“It’s no affair of yours,” Sung-wu said, as he moved unhappily towards the exit doors.
“I’ll look myself!”
“Go ahead.” Sung-wu pushed moodily out into the hall. He was dazed with despair: it hadn’t changed; it was still the same.
In eight months he would die, stricken by one of the numerous plagues that swept over the inhabited parts of the world. He would become feverish, break out with red spots, turn and twist in an anguish of delirium. His bowels would drop out; his flesh would waste away; his eyes would roll up; and after an interminable time of suffering, he would die. His body would lie in a mass heap, with hundreds of others—a whole streetful of dead, to be carted away by one of the robot sweepers, happily immune. His mortal remains would be burned in a common rubbish incinerator at the outskirts of the city.
Meanwhile, the eternal spark, Sung-wu’s divine soul, would hurry from this space-time manifestation to the next in order. But it would not rise; it would sink; he had watched its descent on the scanner many times. There was always the same hideous picture—a sight beyond endurance—of his soul, as it plummeted down like a stone, into one of the lowest continua, a sinkhole of a manifestation at the very bottom of the ladder.
He had sinned. In his youth, Sung-wu had got mixed up with a black-eyed wench with long flowing hair, a glittering waterfall down her back and shoulders. Inviting red lips, plump breasts, hips that undulated and beckoned unmistakably. She was the wife of a friend, from the Warrior class, but he had taken her as his mistress; he had been certain time remained to rectify his venality.
But he was wrong: the wheel was soon to turn for him. The plague—not enough time to fast and pray and do good works. He was determined to go down, straight down to a wallowing, foul-aired planet in a stinking red-sun system, an ancient pit of filth and decay and unending slime—a jungle world of the lowest type.
In it, he would be a shiny-winged fly, a great blue-bottomed, buzzing carrion-eater that hummed and guzzled through the rotting carcasses of great lizards, slain in combat.
From this swamp, this pest-ridden planet in a diseased, contaminated system, he would have to rise painfully up the endless rungs of the cosmic ladder he had already climbed. It had taken eons to climb this far, to the level of a human being on the planet Earth, in the bright yellow Sol system; now he would “I’ll look myself!” have to do it all over again.
Chai beamed, “Elron be with you,” as the corroded observation ship was checked by the robot crew, and finally okayed for limited flight. Sung-wu slowly entered the ship and seated himself at what remained of the controls. He waved listlessly, then slammed the lock and bolted it by hand.
As the ship limped into the late afternoon sky, he reluctantly consulted the reports and records Chai had transferred to him.
The Tinkerists were a small cult; they claimed only a few hundred members, all drawn from the Techno class, which was the most despised of the social castes. The Bards, of course, were at the top; they were the teachers of society, the holy men who guided man to clearness. Then the Poets; they turned into saga the great legends of Elron Hu, who lived (according to legend) in the hideous days of the Time of Madness. Below the Poets were the Artists; then the Musicians; then the Workers, who supervised the robot crews. After them the Businessmen, the Warriors, the Farmers and, finally, at the bottom, the Technos.
Most of the Technos were Caucasians—immense whiteskinned things, incredibly hairy, like apes; their resemblance to the great apes was striking. Perhaps Broken Feather was right; perhaps they did have Neanderthal blood and were outside the possibility of clearness. Sung-wu had always considered himself an anti-racist; he disliked those who maintained the Caucasians were a race apart. Extremists believed eternal damage would result to the species if the Caucasians were allowed to intermarry.
In any case, the problem was academic; no decent, self-respecting woman of the higher classes—of Indian or Mongolian, or Bantu stock—would allow herself to be approached by a Cauc.
Below his ship, the barren countryside spread out, ugly and bleak. Great red spots that hadn’t yet been overgrown, and slag surfaces were still visible—but by this time most ruins were covered by soil and crab grass. He could see men and robots farming; villages, countless tiny brown circles in the green fields; occasional ruins of ancient cities—gaping sores like blind mouths, eternally open to the sky. They would never close, not now.
Ahead was the Detroit area, named, so it ran, for some now forgotten spiritual leader. There were more villages here. Off to his left, the leaden surface of a body of water, a lake of some kind. Beyond that—only Elron knew. No one went that far; there was no human life there, only wild animals and deformed things spawned from radiation infestation still lying heavy in the north.
He dropped his ship down. An open field lay to his right; a robot farmer was ploughing with a metal hook welded to its waist, a section torn off some discarded machine. It stopped dragging the hook and gazed up in amazement, as Sung-wu landed the ship awkwardly and bumped to a halt.
“Clearness be with you,” the robot rasped obediently, as Sung-wu climbed out.
Sung-wu gathered up his bundle of reports and papers and stuffed them in a brief-case. He snapped the ship’s lock and hurried off towards the ruins of the city. The robot went back to dragging the rusty metal hook through the hard ground, its pitted body bent double with the strain, working slowly, silently, uncomplaining.
The little boy piped, “Whither, Bard?” as Sung-wu pushed wearily through the tangled debris and slag. He was a little black-faced Bantu, in red rags sewed and patched together. He ran alongside Sung-wu like a puppy, leaping and bounding and grinning white-teethed.
Sung-wu became immediately crafty; his intrigue with the black-haired girl had taught him elemental dodges and evasions. “My ship broke down,” he answered cautiously; it was certainly common enough. “It was the last ship still in operation at our field.”
The boy skipped and laughed and broke off bits of green weeds that grew along the trail. “I know somebody who can fix it,” he cried carelessly.
Sung-wu’s pulse rate changed. “Oh?” he murmured, as if uninterested. “There are those around here who practise the questionable art of repairing?”
The boy nodded solemnly.
“Technos?” Sung-wu pursued. “Are there many of them here, around these old ruins?”
More black-faced boys, and some little dark-eyed Bantu girls, came scampering through the slag and ruins. “What’s the matter with your ship?” one hollered at Sung-wu, “Won’t it run?”
They all ran and shouted around him, as he advanced slowly—an unusually wild bunch, completely undisciplined. They rolled and fought and tumbled and chased each other around madly.
“How many of you,” Sung-wu demanded, “have taken your first instruction?”
There was a sudden uneasy silence. The children looked at each other guiltily; none of them answered.
“Good Elron!” Sung-wu exclaimed in horror. “Are you all untaught?”
Heads hung guiltily.
“How do you expect to phase yourselves with the cosmic will? How can you expect to know the Divine plan? This is really too much!”
He pointed a plump finger at one of the boys. “Are you constantly preparing yourself for the life to come? Are you constantly purging and purifying yourself? Do you deny yourself meat, sex, entertainment, financial gain, education, leisure?”
But it was obvious; their unrestrained laughter and play proved they were still jangled, far from clear—and clearness is the only road by which a person can gain understanding of the eternal plan, the cosmic wheel which turns endlessly, for all living things.
“Butterflies!” Sung-wu snorted with disgust. “You are no better than the beasts and birds of the field, who take no heed of the morrow. You play and game for today, thinking tomorrow won’t come. Like insects—”
But the thought of insects reminded him of the shiny-winged blue-rumped fl
y, creeping over a rotting lizard carcass, and Sung-wu’s stomach did a flip-flip; he forced it back in place and strode on, towards the line of villages emerging ahead.
Farmers were working the barren fields on all sides. A thin layer of soil over slag; a few limp wheat stalks waved, thin and emaciated. The ground was terrible, the worst he had seen. He could feel the metal under his feet; it was almost to the surface. Bent men and women watered their sickly crops with tin cans, old metal containers picked from the ruins. An ox was pulling a crude cart.
In another field, women were weeding by hand; all moved slowly, stupidly, victims of hookworm, from the soil. They were all barefoot. The children hadn’t picked it up yet, but they soon would.
Sung-wu gazed up at the sky and gave thanks to Elron; here, suffering was unusually severe; trials of exceptional vividness lay on every hand. These men and women were being tempered in a hot crucible; their souls were probably purified to an astonishing degree. A baby lay in the shade, beside a half-dozing mother. Flies crawled over its eyes; its mother breathed heavily, hoarsely, her mouth open. An unhealthy flush discoloured her brown cheeks.
“Come here,” Sung-wu called sharply to the gang of black-faced children who followed along after him. “I’m going to talk to you.”
The children approached, eyes on the ground, and assembled in a silent circle around him. Sung-wu sat down, placed his brief-case beside him, and folded his legs expertly under him in the traditional posture outlined by Elron in his seventh hook of teachings.
“I will ask and you will answer,” Sung-wu stated. “You know the basic catechisms?” He peered sharply around. “Who knows the basic catechisms?”
One or two hands went up. Most of the children looked away unhappily.
“First!” snapped Sung-wu, “Who are you? You are a minute fragment of the cosmic plan.
“Second! What are you? A mere speck in a system so vast as to be beyond comprehension.
“Third! What is the way of life? To fulfil what is required by the cosmic forces.
“Fourth! Where are you? On one step of the cosmic ladder.
“Fifth! Where have you been? Through endless steps; each turn of the wheel advances or depresses you.
“Sixth! What determines your direction at the next turn? Your conduct in this manifestation.
“Seventh! What is right conduct? Submitting yourself to the eternal forces, the cosmic elements that make up the divine plan.
“Eighth! What is the significance of suffering? To purify the soul.
“Ninth! What is the significance of death? To release the person from this manifestation, so he may rise to a new rung of the ladder.
“Tenth—”
But at that moment Sung-wu broke off. Two quasi-human shapes were approaching him. Immense white-skinned figures striding across the baked fields, between the sickly rows of wheat.
Technos—coming to meet him; his flesh crawled. Caucs. Their. skins glittered pale and unhealthy, like nocturnal insects, dug from under rocks.
He rose to his feet, conquered his disgust, and prepared to greet them.
Sung-wu said, “Clearness!” He could smell them, a musky sheep smell, as they came to a halt in front of him. Two bucks, two immense sweating males, skin damp and sticky, with beards, and long disorderly hair. They wore sailcloth trousers and boots. With horror Sung-wu perceived a thick body-hair, on their chests, like woven mats—tufts in their armpits, on their arms, wrists, even the backs of their hands. Maybe Broken Feather was right; perhaps, in these great lumbering blond-haired beasts, the archaic, Neanderthal stock—the false men—still survived. He could almost see the ape, peering from behind their blue eyes.
“Hi,” the first Cauc said. After a moment he added reflectively, “My name’s Jamison.”
“Pete Ferris,” the other grunted. Neither of them observed the customary deferences; Sung-wu winced but managed not to show it. Was it deliberate, a veiled insult, or perhaps mere ignorance? This was hard to tell; in lower classes there was, as Chai said, an ugly undercurrent of resentment and envy, and hostility.
“I’m making a routine survey,” Sung-wu explained, “on birth and death rates in rural areas. I’ll be here a few days. Is there some place I can stay? Some public inn or hostel?”
The two Cauc bucks were silent. “Why?” one of them demanded bluntly.
Sung-wu blinked. “Why? Why what?”
“Why are you making a survey? If you want any information we’ll supply it.”
Sung-wu was incredulous. “Do you know to whom you’re talking? I’m a Bard! Why, you’re ten classes down; how dare you—” He choked with rage. In these rural areas the Technos had utterly forgotten their place. What was ailing the local Bards? Were they letting the system break apart?
He shuddered violently at the thought of what it would mean if Technos and Farmers and Businessmen were allowed to intermingle—even intermarry, and eat, and drink, in the same places.
The whole structure of society would collapse. If all were to ride the same carts, use the same outhouse; it passed belief. A sudden nightmare picture loomed up before Sung-wu of Technos living and mating with women of the Bard and Poet classes. He visioned a horizontally oriented society, all persons on the same level, with horror. It went against the very grain of the cosmos, against the divine plan; it was the Time of Madness all over again. He shuddered.
“Where is the Manager of this area?” he demanded. “Take me to him; I’ll deal directly with him.”
The two Caucs turned and headed back the way they had come, without a word. After a moment of fury, Sung-wu followed behind them.
They led him through withered fields and over barren, eroded hills on which nothing grew; the ruins increased. At the edge of the city, a line of meagre villages had been set up; he saw leaning, rickety wood huts, and mud streets. From the villages a thick stench rose, the smell of offal and death.
Dogs lay sleeping under the huts; children poked and played in the filth and rotting debris. A few old people sat on porches, vacant faced, eyes glazed and dull. Chickens pecked around, and he saw pigs and skinny cats—and the eternal rusting piles of metal, sometimes thirty feet high. Great towers of red slag were heaped up everywhere.
Beyond the villages were the ruins proper—endless miles of abandoned wreckage; skeletons of buildings; concrete walls; bathtubs and pipe; overturned wrecks that had been cars. All these were from the Time of Madness, the decade that had finally rung the curtain down on the sorriest interval in man’s history. The five centuries of madness and jangledness were now known as the Age of Heresy, when man had gone against the divine plan and taken his destiny in his own hands.
They came to a larger hut, a two-storey wood structure. The Caucs climbed a decaying flight of steps; boards creaked and gave ominously under their heavy boots. Sung-wu followed them nervously; they came out on a porch, a kind of open balcony.
On the balcony sat a man, an obese copper-skinned official in unbuttoned breeches, his shiny black hair pulled back and tied with a bone against his bulging red neck. His nose was large and prominent, his face flat and wide, with many chins. He was drinking lime juice from a tin cup and gazing down at the mud street below. As the two Caucs appeared he rose slightly, a prodigious effort.
“This man,” the Cauc named Jamison said, indicating Sung-wu, “wants to see you.”
Sung-wu pushed angrily forward. “I am a Bard, from the Central Chamber; do you people recognize this?” He tore open his robe and flashed the symbol of the Holy Arm, gold worked to form a swath of flaming red. “I insist you accord me proper treatment! I’m not here to be pushed around by any—”
He had said too much; Sung-wu forced his anger down and gripped his brief-case. The fat Indian was studying him calmly; the two Caucs had wandered to the far end of the balcony and were squatting down in the shade. They lit crude cigarettes and turned their backs.
“Do you permit this?” Sung-wu demanded, incredulous. “This—mingling?”
&n
bsp; The Indian shrugged and sagged down even more on his chair. “Clearness be with you,” he murmured; “will you join me?” His calm expression remained unchanged; he seemed not to have noticed. “Some lime juice? Or perhaps coffee? Lime juice is good for these.” He tapped his mouth; his soft gums were lined with caked sores.
“Nothing for me,” Sung-wu muttered grumpily, as he took a seat opposite the Indian; “I’m here on an official survey.”
The Indian nodded faintly. “Oh?”
“Birth and death rates.” Sung-wu hesitated, then leaned towards the Indian. “I insist you send those two Caucs away; what I have to say to you is private.”
The Indian showed no change of expression; his broad face was utterly impassive. After a time he turned slightly. “Please go down to the street level,” he ordered. “As you will.”
The two Caucs got to their feet, grumbling, and pushed past the table, scowling and darting resentful glances at Sung-wu. One of them hawked and elaborately spat over the railing, an obvious insult.
“Insolence!” Sung-wu choked. “How can you allow it? Did you see them? By Elron, it’s beyond belief!”
The Indian shrugged indifferently—and belched. “All men are brothers on the wheel. Didn’t Elron Himself teach that, when He was on earth?” .
“Of course. But—”
“Are not even these men our brothers?”
“Naturally,” Sung-wu answered haughtily, “but they must know their place; they’re an insignificant class. In the rare event some object wants fixing, they are called; but in the last year I do not recall a single incident when it was deemed advisable to repair anything. The need of such a class diminishes yearly; eventually such a class and the elements composing it—”
“You perhaps advocate sterilization?” the Indian inquired, heavy lidded and sly.
“I advocate something. The lower classes reproduce like rabbits; spawning all the time—much faster than we Bards. I always see some swollen-up Cauc woman, but hardly a single Bard is born, these days.”
“That’s about all that’s left them,” the Indian murmured mildly. He sipped a little lime juice. “You should try to be more tolerant.”
A Handful of Darkness Page 13