Since Jestocost was a little late, C’mell was being brought into the room as he glanced over the minutes.
The Lord Not-from-here asked Jestocost if he would preside.
“I beg you, Sir and Scholar,” he said, “to join me in asking the Lord Issan to preside this time.”
The presidency was a formality. Jestocost could watch the Bell and Bank better if he did not have to chair the meeting too.
C’mell wore the clothing of a prisoner. On her it looked good. He had never seen her wearing anything but girlygirl clothes before. The pale-blue prison tunic made her look very young, very human, very tender, and very frightened. The cat family showed only in the fiery cascade of her hair and the lithe power of her body as she sat, demure and erect.
Lord Issan asked her: “You have confessed. Confess again.”
“This man,” and she pointed at a picture of the Twilight Prince, “wanted to go to the place where they torment human children for a show.”
“What!” cried three of the Lords together.
“What place?” said the Lady Johanna, who was bitterly in favor of kindness.
“It’s run by a man who looks like this gentleman here,” said C’mell, pointing at Jestocost. Quickly, so that nobody could stop her, but modestly, so that none of them thought to doubt her, she circled the room and touched Jestocost’s shoulder. He felt a thrill of contact-telepathy and heard bird-cackle in her brain. Then he knew that the E’telekeli was in touch with her.
“The man who has the place,” said C’mell, “is five pounds lighter than this gentleman, two inches shorter, and he has red hair. His place is at the Cold Sunset corner of Earthport, down the boulevard and under the boulevard. Underpeople, some of them with bad reputations, live in that neighborhood.”
The Bell went milky, flashing through hundreds of combinations of bad underpeople in that part of the city. Jestocost felt himself staring at the casual milkiness with unwanted concentration.
The Bell cleared.
It showed the vague image of a room in which children were playing Hallowe’en tricks.
The Lady Johanna laughed, “Those aren’t people. They’re robots. It’s just a dull old play.”
“Then,” added C’mell, “he wanted a dollar and a shilling to take home. Real ones. There was a robot who had found some.”
“What are those?” said Lord Issan.
“Ancient money—the real money of old America and old Australia,” cried Lord William. “I have copies, but there are no originals outside the state museum.” He was an ardent, passionate collector of coins.
“The robot found them in an old hiding place right under Earthport.”
Lord William almost shouted at the Bell. “Run through every hiding place and get me that money.”
The Bell clouded. In finding the bad neighborhoods it had flashed every police point in the north-west sector of the tower. Now it scanned all the police points under the tower, and ran dizzily through thousands of combinations before it settled on an old toolroom. A robot was polishing circular pieces of metal.
When Lord William saw the polishing, he was furious. “Get that here,” he shouted. “I want to buy those myself!”
“All right,” said Lord Issan. “It’s a little irregular, but all right.”
The machine showed the key search devices and brought the robot to the escalator.
The Lord Issan said, “This isn’t much of a case.”
C’mell sniveled. She was a good actress. “Then he wanted me to get a homunculus egg. One of the E-type, derived from birds, for him to take home.”
Issan put on the search device.
“Maybe,” said C’mell, “somebody has already put it in the disposal series.”
The Bell and Bank ran through all the disposal devices at high speed. Jestocost felt his nerves go on edge. No human being could have memorized these thousands of patterns as they flashed across the Bell too fast for human eyes, but the brain reading the Bell through his eyes was not human. It might even be locked into a computer of its own. It was, thought Jestocost, an indignity for a lord of the Instrumentality to be used as a human spy-glass.
The machine blotted up.
“You’re a fraud,” cried the Lord Issan. “There’s no evidence.”
“Maybe the offworlder tried,” said the Lady Johanna.
“Shadow him,” said Lord William. “If he would steal ancient coins he would steal anything.”
The Lady Johanna turned to C’mell. “You’re a silly thing. You have wasted our time and you have kept us from serious interworld business.”
“It is interworld business,” wept C’mell. She let her hand slip from Jestocost’s shoulder, where it had rested all the time. The body-to-body relay broke and the telepathic link broke with it.
“We should judge that,” said Lord Issan.
“You might have been punished,” said Lady Johanna.
The Lord Jestocost had said nothing, but there was a glow of happiness in him. If the E’telekeli was half as good as he seemed, the underpeople had a list of checkpoints and escape routes which would make it easier to hide from the capricious sentence of painless death which human authorities meted out.
-5-
There was singing in the corridors that night.
Underpeople burst into happiness for no visible reason.
C’mell danced a wild cat dance for the next customer who came in from outworld stations, that very evening. When she got home to bed, she knelt before the picture of her father C’mackintosh and thanked the E’telekeli for what Jestocost had done.
But the story became known a few generations later, when the Lord Jestocost had won acclaim for being the champion of the underpeople and when the authorities, still unaware of E’telekeli, accepted the elected representatives of the underpeople as negotiators for better terms of life; and C’mell had died long since.
She had first had a long, good life.
She became a female chef when she was too old to be a girlygirl. Her food was famous. Jestocost once visited her. At the end of the meal he had asked, “There’s a silly rhyme among the underpeople. No human beings know it except me.”
“I don’t care about rhymes,” she said.
“This is called ‘The what-she-did.’”
C’mell blushed all the way down to the neckline of her capacious blouse. She had filled out a lot in middle age. Running the restaurant had helped.
“Oh, that rhyme!” she said. “It’s silly.”
“It says you were in love with a hominid.”
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.” Her green eyes, as beautiful as ever, stared deeply into his. Jestocost felt uncomfortable. This was getting personal. He liked political relationships; personal things made him uncomfortable.
The light in the room shifted and her cat eyes blazed at him, she looked like the magical fire-haired girl he had known.
“I wasn’t in love. You couldn’t call it that …”
Her heart cried out, It was you, it was you, it was you.
“But the rhyme,” insisted Jestocost, “says it was a hominid. It wasn’t that Prins van de Schemering?”
“Who was he?” C’mell asked the question quietly, but her emotions cried out, Darling, will you never, never know?
“The strong man.”
“Oh, him. I’ve forgotten him.”
Jestocost rose from the table. “You’ve had a good life, C’mell. You’ve been a citizen, a committeewoman, a leader. And do you even know how many children you have had?”
“Seventy-three,” she snapped at him. “Just because they’re multiple doesn’t mean we don’t know them.”
His playfulness left him. His face was grave, his voice kindly. “I meant no harm, C’mell.”
He never knew that when he left she went back to the kitchen and cried for a while. It was Jestocost whom she had vainly loved ever since they had been comrades, many long years ago.
Even after she died, at the full age of
five-score and three, he kept seeing her about the corridors and shafts of Earthport. Many of her great-granddaughters looked just like her and several of them practiced the girlygirl business with huge success.
They were not half-slaves. They were citizens (reserved grade) and they had photopasses which protected their property, their identity, and their rights. Jestocost was the godfather to them all; he was often embarrassed when the most voluptuous creatures in the universe threw playful kisses at him. All he asked was fulfillment of his political passions, not his personal ones. He had always been in love, madly in love—
With justice itself.
At last, his own time came, and he knew that he was dying, and he was not sorry. He had had a wife, hundreds of years ago, and had loved her well; their children had passed into the generations of man.
In the ending, he wanted to know something, and he called to a nameless one (or to his successor) far beneath the ground. He called with his mind till it was a scream.
I have helped your people.
“Yes,” came back the faintest of faraway whispers, inside his head.
I am dying. I must know. Did she love me?
“She went on without you, so much did she love you. She let you go, for your sake, not for hers. She really loved you. More than death. More than life. More than time. You will never be apart.”
Never apart?
“Not, not in the memory of man,” said the voice, and was then still.
Jestocost lay back on his pillow and waited for the day to end.
NORSTRILIA
THEME AND PROLOGUE
STORY, place and time—these are the essentials.
-1-
The story is simple. There was a boy who bought the planet Earth. We know that, to our cost. It only happened once, and we have taken pains that it will never happen again. He came to Earth, got what he wanted, and got away alive, in a series of very remarkable adventures. That’s the story.
-2-
The place? That’s Old North Australia. What other place could it be? Where else do the farmers pay ten million credits for a handkerchief, five for a bottle of beer? Where else do people lead peaceful lives, untouched by militarism, on a world which is booby-trapped with death and things worse than death. Old North Australia has stroon—the santaclara drug—and more than a thousand other planets clamor for it. But you can get stroon only from Norstrilia—that’s what they call it, for short—because it is a virus which grows on enormous, gigantic, misshapen sheep. The sheep were taken from Earth to start a pastoral system; they ended up as the greatest of imaginable treasures. The simple farmers became simple billionaires, but they kept their farming ways. They started tough and they got tougher. People get pretty mean if you rob them and hurt them for almost three thousand years. They get obstinate. They avoid strangers, except for sending out spies and a very occasional tourist. They don’t mess with other people, and they’re death, death inside out and turned over twice, if you mess with them.
Then one of their kids showed up on Earth and bought it. The whole place, lock, stock and underpeople.
That was a real embarrassment for Earth.
And for Norstrilia, too.
If it had been the two governments, Norstrilia would have collected all the eye-teeth on Earth and sold them back at compound interest. That’s the way Norstrilians do business. Or they might have said, “Skip it, cobber. You can keep your wet old ball. We’ve got a nice dry world of our own.” That’s the temper they have. Unpredictable.
But a kid had bought Earth, and it was his.
Legally he had the right to pump up the Sunset Ocean, shoot it into space, and sell water all over the inhabited galaxy.
He didn’t.
He wanted something else.
The Earth authorities thought it was girls, so they tried to throw girls at him of all shapes, sizes, smells and ages—all the way from young ladies of good family down to dog-derived undergirls who smelled of romance all the time, except for the first five minutes after they had had hot antiseptic showers. But he didn’t want girls. He wanted postage stamps.
That baffled both Earth and Norstrilia. The Norstrilians are a hard people from a harsh planet, and they think highly of property. (Why shouldn’t they? They have most of it.) A story like this could only have started in Norstrilia.
-3-
What’s Norstrilia like?
Somebody once singsonged it up, like this:
“Grey lay the land, oh. Grey grass from sky to sky. Not near the weir, dear. Not a mountain, low or high—only hills and grey grey. Watch the dappled dimpled twinkles blooming on the star bar.
“That is Norstrilia.
“All the muddy glubbery is gone—all the poverty, the waiting and the pain. People fought their way away, their way away from monstrous forms. People fought for hands and noses, eyes and feet, man and woman. They got it all back again. Back they came from daylight nightmares, centuries when monstrous men, sucking the water around the pools, dreamed of being men again. They found it. Men they were again, again, far away from a horrid when.
“The sheep, poor beasties, did not make it. Out of their sickness they distilled immortality for man. Who says research could do it? Research, besmirch! It was a pure accident. Smack up an accident, man, and you’ve got it made.
“Beige-brown sheep lie on blue-grey grass while the clouds rush past, low overhead, like iron pipes ceilinging the world.
“Take your pick of sick sheep, man, it’s the sick that pays. Sneeze me a planet, man, or cough me up a spot of life-forever. If it’s barmy there, where the noddies and trolls like you live, it’s too right here.
“That’s the book, boy.
“If you haven’t seen it, you haven’t seen Norstrilia. If you did see it, you wouldn’t believe it. If you got there, you wouldn’t get off alive.
“Mother Hitton’s Littul Kittons wait for you down there. Little pets they are, little little little pets. Cute little things, they say. Don’t you believe it. No man ever saw them and walked away alive. You won’t either. That’s the final dash, flash. That’s the utter clobber, cobber.
“Charts call the place Old North Australia.”
We can suppose that that is what it is like.
-4-
Time: first century of the Rediscovery of Man.
When C’mell lived.
About the time they polished off Shayol, like wiping an apple on the sleeve.
Long deep into our own time. Fifteen thousand years after the bombs went up and the boom came down on Old Old Earth.
Recent, see?
-5-
What happens in the story?
Read it.
Who’s there?
It starts with Rod McBan—who had the real name of Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan. But you can’t tell a story if you call the main person by a name as long as Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan. You have to do what his neighbors did—call him Rod McBan. The old ladies always said, “Rod McBan the hundred and fifty-first …” and then sighed. Flurp a squirt at them, friends. We don’t need numbers. We know his family was distinguished. We know the poor kid was born to troubles.
Why shouldn’t he have troubles?
He was due to inherit the Station of Doom.
And then he gets around. He crosses all sorts of people. C’mell, the most beautiful of the girlygirls of Earth. Jean-Jacques Vomact, whose family must have preceded the human race. The wild old man at Adaminaby. The trained spiders of Earthport. The Subcommissioner Teadrinker. The Lord Jestocost, whose name is a page in history. The friends of the Ee-telly-kelly, and a queer tankful of friends they were. B’dank, of the cattle-police. The Catmaster. Tostig Amaral, about whom the less said the better. Ruth, in pursuit. C’mell, in flight. The Lady Johanna, laughing.
He gets away.
He got away. See, that’s the story. Now you don’t have to read it.
Except for the details.
The
y follow.
(He also bought one million women, far too many for any one boy to put to practical use, but it is not altogether certain, reader, that you will be told what he did about them.)
AT THE GATE OF THE GARDEN OF DEATH
ROD McBan faced the day of days. He knew what it was all about, but he could not really feel it. He wondered if they had tranquilized him with half-refined stroon, a product so rare and precious that it was never, never sold off-planet.
He knew that by nightfall he would be laughing and giggling and drooling in one of the Dying Rooms, where the unfit were put away to thin out the human breed, or else he would stand forth as the oldest landholder on the planet, Chief Heir to the Station of Doom. The farm had been salvaged by his great32-grandfather, and it was called Doom when he first inherited it, but the great32-grandfather had bought an ice-asteroid, crashed it into the farm over the violent objections of his neighbors, and learned clever tricks with artesian wells which kept his grass growing while the neighbors’ fields turned from grey-green to blowing dust. The McBans had kept the sarcastic old name for their farming station, the Station of Doom.
By night, Rod knew, the Station would be his.
Or he would be dying, giggling his way to death in the killing place where people laughed and grinned and rollicked about while they died.
He found himself humming a bit of a rhyme that had always been a part of the tradition of Old North Australia:
We kill to live, and die to grow—
That’s the way the world must go!
He’d been taught, bone deep, that his own world was a very special world, envied, loved, hated and dreaded across the galaxy. He knew that he was part of a very special people. Other races and kinds of men farmed crops, or raised food, or designed machines, and manufactured weapons. Norstrilians did none of these things. From their dry fields, their sparse wells, their enormous sick sheep, they refined immortality itself.
Norstrilia Page 3