Jean-Paul licked his lips. I could see his face more clearly now. He was sweating.
"Who knows how to build more food machines?"
"Prof could work it out." (Could he? Maybe, maybe not.)
"The Godmind wouldn't like it."
"The Godmind's planning to murder everybody sooner or later. It told me so! If the last two ships can't fly, maybe it'll have to think twice."
"It'll send more shuttles full of Paxmen to the Moon to quell us."
"So then you can bum them out of the sky. There are laser- zappers for shooting down stray rocks. Prof can fix them so that they'll shoot shuttles too. He'll have time enough. The Godmind will be in a right old state of shock and sorrow when all its lovely blooms get blown away." (Would it be? Maybe.)
"Just what are you proposing, Yaleen?"
I told him, and he whistled long and low.
"You do understand what'll happen to you?"
"All too well. I saw Max vacuumed, remember?"
"Okay. Rather you than me." Jean-Paul pocketed the fuel-ball. In its place he produced a thin stick resembling a pencil. "You came here to blast rock supposedly, so you'd better blast some. Crawl in as deep as you can, stick this in some crack then snap it where the wire's wrapped round. You'll have three minutes to get clear. If you're stuck I'll haul you out by the heels. Oh . . . but first of all hand over those other fuel-balls."
"Right." I surrendered them promptly.
A few minutes later we were both safely outside the crevice. I'd got out without having to be hauled. The blasting stick went krump, and dust gushed out.
"So!"
I was grabbed by the hair. I dropped a plate, which smashed on the rock. My head was twisted round—to face Kalima.
I gritted my teeth. "Shut up!" I hissed. "Or you'll spoil things. If you do, Jean-Paul'll expel you."
"You got me into trouble, over your precious Prof." Kalima did look a bit bruised. "Me, his secretary!"
"He'll get over it. Play your cards sensibly and you'll be queen— of a lot more space."
"Do leave her be," said Tessa. "Surely there's no reason to be jealous of Yaleen? Bit on the small side, isn't she?"
"You caused me a spot of unpleasantness." Kalima touched a purple patch on the dark skin of her cheek. But her other hand did relax its grip.
"A beating a day keeps the Paxmen at bay," said I. "Jean-Paul will change, afterwards. He'll become gentler."
"He'd better not!"
"Oh, you like that sort of thing, do you? How screwed up can you get! You ought to be thanking me, then!"
"What I meant, Yaleen, is that if all goes well—with the venture— people will wish to relax, and that would be dangerous. Jean-Paul will have to carry on bossing them. But how?"
"He'll need a subtle diplomat at his side. You, Kalima, eh? Better start being subtle. Get some practice in now."
She looked daggers, only for a moment. She controlled herself. She even managed a smile. "Yes, you're right. Jean-Paul admires you, Yaleen. I mustn't resent that, must I? Because you're no competition."
"Exactly what I said," muttered Tessa.
"Especially not afterwards."
Tessa raised a quizzical eyebrow. I hadn't told Tessa the plan. Kalima obviously knew it, though.
"Afterwards?" said Tessa. "After vohat?"
"After Yaleen here—"
"Be quiet!" I snapped. "Be quiet."
And Kalima indeed was quiet. She nodded thoughtfully. Before departing she actually stroked my hair, smoothing the yanked strands back into place.
Prof turned up to work nearby with light duties only. Bernardino, also. Jean-Paul was discreetly assembling his team for the aftermath of the Plan. Just as I'd recommended.
Meanwhile I continued to be escorted to Rosaluna by Pedro Dot, to learn how to judge the finest rose show in the universe.
I felt quite jolly about the way things were proceeding, so I fairly threw myself into rose appreciation, much to Pedro's satisfaction.
One day I had another interview with the Godmind, who was suddenly bothered as to whether my famous intuition mightn't prejudice me when it came to deciding upon the champion rose. I mustn't on any account try to foreguess the winner. That would be a lazy short cut. I must put my wild talent on one side—that wouldn't be difficult!—and abide solely by the rules of the game of roses.
I promised faithfully so to abide.
One thing which amused me almightily was that two new varieties of rose recently bred by the Godmind and for which it had high hopes had been given the names of Bombe Glacee and Bombe Surprise. Both of these were fine white roses, with Iceberg somewhere in their parentage. Both boasted high-centred inner cones and the insides of the petals were neatly striped: nearly blue in the case of Glacee, crimson in the case of Surprise. These two "bombe" roses were named after ice cream puddings. "Surprise Bomb": there's my baby! I thought.
Prof dropped by one evening, to confirm in a whisper that he had put together what he insisted on calling an "infernal device", using the rock-blasting pencils as detonators for the fuel-balls.
That was a relief. I hadn't been entirely sure that he could make a bomb even if he put his mind to it. Unlike Luigi.
"It should work okay," he said. "I scraped a tiny flake off one ball and got it to flare wildly. It's just a matter of concentrating and maximizing the bang." He pulled a flat can of fish—sardines—out of his pocket. "A present for you. Same size, same weight. Try it out."
"Shall I toss it high in the air, as if in glee?"
"Better not. The Paxmen might think you were trying to knock out one of their glass eyes. Just get used to it. Imagine chucking it."
I passed the can from hand to hand a few times, weighing it.
"Even with a kid's strength behind it, it'll hurl high enough here on the Moon," he murmured. "It'll go the distance. I'll stick a tuna label round the real thing, so you won't get your cans mixed up." (A tuna is another kind of Earth fish.) "Before you throw the real one, you should shake it roughly. The instant it stops going up and starts descending, it'll explode."
"We hope."
"We shouldn't have any trouble hot-wiring the tube trains. But we won't be able to recover any, um, bodies. From that garden, I mean."
"That doesn't bother me. This is only my second-best body."
"I'll deliver the tuna the day before the show."
"Oh no you won't. What if they change the day? I want my bombe with me up my sleeve the whole time from now on. And will you get me some more sardine cans too? I'll take one to work with me from time to time. I'll produce it out of my sleeve, rip the tab off and eat the fish for lunch. Pedro'll get used to seeing me with a can of fish. Just now and then, though. So he doesn't wonder if I've cornered the market."
"I'll ask Jean-Paul."
"No. You'll tell him."
The day of the show was drawing closer when something new cropped up. Another spaceship-load of exiles arrived.
Pedro was late collecting me that morning, so I had time to spot Jean-Paul and his bearded brigade toiling up the grand staircase. Shortly after, Kalima stopped by and murmured, "Paxman told the boss to get upstairs. There's a new batch due in an hour or three."
"Don't they know the exact time a ship's due?"
"Paxmen do, but if they told Jean-Paul that would be convenient, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, and he wouldn't be in such a bad mood by the time the new lot arrive "
"He isn't in a very jovial mood right now." And she told me how the impending arrival had thrown Jean-Paul's resolve somewhat. True, one last seedship was still scheduled to be built and stocked with snipped, sliced rebel-flesh. But surely there was enough rebel- flesh on the Moon already? Why continue sending people into exile if the idea was to close down Hell in another two or three years? Maybe the status quo was safer, after all? Maybe it would be better to wait.
"I shall work on him," she promised. "I'll keep him staunch and courageous, never fear! There's only one golden opportunity
: yours." She reached out and stroked my head. "Yet who am I to tell you not to fear?" She was really behaving far more nicely.
"So long as my little plan works," I reminded her. "Don't count too many chickens."
"If it does work, then you'll go to the bosom of the Godmind, won't you? The Godmind isn't going to be very fond of you. Maybe this Hell will be nothing compared with a Hell in the Godmind's heart."
"I'll go where?"
"If it's true about the bosom of the Godmind- . . ."
Of course! She didn't know that I had a lifeline (or rather deathline) stretching way back to the Art-store of the black current . . . Assuming that I did still have.
"That's just a rumour, Kalima. I don't believe it. In fact I'm sure it's a lie."
"Let's hope you're right, for your sake."
Oh, I was right, and no mistaking. Final proof: if the Godmind could operate a /T«-store it wouldn't have needed to reincarnate us all as cherubs, to keep tabs on the fortunes of its colonies. Though admittedly cherubs were a neat way of keeping old Earth from dying of boredom . . .
"I assure you, Kalima, anything's better than spending the rest of my days locked up in a pod eating shit!"
"Which reminds me, I'd better rush. I have to tidy our pod. Jean- Paul messed it up a bit this morning."
"Wait: ask him if there's anyone called Luigi among the new arrivals. Luigi, or Patrizia. They understand . . . you-know-what."
"Will do."
I watched her go, then for a while I stared across this disgusting slave-pit buried in the Moon. I realized that I was becoming very homesick: for Pecawar and Spanglestream, for Aladalia and Verrino. Then I saw Pedro striding my way and hurried to meet him.
Neither Luigi nor Patrizia were amongst the new intake. Tessa passed the message on that evening after I got "home" from a hard day's rose appreciation.
Tessa told me that Jean-Paul had spent hours up at the top of Hell with his men before the new people stepped through the door. When he came back down to his cave he looked boiling and furious. But Kalima must have worked on him (or under him) well. The next time Tessa saw Jean-Paul outside the cave, he looked loose and easy. Kalima had stopped by later on, unbruised, to pass the news: no Luigi, no Patrizia.
Why did I want them, anyway? Luigi had only been involved in making fire-bombs, which might just have been wine bottles refilled with oil with a wick stuck in them. Or something of the sort. Besides, both he and Patrizia had acted irresponsibly without regard for the innocent or even for old comrades. We could do without them. Anyway it was too late to involve confused new Moon-virgins in the plan. The Event was nigh. Event with a big "E": for explosion, which I hoped would also be big.
On the great day of the rose show Pedro Dot collected me as ever, and we rode to Rosaluna. By now I was so accustomed to carrying that phony tuna can up my sleeve that for one ghastly moment on the tube-train I thought the bombe wasn't there! A quick squeeze reassured me.
When we arrived at the garden, Pedro stuck close by; much closer than usual. When I tried to hang back at the top of the brick stairway, where I was closest to the sky, he draped a comforting arm around me. This effectively scuppered any chance of tossing the can then and there at the very outset.
He couldn't imagine, could he, that the prospect of being supreme rose judge of the cosmos awed me? Or that I was daunted by the massed phalanx of Paxmen awaiting me below? Oh yes: all one hundred and fifty-two of them (minus Pedro)—or what looked like that many—were drawn up to attention in two long columns lining the avenue between the foot of the stairs and the Godmind's gazebo. The rose show was the event of the lunar year: the big treat, not to be missed. Attendance compulsory. Every twenty spans or so on either side stood a Paxman. Faced with such an assembly, how could I possibly haul out a can of tuna for a supposed quick tuck-in?
"It's okay," I muttered. But Pedro officiously led me all the way down the stairs betwixt white trusses into the dappled sunlight. (It was daytime again on the Moon.) Never mind—maybe the false sky was more vulnerable in the middle than round the edges. Maybe it was thinner there.
Each Paxman I passed wore a tiny vermilion rose in the buttonhole of his sky-blue tunic; and I had no difficulty in identifying this as Starina, queen of the miniatures. I felt tawdry beside these immaculate troopers. I was wearing the same old soutane as ever; and as we advanced at a slow and stately pace through their ranks I panicked a bit in case I might be asked to slip into something more elegant. Something without big sleeves.
Sensing my flutter, Pedro hugged me even closer.
"It's okay!" I shook myself brusquely to disengage him. He finally got the message and I stepped out ahead, leaving Pedro a pace behind. Meanwhile the Paxmen fell in behind two by two, as escort.
The entire area around the gazebo was crowded with benches loaded with vases, bowls and boxes of cut blooms. I halted, and tried to look snooty.
"Welcome!" the Godmind's voice boomed out. "Welcome to the annual universal rose show. As judge this year we are privileged to welcome the cherub Yaleen. . . ."
The Paxmen crowding the end of the avenue applauded.
"... who will open our show officially, then select the category winners, and finally choose the supreme champion rose!"
"So what do I do now?" I muttered to Pedro, who was breathing down my neck.
"You should make a little speech from the gazebo steps. A few words will do. Then declare the show open."
"Right. I can handle it. You stay here." He did.
I mounted the steps. I turned and confronted my audience: of Paxman faces and of roses. I was on my own at last.
This, of course, was the right time. There mightn't be another.
I swallowed. I nudged the can in my sleeve.
Why not make a little speech? I wouldn't want the Godmind to think I'd rather blow myself up than say a few words.
"Godmind . . . and Gentlemen," I called out. "And when I say 'gentlemen', what gentle men you are indeed! Such preservers of peace—and of course Peace is a beautiful rose, is it not? And what a mind our Godmind has, to breed such beauty amidst all his other cosmic duties!"
More applause. This was going down quite well.
I held my hand up modestly for silence. "I have here a golden ring to present to the grand champion rose of my choice: the prime rose of the Earth and the Moon, the best rose in all the galaxy.
"But first, by way of appreciation of the honour done me, here's a little personal trophy of my own."
I yanked out the can of tuna, shook it violently, flexed my knees, and leapt—sending the can soaring skywards.
"Sucks to you, Godmind!" I shouted.
I had a few seconds left in which to reflect that vandalism was getting to be a way of life. First the Basilica of San Marco; now the premier rose garden in the galaxy.
I didn't look up to follow the progress of the can. Most of my audience did.
Then the bomb exploded.
Oh indeed. Shock and heat beat down, sending me sprawling back inside the pergola, though the roof had sheltered me from the worst of the blast.
Tough as they were, many of the Paxmen sagged. A lot of them were clutching their eyes. Petals rained off roses by the thousand. The show tables were particularly devastated.
I rolled to where I could peek out and up. Globs of cloud-ichor were oozing from a shattered sky.
With a ripping thunderous crack, the upper layer of the sky also parted.
It seemed then, when all the air howled out into the void, that the garden itself screamed. Leaves, flowers, branches from all over, all the cut blooms and even small bushes flew upward.
Along with the air from my lungs. Along with the heat from my body. Along with sound itself. Oh the lancing pain of my eardrums bursting! (But that was the least of it.) Oh the sudden empty silence!
For a while—which seemed too long to me—my body was flopping and clawing for life where there was nothing to sustain life. Like Max, when Jean-Paul had ejected him, I was
hollowed out inside; and the hollow collapsed into itself, all my inner surfaces sticking together.
Stars burst behind my eyes. I tasted blood which froze.
Okay, Worm! I screamed within me—no other place left to scream than in my bursting skull. Do your stuff! I'm counting on you!
Part Four
Narya’s Narrative
Thank goodness, I was dead!
Once more I was in the blue void. Once more I was spinning, bodiless. With a difference this time: no storm was disturbing the weather of Ka-space.
I quickly became aware of a huge number of cords, of hawsers, converging from all over upon some place nearby. Upon Eeden, centre of the web of the psylink.
Myself, I felt no urge to fly there. Indeed I felt that I couldn't even if I wanted to. I wasn't riding back to Earth from a far world like a bead on a string; on the contrary a thin string stretched away from me to some far elsewhere. And besides, I was twice-dead.
If it weren't for my deathline, where would I go? I searched for clues.
The psylink extended through Ka-space; but did Ka-space itself have any pattern or texture? Any directions, any destinations?
I concentrated on this. After a while—which might have been a short while, or quite a long while—I began to grasp something of the essence of the blue void which was Ka-space.
My first impression was of timelessness. There seemed to be no way to measure any activity. Maybe a moment lasted for an aeon. Or maybe an aeon of events could be packed into a moment.
Yet that wasn't quite it.
Rather, it seemed as though time was bubbling up within this timelessness. The void simmered. Pockets of time occurred, expanded, vanished again. Bubbles fluctuated in and out of eternity, as if the void was breathing them in and out. Each of these bubbles could be an age, or no time at all; or both.
I strained to understand this.
Here was nothing; here was no-time. Yet something was occurring. Here in X«-space, as in a river, floated the keel of the universe —of that I felt sure. And what shaped the keel, what caused its existence, what measured its progress was this bubbling up of time, this flow of the current of the void.
Watson, Ian - Black Current 02 Page 15