I walked south to King’s Gate High Road, where I hailed a cab—this time with watun decently attached to it—intending to charge the fare off to the Precinct, and rode into Riverside, across the railroad bridge, which pierces the island wall, and from there to the Shrine itself. This proved to be an unprepossessing brick building, formerly a lodging house by all appearances, with that ugly symbol I had seen at the Museum painted on the windows. It was another splendid yellow-skyed day, and the front entrance lay wide open upon a lobby. I do not know what I’d expected, but the comely surmale receptionist sitting at a little gilt table with a telephone upon it and a mechanical typewriting machine besides, was well dressed, well spoken, and well mannered beyond belief.
“Good morning, Missur, may I be of some assistance to you?”
“I hope so; I should like to see Mr. Adem if it’s convenient.”
“The Reverend Mr. Adem is here, I am happy to say. Do you have an appointment? Oh—would you by any chance be Missur Mymysiir Offe Woom? I see that Mr. Agot Edmoot Mav telephoned to reserve an hour for you earlier this morning.”
Trust such forethought to the systematic Mav. I wondered what the nature of my business was supposed to be. The receptionist rose and conducted me through the handsomely appointed lobby into an office anteroom, where rhe handed me over to a male secretary who also had a typewriter and a telephone.
And a suit of clothing worth a year’s salary as a Bucketeer.
The secretary lifted the instrument from his desk. “Reverend? Missur Mymysiir Offe Woom is here by appointment.…Very good, sir, I shall.” He placed the telephone back on his desk. Imagine, a telephone, just to speak into the next room! “Reverend Adem will see you now, Missur.”
Before me he opened a pair of expensively carved doors equipped with silver-plated handles and hinges. That is, I assumed that they were plated. As they swung aside, I revised my estimation, for, judging from the sand upon the floor, a delicate aquamarine that could only have been hand-sifted and imported from that farthest of our colonies, Mav’s father’s beloved Dezer, and the many fine relief pictures upon the elegantly leathered walls, I then had reason to doubt my assessment of the door handles.
A lam whose attire might have traded straight across for ten of the secretary’s suits stood in the middle of this opulent expanse of floorsand, all three hands extended in greeting.
“Missur Mymysiir—I believe that I shall call you Mymy, my child. Do come forward, and welcome to the Shrine of Fundamental Truth! I am the Reverend Kymmi Kiidit Adem!”
This was the ragged, dirty figure on the waggon? My consternation must have been visible, for he crinkled his fur as he directed me to a comfortable seat and stepped behind a laminated peresk desk that may have required the cutting of a hundred of the little trees—and the risk, perhaps, of dozens of lives.
“I see that you’re surprised by the appearance of our humble Shrine,” he said. “Or it may be that you have seen me in my more public aspect—perhaps at the Imperial Museum a few nights ago? Well, this is Pah’s house, far more certainly than any cathedral upon the western shore; and I am Pah’s servant. I greatly doubt whether He would want His work done shabbily! May I offer you some kood? I’m afraid that we have little else, as the taking of petroleum spirits or current contravenes our beliefs.” His pelt kinked just a little, as if this were a small rule imposed by a slightly unreasonable employer.
“I myself do not partake of…current, Reverend. A wick would be most pleasant.”
Again that crinkle, and I wondered what there was about it or its owner that made me wish for some privacy with a tin of scrubbing sand. He telephoned for kood, which appeared almost instantaneously in the hands of yet another underling. Pah had many servants in this place, it would appear—even the servants had servants.
I might have known: when the wick was lit, it was a sickly sweet blend largely preferred by elderly unmarried lurries and ladies. Adem made a pyramid of his fingertips. “This Captain Mav who rang says that you wish to learn something of our beliefs, particularly those in opposition to the evil heresy of Ascensionism. Very well, my child, may I inquire, in turn, why it is that you are interested?”
I’d had, at one time, an uncle who habitually referred to me as “my child.” I believe that he deserted from the Army and was shot. I hoped so, anyway.
“You were correct that I was at the Museum during your, um, demonstration. That was you, wasn’t it?” It was my hope that I was taking the line Mav would desire. I could not, for example, have pretended interest in this strange, repellent little lam’s religious prejudices. “My education has been scientific in character, and—”
“Highly unusual and enterprising for a surrie, my child. We could find many uses for such initiative in our work—certainly more so than in…what did you say it was?”
My mind whirled. What should I say? Then I realized that my bag—Sasa’s bag—was lying on the floor at my hands. “I’m a student of medicine, reading for it under my surfather and obtaining such practical experience as I am able. Naturally, my philosophical curiosity has extended to—”
“To the Fundamental Truth, at last! I rejoice with you, my child! You’ll not find our beliefs too very different from those of the established Church…” Did I detect a microscopic bitter flattening of the fur at these words? “In fact, if I may say so, our object is to serve as something of a conscience, attempting to stem the theological drift that has been occurring lately toward various materialistic heresies.”
“One of them being Ascensionism?”
He returned now to crinkling, this time more in sorrow than in anger. I am morally certain that he’d practiced this one in a mirror every day for years. “My child, this nonsense goes directly against the written word of Pah Himself, and the foundation of our belief is that the Book of Pah is literally true in every line and every verse. Else it would not be worthy of Him, would it, my child?”
I began wondering what he’d say if he knew that “his child” was contemplating taking out rher little gun and shooting off his sanctimonious nostrils if he called me by that name again. Patience, Mymy: “I’d find that easier to believe were there not hundreds of obvious internal contradictions in your Book of Pah.” This latter was a quote direct from my mentor in such matters, Mav.
Adem allowed himself a ripple of tolerant humor. “The logic of Pah is not the logic of lam. Such seeming contradictions may be nothing more than a test of our faith—just as Pah invented buried bones as a pitfall for the intellectually arrogant, those who place the Mind ahead of the Soul. The ossiferous collection’s far from complete, as surely you must know, and this, too, should be taken as a sign by those who consider themselves wise.”
“Perhaps,” I offered mildly, “the process of fossilization is so rare an event—something like the creation of diamonds, for example—that we may interpret the relative abundance of fossils as a sign that Professor Srafen is absolutely correct about the Ascent of Lamviin.”
The Reverend Mr. Adem was well practiced in the simulation of broad-minded joviality. He simply riposted: “My child, you’re far too young to be so certain about a world to which you’ve scarcely been introduced. Your judgment will mature in time, but you must be aware, even now, that Ascensionism, like all of so-called natural philosophy, is simply another religion—a pagan one, at that—supported by a faith in certain fundamental assumptions that are no more subject to demonstration than those of Trinism. Scientists themselves admit that Ascensionism is only a theory, even as they squabble endlessly concerning its validity.”
I was grateful that I’d spoken to Mav about this, and grateful also for my surfather’s insistence that I be permitted to attend the university. “Your pardon, Reverend, but you misunderstand at least one science, that of epistemology. I agree that the distinguishing characteristic of religion is faith—the blind, unquestioning belief in the unproven, the unprovable, and, if I may say so, the disproven. Those assumptions of natural philosophy of which you
speak are subject constantly to revision any moment there is tangible reason for so doing. Or simply, as with antilinear geometry, so that alternative assumptions may be tried and knowledge thereby increased.”
“My child—”
“Ascensionism is a theory, which, in the language of philosophy, means an orderly collection of physically demonstrable relationships. You speak of it as if it were an hypothesis, an idea yet to be proven good, which it emphatically is not. No serious philosopher any longer doubts it; it is only the details of its operation that they debate.”
“My child, you talk of science and foolishly criticize the illusory contradictions in the Book of Pah. Yet I know something of science, myself. Enough to appreciate that order—meaning life, particularly lamviin life—cannot have arisen spontaneously out of chaos; this violates your own precious Laws of Thermodynamics with which you ought to be familiar; such is possible only by the special intervention of Pah Himself.”
Oh, dear, what had I started here? “It seems to me, Reverend, that if I were Pah, I’d place some value upon not granting dispensations. A deity ought to have enough integrity to observe the very laws which He Himself has ordained. Has it never occurred to you—it has, I believe, to the Church—that Ascensionism is an ideal means to this end? Perhaps Pah—”
“You’re forgetting thermodynamics again, my child. The inevitable direction is from order to chaos. If you were to find an elegant watch and chain upon the sand, would it be more reasonable to assume—and here we stumble upon another of your scientific ‘laws,’ that of the Simplest Explanation—that it appeared there spontaneously, having arisen out of random combinations and permutations of atoms, or that some Great Watchmaker—”
“Made it appear there, equally spontaneously? Good Reverend, your explanation fails by far to be the simplest, and the process of Ascension is not remotely random—such mutations as occur are harshly culled and edited by the exigencies of survival, a set of very narrow parameters, indeed. Your ‘watch’ began existence as the tiniest, least-complicated jewel or shaft imaginable. Millions of years were required for each subtle change, each minuscule addition, until the shaft became a gear and gears combined to form a movement—each alteration tested by the cruel world. Why, I sometimes believe that the failure to understand and accept the fact of Ascensionism arises—spontaneously, if you will—from nothing more than failure (or fear) to comprehend the enormous gulf of time that separates us from our beginnings.”
The Reverend wasn’t yet ready to concede: “This ‘mutation’—if it exists at all—is far too rare an event to account for our existence. One speaks glibly about so much time, and yet, if we are to believe your fossils, lam himself arose from baser stock in a matter of perhaps a few tens of thousands of years—far too brief for Ascension to have had anything to do with it!”
At this point I began realizing that I had wandered far from Mav’s intentions. But what, for pity’s sake, could I do? “Reverend, please forgive me an extremely personal question, but when was the last time that some individual hair upon your pelt decided to grow twice as long and quickly as any other? I wager that you’ll find just such a ‘sport’ or mutation even now if you were to look closely. So much for their rarity. I admit that geological evidence confirms your view that we are a very recent species, however, my friend Mav informs me that Professor Srafen was about to publish a monograph to the effect that, once language began to develop, lamkind controlled its own Ascension, adding even more parameters than those that nature had—”
“My child! This is blasphemy far damper than any with which that foul demon heretic corrupted our society when rhe was alive! Unspeakable evil—yet you have spoken it! Is it possible that you are possessed by that malignant spirit? You were present at rher blessed destruction, my poor child, and—”
“Reverend Adem, you will forgive my mentioning the fact that I am no child of yours or anybody else, but an adult, fully capable of uttering my own blasphemies.” With resignation, I reached into my bag and found the billfold with my Bucketeer’s insignia, which I displayed to the Reverend. “I am here upon Their Majesties’ business, sir, and I have some final questions to ask—perhaps not quite as stimulating as our discussion so far, but considerably more germane.”
His fur drooped suddenly, although I believe that I detected an undercurrent of cunning stirring in its depths. “My…rather, Missur Mymysiir, that was a cruel and unprincipled deception you practiced upon me. I’ve a good mind to write a letter to the—”
“Your opinions are attuned with those of my superior, who has, nonetheless, decided that such deception is outweighed by matters such as murder. If nothing else, I’ve learned how thoroughly you despised Professor Srafen. Can you now tell me why I should believe you did not feel justified in having rher killed?”
“Young lurrie, you presume too much! Remember to whom you are speaking.”
“Quite right: to the leader of a technically illegal sect of religious deviationists.”
“It is the established Church that deviates in its increasing tolerance of this and other heresies! Do they not comprehend the consequences? Why, should this fantasy become generally accepted, it will surely form the basis for a new and savage ethic: bloody jaw-and-claw survival above all! Already there is talk of Societal Ascensionism, which will—”
“Your pardon, Reverend, but you have not answered my question.”
“The general tendency is toward chaos! Only the blessed mercy of Pah—”
“Reverend?”
“Lamviin is unique in so many aspects; he could never have risen from—Do you realize that if survival of the fittest were true, there would only be one species on Sodde Lydfe? Hahahahahahahaha!”
“Reverend Adem! Control yourself!”
He breathed heavily for many moments and at last his fur began to settle from the spiky, tangled mess it bad become. For a while he looked around in weary confusion, as if wondering how be came to be in this place. Then: “Your forgiveness, my child; I have been guilty of intemperance. Excessive zeal, even in the service of Pah, does little to further His ends. I believe that I should like to rest now, if you’ll excuse me. No, don’t get up—take these pamphlets if you will. They explain our position in more moderate terms than I have used.”
I could not think quite what to reply to this performance—it was certainly a novel way to terminate an argument (or avoid answering questions)—but accepted the little booklets from him as he made to leave the room. He staggered a little, reminding me of Niitood.
At the door, he paused. “Whatever else you think about us, my child, remember that all we desire, in the end, is that, in Foddu’s schools and in her children’s schoolbooks, alongside this accursed heresy, there be a lecture or a chapter on the truth that Pah instantaneously and miraculously created the world.”
The door shut softly behind him, and not many seconds later, I heard the instantaneous and miraculous whirring of a juicing box. I wondered, as I collected my bag and quitted the Shrine of Fundamental Truth, how Reverend Mr. Adem would react if science demanded, in return, a sermon from his pulpit on Ascensionism and a new chapter by Srafen in the Book of Pah.
IX: Voyage of the Dessmontevo
“Thus I fear,” I told Mav on the following day in Lovely Sands, “that I did not obtain the information you desired—unless it’s possible that Adem’s slipped far enough around the dune to have ordered murder done.”
“A distinct likelihood, from the sound of it,” said Vyssu.
The detective sat with us upon the edge of Vyssu’s sand carpet, munched a smoked shrimp, and thought. “My dears, from what I have observed so far from Srafen’s killing, it speaks rather more articulately of cunning, perhaps even of genius, than of madness—and before either of you repeats the old canard, I was never one who reckoned that brilliance and insanity are anything alike.”
Vyssu and I exchanged guilty glances, both of us having been caught in precisely the mental act Mav described.
&
nbsp; Several lam-heights from our picnic, Mav’s trine of watun, ordinarily quartered upon his mother’s Upper (Most) Hedgerow estate, were idly clawing up clumps of lichensand and depositing them in their mouths, evidently enjoying a picnic of their own. Mav had insisted upon removing the circular tyrelike affairs from their carapaces. “Saddles,” I believe, was the word he employed. In normal use, these prevented the lamviin rider from a potentially injurious proximity to the animals’ strictly herbivorous but nonetheless formidable jaws, and (at least theoretically) gave one a comfortable place to perch. As I was to discover, some hours later, theory and practice suffer no little divergence when it comes to riding watuback; the unconventional postures required by the sport leave every joint in every limb screaming in agony.
Be that as it may, it was singularly bracing, at the time, to travel along atop the beast instead of behind and it was thought-provoking—I suppose that is the best expression—once the rider’s straps were snugged up, to be able to employ all three sets of hands at once for something besides perambulation. How a mere two-thirds of a brain can direct three eyes and nine arms without braiding them together in a tangle dissoluble only by radical surgery is something that natural philosophy will have to look into someday.
An equally challenging question, this time for historians, is why no so-called civilized nation has ever thought of riding directly upon watun. Naturally, the practice is now widely known, if not universally exercised, thanks to the many newsscrolls, magazines, and cheap sensational novels about the colonies—we had, in fact, collected a gratifying minimum of fuzzy-pelted stares as we made our way through the northern margin of the city—yet it is peculiar in this age of electricity and steam that we owe a brilliant innovation to the savages of Einnyo.
Their Majesties’ Bucketeers ─ An Agot Edmoot Mav Murder Mystery Page 11