“That’s right,” said Teadrinker, “and if I am running into something which the Lord Redlady has set up, I might as well cut up my throat before I start.”
“It would be simpler, sir,” said B’dank, “not to kidnap this Rod McBan at all. That is the only element of danger. If you did nothing, things would go on as they always have gone on—quietly, calmly.”
“That’s the horror and anxiety of it! They do always go on. Don’t you think I want to get out of here, to taste power and freedom again?”
“You say so, sir,” said B’dank, hoping that Teadrinker would offer him one more of those delicious dried bananas.
Teadrinker, distracted, did not.
He just walked up and down his room, desperate with the torment of hope, danger and delay.
Antechamber of the Bell and Bank
The Lady Johanna Gnade was there first. She was clean, well dressed, alert. The Lord Jestocost, who followed her in, wondered if she had any personal life at all. It was bad manners, among the Chiefs of the Instrumentality, to inquire into another Chief’s personal affairs, even though the complete personal histories of each of them, kept up to the day and minute, was recorded in the computer cabinet in the corner. Jestocost knew, because he had peeped his own record, using another Chief’s name, just so that he could see whether several minor illegalities of his had been recorded; they had been, all except for the biggest one—his deal with the cat-girl C’mell—which he had successfully kept off the recording screens. (The record simply showed him having a nap at the time.) If the Lady Johanna had any secrets, she kept them well.
“My Sir and Colleague,” said she, “I suspect you of sheer inquisitiveness—a vice most commonly attributed to women.”
“When we get as old as this, my lady, the differences in character between men and women become imperceptible. If, indeed, they ever existed in the first place. You and I are bright people and we each have a good nose for danger or disturbance. Isn’t it likely we would both look up somebody with the impossible name of Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan to the hundred-and-fifty-first generation? See—I memorized all of it! Don’t you think that was rather clever of me?”
“Rather,” said she, in a tone which implied she didn’t.
“I’m expecting him this morning.”
“You are?” she asked, on a rising note which implied that there was something improper about his knowledge. “There’s nothing about it in the messages.”
“That’s it,” said the Lord Jestocost, smiling. “I arranged for Mars solar radiation to be carried two extra decimals until he left. This morning it’s back down to three decimals. That means he’s coming. Clever of me, wasn’t it?”
“Too clever,” she said. “Why ask me? I never thought you valued my opinion. Anyhow, why are you taking all these pains with the case? Why don’t you just ship him out so far that it would take him a long lifetime, even with stroon, to get back here again?”
He looked at her evenly until she flushed. He said nothing.
“My—my comment was improper, I suppose,” she stammered. “You and your sense of justice. You’re always putting the rest of us in the wrong.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said mildly, “because I am just thinking of Earth. Did you know he owns this tower?”
“Earthport?” she cried. “Impossible.”
“Not at all,” said Jestocost. “I myself sold it to his agent ten days ago. For forty megacredits FOE money. That’s more than we happen to have on Earth right now. When he deposited it, we began paying him three percent a year interest. And that wasn’t all he bought from me. I sold him that ocean too, right there, the one the ancients called Atlantic. And I sold him three hundred thousand attractive underwomen trained in various tasks, together with the dower rights of seven hundred human women of appropriate ages.”
“You mean you did all this to save the Earth treasury three megacredits a year?”
“Wouldn’t you? Remember, this is FOE money.”
She pursed her lips. Then she burst into a smile. “I never saw anyone else like you, my Lord Jestocost. You’re the fairest man I ever knew and yet you never forget a little bit more in the way of earnings!”
“That’s not the end of it,” said he with a very crafty, pleased smile. “Did you read Amended (Reversionary) Schedule 711-19-13P, which you yourself voted for eleven days ago?”
“I looked at it,” she said defensively. “We all did. It was something to do with Earth funds and Instrumentality funds. The Earth representative didn’t complain. We all passed it because we trusted you.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Frankly, not at all. Does it have anything to do with this rich old man, McBan?”
“Don’t be sure,” said the Lord Jestocost, “that he’s old. He might be young. Anyhow, the tax schedule raises taxes on kilocredits very slightly. Megacredit taxes are divided evenly between Earth and the Instrumentality, provided that the owner is not personally operating the property. It comes to one percent a month. That’s the very small type in the footnote at the bottom of the seventh page of rates.”
“You—you mean—” she gasped with laughter, “that by selling the poor man the Earth you are not only cutting him out of three percent interest a year, but you’re charging him twelve percent taxes. Blessed rockets, man, you’re weird. I love you. You’re the cleverest, most ridiculous person we ever had as a Chief of the Instrumentality!” From the Lady Johanna Gnade, this was lurid language indeed. Jestocost did not know whether to be offended or pleased.
Since she was in a rare good humor, he dared to mention his half-secret project to her.
“Do you think, my lady, that if we have all this unexpected credit, we could waste a little of our stroon imports?”
Her laugh stopped. “On what?” she said sharply.
“On the underpeople. For the best of them.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no! Not for the animals, while there are still people who suffer. You’re mad to think of it, my Lord.”
“I’m mad,” he said. “I’m mad all right. Mad—for justice. And this strikes me as simple justice. I’m not asking for equal rights. Merely for a little more justice for them.”
“They’re underpeople,” she said blankly. “They’re animals.” As though this comment settled the matter altogether.
“You never heard, did you, my lady, of the dog named Joan?” His question held a wealth of allusion.
She saw no depth in it, said flatly, “No,” and went back to studying the agenda for the day.
Ten Kilometers Below the Surface of the Earth
The old engines turned like tides. The smell of hot oil was on them. Down here there were no luxuries. Life and flesh were cheaper than transistors; besides, they had much less radiation to be detected. In the groaning depths, the hidden and forgotten underpeople lived. They thought their chief, the E’telekeli, to be magical. Sometimes he thought so himself.
His white handsome face staring like a marble bust of immortality, his crumpled wings hugged closely to him in fatigue, he called to his first-egg child, the girl E’lamelanie,
“He comes, my darling.”
“That one, father? The promised one.”
“The rich one.”
Her eyes widened. She was his daughter but she did not always understand his powers. “How do you know, father?”
“If I tell you the truth, will you agree to let me erase it from your mind right away, so there will be no danger of betrayal?”
“Of course, father.”
“No,” said the marble-faced bird-man, “you must say the right words…”
“I promise, father, that if you fill my heart with the truth, and if my joy at the truth is full, that I will yield to you my mind, my whole mind without fear, hope, or reservation, and that I will ask you to take from my mind whatever truth or parts of the truth might hurt our kind of people, in the Name of the First Forgotten One, in the Name of the Second Forg
otten One, in the Name of the Third Forgotten One, and for the sake of D’joan whom we all love and remember!”
He stood. He was a tall man. His legs ended in the enormous feet of a bird, with white talons shimmering like mother of pearl. His humanoid hands stood forth from the joints of his wings; with them he extended the prehistoric gesture of blessing over her head, while he chanted the truth in a ringing hypnotic voice.
“Let the truth be yours, my daughter, that you may be whole and happy with the truth. Knowing the truth, my daughter, know freedom and the right to forget!
“The child, my child, who was your brother, the little boy you loved…”
“Yeekasoose!” she said, her voice trance-like and childish.
“E’ikasus, whom you remember, was changed by me, his father, into the form of a small ape-man, so that the true people mistook him for an animal, not an underperson. They trained him as a surgeon and sent him to the Lord Redlady. He came with this young man McBan to Mars, where he met C’mell, whom I recommended to the Lord Jestocost for confidential errands. They are coming back with this man today. He has already bought the Earth, or most of it. Perhaps he will do us good. Do you know what you should know, my daughter?”
“Tell me, father, tell me. How do you know?”
“Remember the truth, girl, and then lose it! The messages come from Mars. We cannot touch the Big Blink or the message-coding machines, but each recorder has his own style. By a shift in the pace of his work, a friend can relay moods, emotions, ideas, and sometimes names. They have sent me words like ‘riches, monkey, small, cat, girl, everything, good’ by the pitch and speed of their recording. The human messages carry ours and no cryptographer in the world can find them.
“Now you know, and you will now now now now forget!”
He raised his hands again.
E’lamelanie looked at him normally with a happy smile. “It’s so sweet and funny, daddy, but I know I’ve just forgotten something good and wonderful!”
Ceremonially he added, “Do not forget Joan.”
Formally she responded, “I shall never forget Joan.”
THE HIGH SKY FLYING
Rod walked to the edge of the little park. This was utterly unlike any ship he had ever seen or heard about in Norstrilia. There was no noise, no cramping, no sign of weapons—just a pretty little cabin which housed the controls, the Go-Captain, the Pinlighters, and the Stop-Captain, and then a stretch of incredible green grass. He had walked on this grass from the dusty ground of Mars. There was a puff and a whisper. A false blue sky, very beautiful, covered him like a canopy.
He felt strange. He had whiskers like a cat, forty centimeters long, growing out of his upper lip, about twelve whiskers to each side. The doctor had colored his eyes with bright green irises. His ears reached up to a point. He looked like a cat-man and he wore the professional clothing of an acrobat; C’mell did too.
He had not gotten over C’mell.
She made every woman in Old North Australia look like a sack of lard. She was lean, limber, smooth, menacing and beautiful; she was soft to the touch, hard in her motions, quick, alert, and cuddlesome. Her red hair blazed with the silkiness of animal fire. She spoke with a soprano which tinkled like wild bells. Her ancestors and ancestresses had been bred to produce the most seductive girl on Earth. The task had succeeded. Even in repose, she was voluptuous. Her wide hips and sharp eyes invited the masculine passions. Her catlike dangerousness challenged every man whom she met. The true men who looked at her knew that she was a cat, and still could not keep their eyes off her. Human women treated her as though she were something disgraceful. She traveled as an acrobat, but she had already told Rod McBan confidentially that she was by profession a “girlygirl,” a female animal, shaped and trained like a person to serve as hostess to offworld visitors, required by law and custom to invite their love, while promised the penalty of death if she accepted it.
Rod liked her, though he had been painfully shy with her at first. There was no side to her, no posh, no swank. Once she got down to business, her incredible body faded part way into the background, though with the sides of his eyes he could never quite forget it. It was her mind, her intelligence, her humor and good humor, which carried them across the hours and days they spent together. He found himself trying to impress her that he was a grown man, only to discover that in the spontaneous, sincere affections of her quick cat heart she did not care in the least what his status was. He was simply her partner and they had work to do together. It was his job to stay alive and it was her job to keep him alive.
Doctor Vomact had told him not to speak to the other passengers, not to say anything to each other, and to call for silence if any of them spoke.
There were ten other passengers who stared at one another in uncomfortable amazement.
Ten in number, they were.
All ten of them were Rod McBan.
Ten identical Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBans to the one hundred and fifty-first, all exactly alike. Apart from C’mell herself and the little monkey-doctor, A’gentur, the only person on the ship who was not Rod McBan was Rod McBan himself. He had become the cat-man. The others seemed, each by himself, to be persuaded that he alone was Rod McBan and that the other nine were parodies. They watched each other with a mixture of gloom and suspicion mixed with amusement, just as the real Rod McBan would have done, had he been in their place.
“One of them,” said Doctor Vomact in parting, “is your companion Eleanor from Norstrilia. The other nine are mouse-powered robots. They’re all copied from you. Good, eh?” He could not conceal his professional satisfaction.
And now they were all about to see Earth together.
C’mell took Rod to the edge of the little world and said gently, “I want to sing ‘The Tower Song’ to you, just before we shut down on the top of Earthport.” And in her wonderful voice she sang the strange little old song,
And oh! my love, for you.
High birds crying, and a
High sky flying, and a
High wind driving, and a
High heart striving, and a
High brave place for you!
Rod felt a little funny, standing there, looking at nothing, but he also felt pleasant with the girl’s head against his shoulder and his arm enfolding her. She seemed not only to need him, but to trust him very deeply. She did not feel adult—not self-important and full of unexplained business. She was merely a girl, and for the time his girl. It was pleasant and it gave him a strange foretaste of the future.
The day might come when he would have a permanent girl of his own, facing not a day, but life, not a danger, but destiny. He hoped that he could be as relaxed and fond with that future girl as he was with C’mell.
C’mell squeezed his hand, as though in warning.
He turned to look at her but, she stared ahead and nodded with her chin.
“Keep watching,” she said, “straight ahead. Earth.”
He looked back at the blank artificial sky of the ship’s force-field. It was a monotonous but pleasant blue, conveying depths which were not really there.
The change was so fast that he wondered whether he had really seen it.
In one moment the clear flat blue.
Then the false sky splashed apart as though it had literally been slashed into enormous ribbons, ribbons in their turn becoming blue spots and disappearing.
Another blue sky was there—Earth’s.
Manhome.
Rod breathed deeply. It was hard to believe. The sky itself was not so different from the false sky which had surrounded the ship on its trip from Mars, but there was an aliveness and wetness to it, unlike any other sky he had ever heard about.
It was not the sight of the Earth which surprised him—it was the smell. He suddenly realized that Old North Australia must smell dull, flat, dusty to Earthmen. This Earth air smelled alive. There were the odors of plants, of water, of things which he could not even guess. The air was code
d with a million years of memory. In this air his people had swum to manhood, before they conquered the stars. The wetness was not the cherished damp of one of his covered canals. It was wild free moisture which came laden with the indications of things living, dying, sprawling, squirming, loving with an abundance which no Norstrilian could understand. No wonder the descriptions of Earth had always seemed fierce and exaggerated! What was stroon that men would pay water for it—water, the giver and carrier of life. This was his home, no matter how many generations his people had lived in the twisted hells of Paradise VII or the dry treasures of Old North Australia. He took a deep breath, feeling the plasma of Earth pour into him, the quick effluvium which had made man. He smelled Earth again—it would take a long lifetime, even with stroon, before a man could understand all these odors which came all the way up to the ship, which hovered, as planoforming ships usually did not, twenty-odd kilometers above the surface of the planet.
There was something strange in this air, something sweet-clear to the nostrils, refreshing to the spirit. One great beautiful odor overrode all the others. What could it be? He sniffed and then said, very clearly, to himself,
“Salt!”
C’mell reminded him that he was beside her.
“Do you like it, C’rod?”
“Yes, yes, it’s better than—” Words failed him. He looked at her. Her eager, pretty, comradely smile made him feel that she was sharing every milligram of his delight. “But why,” he asked, “do you waste salt on the air? What good does it do?”
“Salt?”
“Yes—in the air. So rich, so wet, so salty. Is it to clean the ship some way that I do not understand?”
“Ship? We’re not on the ship, C’rod. This is the landing roof of Earthport.”
He gasped.
No ship? There was not a mountain on Old North Australia more than six kilometers above MGL—mean ground level—and those mountains were all smooth, worn, old, folded by immense eons of wind into a gentle blanketing that covered his whole home world.
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