Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera

by Robert Sheckley

  Drusilla led her father up three flagstoned steps leading to the marble altar in front of the pool. The altar itself was composed of semiprecious stones joined by veins of silver. Upon its surface were three sandalwood boxes of various sizes.

  “Is that where you keep the dope?” Dramocles asked.

  “Oh, Father, jest not,” Drusilla said, her voice issuing deeply from her previously described chest. With reverent fingers she opened the first chest and removed from it a chamois bag pricked out in gold and silver thread. Opening it, she spilled a quantity of dried green herbal matter into an ebony handled sieve. Quick motions of her deft fingers separated the powdery residue from the seeds and twigs, the latter being reserved for the tame swallows who staggered around the castle’s atrium. She poured the herbal matter into a rectangle of rice paper inscribed with the name of the ancient Terran deity Rizla, deftly rolled it into a slender cylinder, lighted it, and gave it to her father.

  “Far out,” Dramocles said, inhaling deeply. A second and third inhalation followed, each of them combined with an appropriate exhalation. Dramocles let smoke dribble out of the corners of his mouth and sniffed appreciatively. “Hey, where’d you get this stuff?” he asked.

  They were speaking now the ancient lost psychedelic language of their visionary forefathers from Earth. Question and response proceeded ritualistically, in the manner revealed in the ancient records.

  “It gets the job done,” Drusilla said.

  “Dynamite,” Dramocles said reverently. “Kindly do not bogart that joint, my friend.”

  “The trip is only beginning,” Drusilla said, passing the rice-paper cylinder and opening the second sandalwood box.

  From it she removed a flat silver case. Opening it she laid out a highly polished gold mirror and a razor blade whose edge remained forever sharp. From a small bottle carved from a single ruby she poured a quantity of crystalline substance onto the mirror.

  “Look at them rocks,” Dramocles said.

  Drusilla’s total concentration was directed now toward the ritual pulverization of the crystalline matter by means of the razor blade. Music of oboe and hautboy came up strongly now. Colored lights began to pulse, casting ambiguous shadows across the stone walls. With solemn slowness Drusilla raked the sacred powder into snaky white lines. Finally she took a dry hollow bone from the sandalwood box, bowed toward the still face of the Goddess, and handed it to Dramocles.

  “Now Father, partake of the divine energy.”

  “I can’t get this stuff anymore over in Glorm,” Dramocles said, his nose running slightly in anticipation. He knelt before the altar, an imposing figure in his ermine sports jacket. Placing one end of the tube within his nostril, he brought the other end to a point of close adjacency with the white powder. Sniffing strongly, he took down four king-sized lines. His eyes were popping and a broad smile crept over his face as he handed the golden mirror to Drusilla.

  She too partook of the crystalline substance. Now, swiftly, Drusilla turned to the third box. Opening it, she removed five dried mushrooms imported from secret corners of Old Earth. The music swelled as she prepared the visionary dose, took half herself, and gave the rest to Dramocles. While the substance was taking effect, Drusilla served marzipan cookies and herbal tea. Soon Dramocles could feel twinges and tinglings in his stomach, and there were multicolored dots flashing in his eyes and uncontrollable twitchings and tremblings affecting his extremities, and when he tried to sit erect the chamber tilted alarmingly to one side, and the carved face of the Goddess seemed to leer at him with a grin of dubious import.

  The flood of sensations increased, and soon Dramocles felt as though he had fallen into a raging mountain river. The Shrine Room faded, to be replaced by darting images that grimaced at him and then were gone. Violet shadows twisted loose from the dark corners and reached out ragged tendrils toward him. A chorus of a thousand voices chanted in the background, and now the chamber was flooded with light and transformed utterly.

  Dramocles found himself within a great and sumptuous room, itself enclosed within a palatial structure of colossal size. “What is this place?” he asked.

  Faintly, as from a great distance, Drusilla’s voice came to him. “Give thanks to the Goddess, Father, for she has transported you to the Palace of Memory. Whatever you have seen or heard throughout your lifetime is somewhere here. The secrets you concealed from yourself are here, too. Go forth, O King, and find what you require.”

  The Palace of Memory was very like Ultragnolle, Dramocles decided, but nobler, finer, more beautiful, an idealized castle such as could only exist in dreams or memories. He drifted across subtly hued rugs, past glittering statues set in niches. Tinkling crystal chandeliers overhead threw bright darts of light against the ancient wall tapestries.

  Dramocles drifted down a corridor that seemed to stretch to infinity in either direction. Thete were rooms on either side, doors open, and Dramocles peered briefly into each as he floated wraithlike down the endless corridor.

  Some of the rooms were densely filled with objects, others had only one item or two. Here were the remains of feasts he had consumed in the past. There was his first mangleberry crumpet, his first salted herring, his first pumpernickel bagel. Other rooms were filled with discarded clothing, old books, crumpled cigarette packs. Some of the rooms had motionless figures sitting in them, human or statue he could not tell. Here was old Gregorious, his boyhood instructor in swordcraft–how quiet the voluble old fellow was now! And here was Phlibistia, his baby nurse, and Otania, the love of his fourteenth year. Room after room was filled with similar surprises, but something stranger lay ahead, for Dramocles came to a series of rooms with closed doors, and when he tried them, he found they were locked.

  He rattled the handles and banged at the doors, even tried to break them down with a well-placed kick. But he was an ethereal being in an imaginary place, and his blows had no force. Regretfully he turned away. He had the feeling that vital information lay behind those doors, and he didn’t understand why they were barred to him. Puzzling, he went on toward a glow of light in the unfathomable distance. As he came closer, he saw that there was a single door at the end of the corridor. It was open, and shining with light.

  Dramocles went in. He was in one of the rooms of his young manhood, the East Bower, where he used to dream of the great things he would do when he was king. There was his rolltop desk, and a man was sitting at it.

  The man lifted his head. Dramocles saw a slim, bold-featured young fellow with a flat nose and burning eyes. It was himself, forty pounds slimmer, and without a beard.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the young Dramocles said. “I’m you. It’s an anomaly. I shouldn’t be here at all. Do take a seat.”

  Dramocles sat down on a nearby couch and patted his pockets for a cigarette. Young Dramocles gave him one and held a light for him.

  “I suppose you’ve been wondering what to do next,” young Dramocles said.

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  Young Dramocles nodded. “The next move is rather delicate. I thought it best to tell you about it in person. You see, it involves Rufus.”

  “Good old Rufus!”

  “I was sure his loyalty had no end. That’s good. But now it will be necessary for him to betray you.”

  “Rufus, betray me? He’d die first! Anyhow, I’ve got plenty of people around who’d love to betray me, so why must it be Rufus, who wouldn’t?”

  “Only Rufus will do. His position is crucial. He commands the great spacefleet of Druth.”

  “And Glorm is safe as long as Rufus’s ships stand with my own.”

  “True. But safe isn’t good enough. Your position is static and subject to deterioration. Crimsole is on the alert against you, and there’s still the Vanir to consider. This could go on for years, to nobody’s gain. To change the situation, somebody must change sides. Rufus is the logical candidate.”

  “You must be crazy,” Dramocles said. “That’s exactly what I don’t
need.”

  “Rufus’s betrayal will be a mere sham. When the enemy spacefleets are engaged with your own, Rufus will spring the trap, coming out with the fleet of Druth and catching your opponents from the rear.”

  Dramocles shook his head. “Rufus would never agree to such a dishonorable course of action.”

  “Sure he will. It’s just a matter of presenting it to him in the right way.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Dramocles said. “But what am I doing all of this for? What is my destiny? People are saying that I am trying to reestablish the old Glormish Empire.”

  “Your destiny is far greater than that. But just what it is cannot yet be told. Trust me, Dramocles, for I am yourself. Let them think that you seek the Glormish hegemony. It is a useful screen to mask your deeper purpose.”

  “But I don’t know what that purpose is!”

  “You will, and soon. Remember this conversation. When the time comes, make the right moves. For now, farewell.”

  Young Dramocles faded from sight.

  Dramocles found himself back in the Shrine Room.

  Drusilla was saying, “Father, are you all right? Did you learn what you needed?”

  “I got more than I wanted, and not half enough,” said Dramocles. “I must get back to Ultragnolle immediately. I fear a difficult time ahead.”

  He left without ceremony, a worried man.

  17

  On his way back to Ultragnolle, Dramocles began considering the rapidly deteriorating situation on Lekk. He was beginning to have some doubts about his newly found destiny, although he really couldn’t believe the whole thing had been a mistake. He still wanted a fine destiny, but taking over the property of his friends and relatives didn’t seem to him an appropriate way of achieving it. And he certainly didn’t want to reestablish the old Glormish Empire. That was a romantic notion, but completely unrealistic. Interplanetary empires had never been workable. And even if they could work, what would you have? A few more empty titles and a lot more paperwork.

  What was it all leading to? And that young fellow he had talked with in the Palace of Memory–had that really been himself? That wasn’t the way he remembered himself. But if not he, then who had it been? There was something decidedly strange going on, something uncanny, perhaps something sinister.

  Now it occurred to him how tenuous it all was. A visit from an old lady, a few envelopes, some recently recovered memories–on the basis of these he was risking total war.

  Caught in a sudden mood swing, he realized that the only thing to do now was to make peace at once, while it was still possible, before too much damage had been done.

  As soon as he was within his palace, Dramocles sent for John, Snint, and Adalbert. He had decided to restore their planets, withdraw his troops, apologize, and tell them he’d gone out of his mind for a while. He was rehearsing his speech when a messenger brought him the news that the kings were no longer on Glorm. They had taken to their ships as soon as Dramocles had left to visit Drusilla. There had been no orders to detain them. Only Rufus was left, faithful as always.

  “Damnation,” Dramocles said, and told the palace operator to get John on the interplanetary phone.

  Count John couldn’t be reached. Neither could Snint or Adalbert. The next Dramocles heard of them was a week later. John had returned to Crimsole, raised a force of thirty thousand men, and sent them to the aid of Snint’s beleaguered forces on Lekk. Rux’s demoralized army was suddenly caught in a two-front war and in danger of annihilation.

  Sadly at first, then with mounting fury, Dramocles sent reinforcements to Commander Rux and settled down for a long war.

  18

  Fighting a war was a novel experience for Dramocles, who was unused to regular work of any sort. But now his carefree, aimless existence was over. He set his alarm for eight o’clock every morning and usually arrived at the War Room by nine-thirty. He would read a computer printout of the previous night’s actions, check out the overall picture, and then turn to battlefield management.

  The War Room had one entire wall of television monitors. Each monitor presented a different sector of the battlefield. There were separate monitors for individual engagements down to the platoon level. Each screen kept a running count of casualties on both sides. Each screen had a status light as well–green for victory, yellow for unsettled, red for dangerous, black for defeat.

  Dramocles usually took personal charge of two or more red sectors. He had a natural gift for strategy, and was able to convert most of his battles into the green of victory. On good days, he felt that he could win the war on Lekk by himself, or just himself and his robot troops, if only he could be left completely undisturbed for a few days. But this was impossible. Even an uninterrupted hour was rare. A continual succession of urgent matters required the King’s attention. Glorm could no longer be ruled by the maxims of Otho the Weird.

  Nor could Dramocles detach himself from his personal life to the extent he desired. Lyrae was forever calling him at the office with suggestions about the war. For the sake of peace in the home, Dramocles had to take her seriously, or seem to. Several of his ex-wives started telephoning with their own ideas, and, of course, his older children also wanted to contribue.

  Dramocles often worked late if a particularly difficult battle was under way. At first he rode back and forth between his bedrooms and the War Room on the palace transportation system, just like everyone else. Max finally convinced him that waiting for a crowded Palace Express was not the best use of his time, so he kept a corridor car ready at all times. His son Samizat did most of the driving, and still managed to get his homework done. Samizat was really enjoying the war.

  Week after week the affair of Lekk dragged on, swallowing up robots and costly equipment, and, as the struggle grew more intense, the lives of human beings. Dramocles tried several times to contact John and Snint, but they never answered his telegrams.

  Rufus returned at last to Druth, mobilized his troops, and awaited Dramocles’ instructions. Dramocles had intended to send Prince Chuch with Rufus to act as military liaison. It was an empty but prestigious post that might keep the boy out of mischief. But Chuch was no longer on Glorm. No one knew where he was. Dramocles feared the worst.

  19

  It was the last night of the full moons that circled the planet Vanir. The moons stood low on the horizon, casting their cold yellow light upon the rocky plain of Hrothmund, and illuminating the salt pastures of Viragoland to the south, where Haldemar, the high king, kept his court during molting season.

  Falf, the night guard at this quiet border post, yawned and leaned heavily upon his ray spear. A widower of three days, a recent draft choice of the all-star Minnekoshka ax hockey team, and a newly published poet, Falf had a great deal to think about. He did so with the direct and childlike simplicity of the true barbarian, and so never heard the muffled noises behind him until some dim presentiment caused him to turn his head an instant before something or someone made a noise as of a man clearing his throat.

  “Who goes there?” Falf cried, every hair standing on end.

  “Ho!” cried someone from the shadows.

  “What do you mean, ‘ho’?” Falf asked.

  “Ho, ho!”

  “One more ‘ho’ and I’m going to put a period to your sentence,” Falf said, setting the selector on his ray spear to “broil” and pointing it toward where he thought the voice had come.

  Then a man stepped out of the darkness behind Falf’s shoulder, causing the widowed poet-athlete to jump back, tripping over his ray spear and almost falling, only to be saved by the stranger’s hand at his elbow.

  “My name is Vitello,” the stranger said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m an emissary.”

  “A what?”

  “An emissary.”

  “I don’t think I know that word,” Falf said.

  “It means that my king has sent me here to have a talk with your king.”

  “Yes, now I remember,” Falf said.
He thought for a while, then asked, “How do I know that you’re really an emissary?”

  “I can show identification,” Vitello said.

  “What I want to know is, if you’re an emissary from some other king, where’s your spaceship?”

  “Just over there,” Vitello said, pointing to a clump of trees a hundred yards away. Falf illuminated the trees with a searchlight, and sure enough, there was a ship.

  “You must have come down very quietly,” Falf said. “Now our ships, you can hear them landing from ten miles away. It has something to do with the lapstraking, I believe. Of course, the sound strikes terror into the hearts of our enemies, or so we are told, so who is to say which way is best?”

  “Indeed,” said Vitello.

  “Well,” Falf said, “I guess I’d better report this, though it isn’t going to make me look very good.” He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his sword belt and dialed a number. “Guard post? Sergeant Urnuth? This is Falf at Outpost 12. I have a foreign emissary here who wants to speak to the King. That’s right. … No, it means messenger. … Sure he’s got a spaceship, it’s parked about a hundred yards from here. … Yeah, very quiet, no lapstraking. … No, this is no joke, and I am not drunk.”

  Falf put down the walkie-talkie. “They’re sending someone. What does your king want to tell our king?”

  “You’ll find out when he tells you,” Vitello said.

  “I just thought I’d ask. You might as well make yourself comfortable. They’ll take at least an hour to get here. I’ve got some lichen beer in my canteen. Do you know something? I’ve had three strange things happen to me this week, and this is the fourth.”

  “Tell me about them,” Vitello said, sitting on the ground and wrapping his cloak around him against the chill of night. “Would you like some of my wine?”

  “I sure would!” said Falf. He leaned his ray spear against a stunted tree and sat down beside Vitello, displaying that instantaneous trustfulness that belies the barbarian’s basically suspicious nature.