That is the trouble with those who love their organizations too dearly. In time of trouble they rely on them, and personal initiative is lost. Slyne was not alone in this. His captors were no better.
Slyne was an uncompromising poor sport, and those carrying him soon grew weary.
“He just won’t play,” they said to Abdelnoor.
After Abdelnoor had his own turn at carrying Slyne—and it would have been un-Monist for him not to have had a turn—he was forced to agree. So he made a signal and they set Slyne down on the pavement.
Abdelnoor faced Slyne severely. He wagged his finger at the wet tip of Slyne’s nose.
“I’ve never met one of your kind before—an Orthodoxou. But I’ll remember you and I’ll see that the word gets passed along. I’ve never seen such behavior. I suppose it’s only what can be expected from the Rock. I can tell you one thing, you’ll never have another chance to play. If you can’t play properly, we just don’t want you around!”
And the body of men all turned away from Slyne and showed him their backs all the way around the corner.
Slyne cocked his head and sampled the night through his amplifier. There was the overwhelming sound of bells.
He thought of tracking back to find the Trog’s trail and then the image of a despairing McBe came to him. He inhaled reflexively.
* * *
“Is it peelgrunt yet?” Villiers asked when he was brought his meal by Ozu Xenakis.
Xenakis ran a bistro and had the greens concession in Delbalso. He charged small fees for use of the green and gardens by singles, couples, and. parties, and his bistro profits paid for the rest. His windows overlooked the green, making his place an easy one for custom to retire to in bad weather, and in good weather the view was pleasant. Even now, in artificial light, it was live and inviting. In addition, as the only spot on Delbalso with an off-world flavor—for Xenakis had spent the first twenty-four years of his life on Luvashe and Posada—his Centre was a popular spot for travelers and transients, and the only place on Delbalso mentioned by Wu and Fabricant. It was the place that Lady Oliphaunt had set for her appointment with Villiers—the only place in town fit for an appointment.
Xenakis himself was a good-natured man with overlarge teeth and a ready willingness to talk with anyone on his own subject. He sometimes wondered if the teeth were bad for business and considered having them altered.
“Oh, it’s not yet peelgrunt,” he said. “When it is, you’ll know, right enough. This is the best spot in Delbalso, on Delbalso, for peelgrunt.”
While Villiers was eating, content for the moment with his book posted and peelgrunt still ahead, two men entered the bistro. It was obvious from their manner that they were no more from Delbalso than Xenakis or Villiers. They sat down and ordered. They seemed at odds with the world, finding it duller than they liked.
They were Civilian Research Specialists imported to Delbalso by the Imperial Government to make subtle star sightings and assessments on behalf of the Universal Pantograph Project. This great machine, when completed, it was hoped would model the universe with sufficient exactitude that anticipations might be made. Nashua’s offices were filled with humble men anxious to use any tool that came to hand to further the Empire and Good, and already drooling in anticipation of the Universal Pantograph.
These two men were not power brokers, however. They merely did simple jobs and were paid for them, and the eventual results of their work were distant enough to lack immediacy for them.
One said, “Let’s go back to the Castle.” He looked around the room, empty but for Villiers and Xenakis. “Nothing at all is doing tonight.”
“Let’s look a little longer,” the other said. “It will be weeks before we have another night.”
“Where is everyone?” the first asked. “The only people we saw were some older men running around in red shorts.”
“Oh, those would be from Montague House,” said Xenakis. “It’s the Monist Association’s Xochitl Sodality tonight. Things tend to be quiet on a Sodality night, unless they let you play. Most people stay at home. As you can see, I’m working alone.”
“Monists? Oh, Monists, yes. They’re the ones who put over those Winter-Summer Laws, aren’t they?” one of them said.
And the other said, “They asked us if we were Wonders and Marvels. We said we were just plain us, and they told us to go back to the Rock.”
“They meant the Castle,” said Xenakis. “It’s just a way of speaking they have here.”
He said it gently. He didn’t know what he thought until he said it, and what he said depended in major on who his trade was. A good diplomatic publican and a good man, by his lights.
And the first said to the second, “I told you that you shouldn’t have said we were just us. You should have dressed us up a bit. If you’d told them we were pantographers, maybe they wouldn’t have sent us away.”
Xenakis said, “Well, maybe you can try again later. They’ll be playing all night. The Monists aren’t really so bad when you get to know them. They weren’t really behind the Winter-Summer Laws. That was just a story that was given out. The truth is that the town wanted to get rid of Viscount Semichastny, who lives here in the summer and throws extreme parties. When he’s gone, they’ll change things back in a year or two.”
“Oh, yes,” said the first pantographer. “Lord Semichastny. I heard about him, too.”
“He sold me the sod for the greens out there,” Xenakis said, pointing. “I’ve talked to him several times. He’s really not so bad, either. Not at heart.”
* * *
Harbourne Firnhaber came to the early conclusion that his noble new-found cousin was right in one regard. There were few people on the streets.
He had made the mistake of anticipating the town and the task, and neither proved to be what he had pictured. All too often we mistake our own habits, interests, and ambitions for universal facts, not realizing that there are one or two families that do not sit down to Sunday dinner at three. Harbourne had thought that since there was nothing that he would have liked better in his planet-bound days than to be invited to a viscount’s party, he would have no trouble in filling Lord Semichastny’s maison with louts and gawkers. But just as Lord Charteris had said, the night and streets were empty.
Harbourne had left his cousin in an empty bistro and begun to walk. And he saw no one, not even the Xochitl Sodality of whom Charteris had warned him. As time passed, his anticipations curdled and he began to suspect that he had made a bad bargain.
He stopped in the street and looked about him. In the black heights he could hear bells. They sounded in better spirits than he and played a tune.
He looked at the houses about him and wondered whether he ought to start knocking at one door and the next. In the face of empty streets, it was the next step to take, but he wasn’t prompt to take it. Lord Semichastny had been right. These were people the like of which he no longer knew and no longer cared to know.
He might be capable of knocking and asking if he had to. He rather thought he was. But he didn’t relish the idea.
And then he saw a man ahead of him on the street. It was a man of a dignified age wearing a white mantle with a blue fringe.
Harbourne almost broke into a run, but managed to control himself. He walked toward the man and when they came together he said, “Good even, sir.” At least the man was clean.
“Good evening,” the man said with manners, if not manner. It was Ossian Chimmeroon.
Harbourne presented his proposition. He found that once begun, the words were not difficult.
He introduced himself and extended an invitation to a party on behalf of Lord Geoffrey Semichastny. As he put it, it sounded like splendid fun.
“Lord Semichastny feels that he has neglected his Delbalso neighbors and desires this chance to entertain them, as well as give them the opportunity of meeting Sir Henry Oliphaunt, the new Empire Administrator.”
Chimmeroon said, “Not in these clothes.”
“Lord Semichastny wishes to present the informal atmosphere of Delbalso—the better to put Sir Henry at ease. He said ‘come-as-you-are.’ ”
“Oh, no,” said Chimmeroon. “I just threw this on when we set out to look for Badrian Beaufils. Are you sure you mean Lord Semichastny?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.”
“And the Empire Administrator?”
“In company with his lady.”
“And a party.”
“It’s all true,” said Harbourne. “Isn’t it just like a dream?”
”Yes. It’s been a long night. But I can’t go,” Chimmeroon said definitely. “I still must find Badrian Beaufils. Tell me, Friend Harcourt . . .”
”Harbourne.”
“Have you seen a group of men of an age somewhat younger than mine, all dressed in blue, and some with hats and feathers?”
“No,” said Harbourne. “Have you seen anyone at all?”
* * *
Between the dark and the daylight on the planet of Delbalso, when the night is beginning to bore, there comes a pause in the night’s occupations when solitary peels, ordinarily content to cling torpidly to their tree branches, carefully unwrap themselves and slide to the ground for a convivial stretch. The signal for movement is a heavy grunt from the least peel, a complaint of muscles too long cramped, answered by a chorus of confirming grunts from the neighboring branches, and then echoed in all the trees surrounding. The air is filled with common complaint and common decision. The break is brief, and when their stretch is done, the peels wind their way back to a new branch and a symbiotic slumber that lasts until dawn.
Villiers left the Centre at peelgrunt. The peels in the park around the town green were honored, admired and pampered, and in the green itself they were presented with a beautiful spot to foregather. In return, they were expected to grunt lustily, which I am pleased to say they did.
Xenakis said, “There’s your peelgrunt. From the sound I’d say it will be good weather tonight, clear until morning. If you’ll go to the windows, in a minute or two you will see the peels beginning to foregather.”
“Thank you,” said Villiers, rising, “but I must be on my way. I’ll catch a look from the street.”
“It’s not the same,” said Xenakis. “Not the same at all. We have the best view of the green right here. The Xochitl Sodality will be playing Wonders and Marvels there later tonight. Most local people—those that aren’t Monists—tend to see it as common, but I enjoy watching it. I recommend it to you.”
“I may take your recommendation,” said Villiers. “Indeed I had some notion of a look at the Xochitl Sodality.”
As Villiers left, Xenakis and the pantographers were standing at the window and chuckling down at the gathering peels. Villiers took the front steps down to the cobble street and then turned right. He did take his promised look at the peels. However, Xenakis had been right. The view was inferior. Bits and pieces only of the green could be seen through the deliberate distractions of the trees, and of the peels Villiers could have said little but that they were like black and brown wriggling fur boas. Villiers did not pause with his look, but set off up the hill toward Parini’s, condemned to business in others’ playtime.
The street climbed the hill in steps. Villiers was on the second flight when he heard one of his names called. It was “Lord Charteris”—and while that choice of name did not announce the caller, it did limit him to the lesser part of Villiers’ acquaintance.
He turned. “Ah, Mr. Slyne. It is a pleasant evening for exercise.”
Slyne hurried up. He said, “These people just don’t have any idea of proper respect for the Empire. I intend to speak to the new Administrator. Have you seen my assistant, Mr. McBe? They took me away from him. He was the young man who questioned your papers. Oh. I’m so agitated.”
He removed his sensory amplifier to calm himself. Sensory amplifiers are useful, particularly to Orthodoxous, but they are a doubtful thing for an upset mind.
“I remember him,” said Villiers. “However, I haven’t seen him since I left Castle Rock.”
“Oh, I’m worried,” said Slyne. “We were separated by circumstance and now he is alone in the night. Did you hear that series of roars?”
“Peelgrunt, perhaps?”
Slyne considered what his roars might have been without benefit of the night, his state of mind and his amplifier.
“They might have been grunts. But it must have unnerved him. He lacks confidence. I noted that tonight and I was attempting to strengthen his resolve. You must remember. You saw me.”
“I do remember,” said Villiers.
On the heights of Castle Rock another ship landed. From where they stood, the green was not visible, but its lights were. There were lights in scatterings through the town and then the great solid massif standing above the opposite slope, big and black and lit by lightning, soundless lightning. Soundless ship. No growl of energy. The ship descended in silent display and the only sound that Villiers could hear was the sound of Christian bells.
Slyne fitted his amplifier over his head the better to consider the ship. He still could not hear it, though his view of it was substantially improved. However, the bells were amplified sufficiently to cause him extreme agitation, so he removed the amplifier again.
“I keep having to take it off,” he said. “I’m so disturbed. I can’t concentrate. Why does the ship make no sound? Why do the bells ring?”
Villiers said, “I believe the neighborhood has acoustical advantages which are reflected in the rents. The bells ring in Christian celebration.”
“It’s strange. It’s strange,” said Slyne. “I’ve never been in a place like this before. What can’t happen to me?”
He meant to say “McBe” but he said “me.” It shocked him, because he considered himself safe and stable and in control. It was his fortune that he had never been on Livermore, far more disconcerting than Delbalso.
He took himself in hand to hear Villiers say, “Perhaps being separated from you will be the very making of him, sir. He may discover that he has resources.”
”Oh, he’s not ready,” said Slyne. “I only realize it now. We were close behind that Trog, ready to take him in hand and properly examine his papers. You remember the Trog.”
”I do remember.”
”You haven’t seen him again, have you?”
”No,” said Villiers. “Not since I departed Castle Rock.”
“We were very close to the Trog when another ship landed. Then it was bells. Then we fell into the hands of Monists. Them,” he said bleakly.
And he was right. They were in the process of being surrounded by a band in yellow. Monists, to be sure. And Schermerhorn House. And . . .
“Rafael Abdelnoor, at your service.” Abdelnoor swept off his hat. Only then did he recognize Slyne, and he sighed and turned to Villiers and put his hat back on.
“I’m not playing,” said Slyne.
“I know that you are not,” said Abdelnoor. “Sir, are you?”
“Of course,” said Villiers.
“Then I should inform you that you have been chosen our official Marvel for the night. Please come along.”
“You wish me to be your Marvel? I’m sure you must be able to do better.”
“True,” said Abdelnoor. “But it’s growing late. Sometimes we must make do.”
8
The amoeba only knows as much of the universe as it can touch, and its direct image of the world is necessarily incomplete. But generation to generation the amoeba remembers what it has touched, and builds and builds its picture.
We know at first hand a bountiful universe beyond the amoeba’s dreams. We are the amoeba’s dreams, the result of its striving to know more of the universe. And generation to generation, we remember what we have touched, and build and build our picture.
When man first started counting, he thought he had five senses: hearing, sight, taste, smell, and touch. On a recount he discovered that subsumed under
touch were at least three senses, separate and distinct—pressure, temperature, and texture—and that subsumed under taste were at least two.
He kept counting, and added the vestibular and kinesthetic senses. And the so-called Synesthetic Gearbox, which added confusion to sense.
One count totaled twenty-six, and another thirty-two. The definitive study by DeJudicibus in 1107 listed seventeen common human senses, from sight and smell to esthetics and self-awareness, and twenty more senses as rare, indistinct, or only rumored.
The seventeen basic senses appear in every combination and degree in humans, the variance accounting for so many of our everyday differences in opinion. Any one sense may be strengthened to impressive limits by attention, experience and practice. But even all seventeen senses at their limit yield an imperfect picture of the universe. Subtle harmonies lie beyond our detection. The stars sing songs no man has ever heard.
However, if man doesn’t hear the songs the stars sing, there are those that do. The Bessain, for instance, have been engaged in an eon-long conversation with their star to claimed mutual benefit.
And we have our strengths. Our senses are more than receptors. They acknowledge the presence of other sensitive concentrations of energy. Without sight—and our appreciation—the stars would not shine.
The Bessain report their star is delighted that its theoretical efforts are appreciated. So ask not for whom the stars shine. They shine for thee, and they are glad to do it.
* * *
Harbourne Firnhaber was a convinced Realist. He believed so strongly that words were things that he expected to feel significantly different and better on that day on which he somehow fulfilled his ambition and came into possession of a title. And it was as a Realist, cowed by the size and shape of the word “Monist,” that he stood outside Joralemon House nerving himself to knock. It was the single-minded unity of the word that he believed and feared. He felt dwarfed by it.
After a time, however, his ambitions got the better of his disquiet, and he tested the door. He sounded it twice, with every evidence of firm conviction.
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