It was those hands that usually attracted more attention than his rather common features. They appeared to be grafted onto the heavy-boned, square wrists, and were really better suited to a Sime body. One of the first things Valleroy had noticed about the nurses and attendants who cared for him in Zeor was that neither the Simes nor the Gens ever stared at his hands.
Even now, as they ate together, Evahnee watched his face, not his hands. This somehow gave him courage to try out his speech. “Evahnee, I am well now. I would like to see—Sectuib Farris—and find some way to repay all of you.”
“No, you are not well yet. You must stay at least another week. You still require medicine.”
“I have no money. I could never repay such a debt.”
“You owe us nothing. We are obligated to you because you were injured on our land.”
In spite of her simplified wording, Valleroy was forced to say, “I don’t understand.” It had become his most useful stock phrase.
She repeated her sentence more slowly, emphasizing each word with graceful gestures of her tentacles. Somehow, Valleroy discovered the sinuous amplifications no longer repelled or frightened him but seemed to add meaning to the words.
“I meant,” he interjected, “I do not understand why you are still obligated to me when I have received food, shelter, and constant care for almost a week. I work for my bread.”
“But you are not fully recovered.”
“I feel recovered.”
“Only while you take the fosebine.” She pushed a glass of the opalescent liquid toward him, and he downed it obediently.
“But if I feel well, isn’t there something I can do to earn....”
“Sectuib has called you guest.”
“But that was when I was....” He indicated the bed, not knowing how to say “flat on my back.” “He seemed like a very nice man.” Inwardly, Valleroy groaned. He sounded like a five-year-old! “If I could talk to him again, perhaps we could agree on some payment.”
“Hugh, Sectuib is a very very busy person...all the time. You can’t just walk into his office and expect to claim his attention. You must have an appointment.”
Valleroy gnashed his teeth in frustration. He had to see Klyd and get started on the search for Aisha. “How can I get an appointment?”
Evahnee gave him a “Don’t be ridiculous” look that stung him into blurting indignantly, “If I am guest, who is host?”
“Sectuib, of course.”
“Out there,” he said, gesturing toward Gen Territory in unconscious imitation of the Sime idiom, “a host usually sees his guests occasionally.”
She peered at him closely for a moment, and then drew back, stifling a giggle. “I shall try to attract your host’s attention. Such a joke just might succeed. But, remember, Sectuib is”—she groped in the air as if seeking the words—“well, he’s...Sectuib! In many other Houses, the lesser channels carry much of the routine burden. But Klyd works dispensary every day so that each of us gets a turn with him every few months. And his touch is like....” She trailed off, enraptured by a distant vision of paradise.
Valleroy prompted, “Like what?”
“Oh,” she said shaking her head sadly, “you wouldn’t understand. But Klyd works harder than anybody else in Zeor. It’s because of his touch that we are...what we are.” She departed, leaving Valleroy seething with lonely impatience for the rest of the day.
On the one hand, he was a guest. But on the other, he was effectively imprisoned despite the unlocked door because of the role he must play. He’d been advised...no warned...not to stray too far from his room without a guide. A rescued Gen casualty wouldn’t go on a snooping tour.
As the afternoon wore on, he took his language notebook to the window and sketched the mingled groups of Simes and Gens as they swept back and forth across the courtyard. He tried to capture the singular atmosphere of the Householding, using Klyd’s distinctive features—aquiline nose, sensitive lips, concerned brow, intense chin and jaw line—to form the outlines of the scene. The result left him dissatisfied. He tore the page to bits with growing resentment of his helplessness.
Savagely, he drew a grotesque Klyd with horns and tail, donkey ears and a goatee. He added a caricature of himself thumbing his nose with a taunting sneer. The pencil snapped in half between his fingers. He ripped the sketch to shreds.
Tomorrow, he resolved grimly, he would force the lofty Sectuib Farris to talk to him! The channel had been badly scared that their working relationship might be discovered. That was ammunition. Valleroy intended to use it...if necessary.
With that decision made, he settled down to an earnest cram session with his language notes. Simelan was not quite cognate to Valleroy’s native English. The syntax was often bewildering, especially in the passive voice. This, the grammar books said, was the result of the different way Simes perceive reality. But even with all their differences, Simes were still basically human. Their most frequently used vocabulary concerned ordinary human matters. With the years of formal study in the Federal Police and his childhood background, Valleroy was able to gather most of the meaning off the pages of a fifth-grade history text he found on the hall shelves.
The book told the story of the Sime wars very differently than Valleroy had learned it in school. According to the Simes, it was the Gens who caused the disintegration of the world civilization of the Ancients. The Gens had been unreasonable about surrendering themselves to the pens. So the sniping and pillage had gone on for hundreds of years, destroying almost all the Ancient artifacts and obliterating most of the Ancient knowledge. Only the Simes had gathered, cherished, and passed on some fragments of the old culture in spite of the beastly non-men who tried to exterminate them.
Puzzled, Valleroy flipped pages rapidly. Such prejudice seemed foreign to the concept of the Householdings. He found the back half of the book taken up with the same account told from a different point of view. Before the channels had arisen, Simes couldn’t understand that Gens were people. Since there were still so few channels, most Simes still have to depend on the kill to survive, so they had to deny Gens the franchise. They had to ignore the fact that Gens had rebuilt portions of the world from which they’d scoured most of the Simes and established the territories.
Valleroy read on, intently absorbed now that he’d discovered the book was a comparison of two views. He’d never been totally satisfied with the history taught in the Gens’ schools, which he’d attended sporadically. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut to avoid getting thrown out of such schools, but he never learned to believe all he was told.
Most of what he read now, he couldn’t quite understand, but it opened vistas of thought about the Simes and the causes of the sudden, catastrophic mutation rate that had destroyed the Ancient world.
By the time Evahnee brought his evening medication, Valleroy was filled with new ideas, and he was even more eager to go out among these strange people to see how they applied their ideals to daily living.
“How have you been, Hugh?”
“Fine but...alone.”
“Lonely?”
“Yes, that’s the word. Have you seen Klyd?”
“Seen, yes. All day.”
“Then you arranged it for me?”
“Sorry. No time.” She dropped onto the foot of his bed as if she hadn’t sat down in hours. “I shouldn’t be here now, but I expect to have a few minutes.”
“Busy?”
“We are working with a new member who is entering his final disjunction crisis, and you know what that’s like!”
“I do? I mean, I don’t.”
“You saw us take him down the hall this morning. You’ve been hearing him all day.”
“Some noise, that’s all. What’s...disjunction?” What he’d been hearing sounded like a private quarrel.
Evahnee frowned at him for a moment, and then she laughed as much at herself as at him. “Odd. I’d forgotten you aren’t one of us.”
“Thank you,” said
Valleroy. For a moment, he thrilled to the idea that he could pass for one of them, but he pushed his reaction aside. “I still don’t know what is disjun...whatever you said.”
“Disjunction. The separation of a Sime from the kill. There is a fundamental difference between killing a Gen for selyn and taking transfer from a channel instead...at least so I’m told. I’ve never killed so I wouldn’t know. But judging by our candidates’ symptoms, it must be quite a difference.”
Valleroy drained the medicine and then spent ten minutes on vocabulary before he felt he understood. “I see now. The Simes who live in the Householdings never kill Gens. And any Sime who wants to...be adopted...has to disjunct?”
“That’s the test for any Sime candidate.”
“What’s the test for Gens?”
“No test. Merely to donate through the channels.”
Valleroy nodded. Might seem trivial to her, but she couldn’t know how the very idea petrified a Gen. And, thought Valleroy, if he had to stay here a month or more, he’d have to donate too.
Suddenly, a ragged scream echoed down the hall. Shouts rose over the noise. “Sectuib Farris! Somebody get Sectuib! Hurry!”
Evahnee jumped to her feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have left!” She dashed into the corridor, Valleroy right on her heels. Together, they pelted down the hall and skidded to a stop opposite the grilled gate. A tiny knot of Simes on the other side of the grille stared up at a Sime who sat astride the top of the barrier. Among the commands being shouted up at the man, Valleroy deciphered only an occasional “Don’t!” and “Wait!”
Presently, a mixed troupe of Simes and Gens pounded from the side corridor with Klyd leading. The channel slid to a stop, looking up at the fugitive. Instantly, everyone fell silent.
The Sime perched atop the gate looked down at Klyd. Slowly, the channel straightened, as if thoroughly in command of the situation now. He motioned to the group around him, and a Gen girl glided out to stand in the open between Klyd and the gate, but a little to one side so that the three of them formed a slim triangle.
The fugitive’s eyes riveted on the girl, who returned his gaze calmly. She was about the same age as Evahnee maybe twenty, attractive in a lean way, with coarse hands that bespoke hard work. He was small and wiry like most Simes, but had unusually blond hair that glistened in the dim light.
Klyd stepped forward raising his hands, laterals partially extended in invitation. “To me, Hrel. You can’t hurt me. Come. Come to me.”
Klyd continued his soft but insistent coaxing in that penetrating, professional voice. Hrel’s face crumpled in an agony of indecision. Every time the channel drew Hrel’s attention, he eyes drifted back to the girl, his obvious preference. Nobody moved as the three stared at each other, the girl calmly, the Sime hungrily, the channel persuasively.
Measuring the distances with his eye, Valleroy figured the Sime could leap onto the girl and have her dead by the time anybody else could react.
Klyd took another tiny step forward. “I can do it, Hrel. But you must choose me.”
Feral eyes darted from Klyd to the girl, obviously wanting her but wishing he wanted Klyd. Seeing Hrel shift his weight preparing to spring, Valleroy unconsciously tensed to leap to her defense.
Klyd stood his ground, apparently relaxed. The girl waited without so much as blinking.
In a flash, Hrel was on the floor beside her, tentacles unsheathed and reaching for her! None of the witnesses moved. With effort, Valleroy checked his half-prepared lunge. The girl remained steady, neither welcoming nor retreating.
Hrel froze in mid-motion, tearing his eyes from his devised victim to see that Klyd was still there, hands outstretched, tentacles ready. Stiff-legged, Hrel jerked around and hurled himself toward the channel. Klyd’s laterals twined about Hrel’s and their lips met.
Valleroy wanted to watch the transfer, but Evahnee grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around in a joyful dance while bedlam broke loose among the witnesses. Somebody swung the grilled gate open, and before he knew it Valleroy was sucked into the center of a wild celebration. One moment he was dragging chairs out of a closet, another he was spreading a banquet on a buffet table almost as long as the corridor.
Impromptu musicians tuned up exotic Sime instruments, and somebody created a throne out of a table, a chair and a bedspread.
Bottles were opened. Somebody pressed a glass into Valleroy’s hand. Then the triumphal procession entered while the musicians produced a sonorous tune, and the onlookers chanted. Ceremoniously, they installed Hrel on the throne. He seemed a bit dazed by it all, but he essayed a brave smile.
From the back of the group, somebody yelled, “Go on, Sectuib. He’s ours!” Amid a chorus of affirmatives, Klyd vaulted onto the table and kneeled before the seated figure, offering a strip of ornately embroidered cloth draped over his hands. An almost tangible silence swept through the onlookers.
Hrel stretched his own hands out to join Klyd’s under the cloth. Then Hrel lifted the symbol, displaying it to all those watching silently. At last, he draped it around Klyd’s neck like a mantle and raised the channel to his feet. It was a clear act of acceptance of the channel’s authority.
Pandemonium burst loose. From somewhere, coarsely woven replicas of Klyd’s embroidered mantel were passed out. On close inspection, Valleroy could see it was the same pattern that bordered all the linens he’d been using here. The Householding crest.
A snake dance started in the center of the crowd, now so close-packed there wasn’t room for a deep breath. A red-haired Sime girl flipped one of the replica cloths around Valleroy’s neck and sealed the investiture with a brief but passionate kiss before he had a chance to be startled. Then she was gone into the swirling throng.
“Quiet! Wait a minute! Quiet!” It was Klyd calling out from his place on the table while Hrel stood beside him.
Silence welled up, drowning the merrymaking. Klyd continued, “Evahnee! Do you have the ring?”
She wriggled forward to present the crest ring to the channel, who promptly slipped it onto Hrel’s little finger, calling loudly, “Unto the House of Zeor, forever!” Hrel repeated the phrase with just as much fervor.
In unison, the crowd took up the cry. “Unto the House of Zeor, forever!” Soon it became a chant, and the musicians added a strong rhythm that triggered the snake dance once more. Valleroy was sucked into it, as the whole room seemed to be dancing.
From the door, a shout went up. “Clear the way! Space here! Move over!”
The dancing stopped while a Sime holding a tripod high over the heads of the crowd sidled into the room. He reached a point in front of the improvised dais, set up the tripod and attached a black box to it.
All at once, Valleroy knew what it was. He pushed and showed his way through the crowd, forgetting for the moment his wariness of the Simes. This he had to see! One of the legendary cameras of the Ancients. The Simes had resurrected some of the old arts...but this...!
After some careful preparation, the Sime instructed Hrel to pose. With a theatrical flourish, the...photographer...worked a lever.
Nothing happened.
Puzzled, the Sime bent over his box, tentacles flying. But after repeated failures, he announced, “Sorry, no pictures tonight!”
The disappointment of the crowd was almost palpable as the tripod was carried away.
Klyd called, “Hugh! Step over here a minute!”
Surprised at the sound of his native language after so many days, Valleroy slid through an opening. Klyd squatted down on the edge of the table. “Hugh, can you do a quick portrait of Hrel and me together? Just a sketch, nothing exacting.”
“Sure, but I don’t have anything to work with.”
“That can be arranged.” He stood up. “Evahnee, get a sketching board from the mill’s drafting room. Hugh’s going to make the portrait of us.”
This set off a cheer that threatened to raise the roof, but presently another snake dance was started all around the throne. The songs too
k on a note of restrained ecstasy with the word “Zeor” repeated like an ardent plea.
A long time later, when Valleroy had decided they’d forgotten about the portrait in the wild emotional catharsis, several Simes manhandled a large drafting table into the room and set it up before the dais. Evahnee seated Valleroy on the bench with a cabinet of supplies at his left hand. “If there’s anything else you need, just ask.”
Valleroy kneaded his fingers wondering if he’d had too much to drink. Gingerly, he selected a likely looking piece of charcoal. The coarse paper was crosshatched with oddly patterned drafting lines. He turned the paper over and clipped it in place. The reverse was clear of lines, but very grainy. After several false starts, he found a charcoal soft enough to serve him, and then it went quickly.
As he sketched, the room seemed to shrink into the lighted bubble containing only himself and his subjects. He gave himself to the task in a euphoria of exquisite satisfaction, as if the frustrated creativity of years was suddenly pouring forth, relieving a tension he hadn’t known was there. The joy of these people stirred something deep inside him, filling him until he knew he had to get it down on paper or die trying.
At last, the composition complete, Valleroy sat staring at it as if hypnotized. Klyd’s voice pried gently into his reverie. “May we see?”
“Oh!” Valleroy jerked the page off and handed it up by a corner. “Don’t smear it.”
Klyd showed it to Hrel and then held it up for everyone to see. The gasps of appreciation were a more tribute than gold could have been to Valleroy. Someone started to applaud. Hesitantly, the others picked it up. Soon the room was filled with the roaring sound. Tears started to Valleroy’s eyes.
Klyd beckoned the artist up onto the table. Willing hands boosted him while Klyd hauled. His legs were still too shaky for climbing. As Valleroy stood up, the applause crested and then died away as if on cue.
Raising his voice in formal tones, Klyd proclaimed, “We shall have this hung in Memorial Hall!”
The applause started again but Klyd held up a hand, tentacles twined in the “wait-a-moment” sign. “Shall we invite the artist to design our entry in the Arensti Competition?”
House of Zeor Page 3