes deeper than just reading minds; I read souls. The Monk is my apostle. Maybe he'll convince the whole crew that I'm right.
"Or he may just curse the hachiroph shisp, the little old nova maker. Which is what I intend to do."
"Curse it?"
"Do you think I'm kidding or something?"
"Oh, no!' She poured our coffee. "Will that stop it working?"
"Yes."
"Good," said Louise. And I felt the power of her own faith, her faith in me. It gave her the serenity of an idealized nun.
When she turned back to serve the eggs, I dropped a pink triangular pill in her coffee.
She finished setting breakfast and we sat down. Louise said, "Then that's it. It's all over."
"All over." I swallowed some orange juice. Wonderful, what fourteen hours' sleep will do for a man's appetite. "All over. I can go back to my fourth profession, the only one that counts."
She looked up quickly.
"Bartender. First, last, and foremost, I'm a bartender. You're going to marry a bartender."
"Good," she
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