“You are correct. So in the myth you, and every other young man, are looking for something in the pool, and have to work very very hard with the bucket to find it. Now we come to Iron John, the hairy man at the bottom of the pool. Is it a real man?”
“No, of course it couldn’t be. The man at the bottom of the pool has to be a symbol. Part of a myth. A symbol of manhood, maleness. The primitive male that lies beneath the surface in all of us.”
“Bang-on, Jim,” he said in a low voice. “The story is trying to tell you that when a man, not a boy, looks deep inside himself, if he looks far down and for long enough, works hard enough, he will find the ancient hairy man within himself.”
Floyd stopped playing and his jaw gaped. “You guys been smoking something I don’t know about.”
“Not smoking,” Steengo said. “Sipping at the font of ancient wisdom.”
“Do you believe this myth?” I asked Steengo. He shrugged.
“Yes and no. Yes, the process of growing up is a difficult one and anything that helps the process is a good thing. Yes, myths and coming-of-age ceremonies help prepare boys, giving them the assurances they need in the transition from boy to man. But that is as far as I will go. I say no resoundingly to a myth manifest as reality. Iron John alive and well and leading the pack. This is a fractured society here, without women and without even the knowledge of women. Not good. Quite sick.”
I was uneasy at this. “I don’t agree all the way. I was affected very strongly by watching that story. And I am a very hard guy to con. This got to me.”
“It should have—because it was dealing with the very stuff of personality and self. I have a feeling, Jim, that yours was not the happiest of childhoods …”
“Happy!” I laughed at the thought. “You try growing up on a porcuswine farm surrounded by bucolic peasants who are not much brighter than their herds.”
“And that includes your father and mother?”
I started to answer warmly, saw what he was doing and where this was going. I shut up. Floyd shook the spittle from his so-called musical instrument and broke the silence.
“I still feel sorry for the dog,” he said.
“Not a real dog,” Steengo said, turning away from me. “A symbolic dog like everything else you saw. The dog is your body, the thing you order around, sit up, beg.”
Floyd shook his head in amazement. “Too deep for me. Like that pool. If I could change the subject from theory to fact for just a moment—what’s next on the agenda?”
“Finding Heimskur, of course, so we can find out if he still has the artifact,” I said, happily putting this other matter aside. “Any suggestions?”
“Brain empty,” Floyd said. “Sorry. That hangover never really went away.”
“I’m glad some of us didn’t drink,” Steengo said, a sudden edge of irritation to his voice.
For personal reasons I was happy to hear it, glad that he was still human; he came on pretty strong with the myth stuff. Forget this for awhile. I ticked off on my fingers. “We have only two choices. Hint around about him and gather what information we can. Or blurt right out that we want to see him. Personally, I’m all for the blurting since there is a kind of time limit on this investigation.” Like ten days to the grim reaper. “Let’s ask Goldy, our majordomo. He seems to know everything else.”
“Let me do it,” Steengo said, standing and stretching. “I’ll talk to him like an old buddy and work the conversation around to science and scientists. And Heimskur. Be right back.”
Floyd watched him go, tootling a little march in time with his footsteps. “This Iron John stuff sort of gets to you,” he said after the door had closed.
“Yes—and that’s the worst part. I don’t know why I’m bothered.”
“Women. I had six sisters and there were two aunts who lived with us. I had no brothers. I never think about women except one at a time in the right situation.”
Before I had to listen to one more boring macho tale about the right situation I excused myself and went for a jog. Returned sweating nicely, did some pushups and situps, then went for a wash. Steengo was there when I came out. Shaking his joined hands over his head when I lifted a quizzical eyebrow.
“Success. Heimskur is head of the bunch who Labor in the Cause of Science, or so Veldi says.”
“Veldi … ?”
“The doorman here. He does have a name after all. From what he says I get the feeling that this is a pretty stratified society with everyone in their correct place. Great respect is given to the scientist. Veldi was more than respectful when he talked about them because they appear to be the ones pretty much in charge.”
“Great. How do we get to meet Heimskur?”
“We wait patiently,” Steengo said and looked at his watch. “Because any moment our transportation will be here to take us to his august presence.”
“Not the Chariots of Fire again!” Floyd groaned.
“No. But something that sounds just as ominous. A Transport of Delight …”
Before we had time to dwell too long on that thought there was a brisk knocking and gold-clad Veldi threw the door open.
“Gentlemen—this way if you please.”
We walked heads high and strong. Hiding any qualms we might have had. Though we shuddered to a halt when we saw what was awaiting us.
“Your Transport of Delight,” Veldi said proudly, waving magnanimously in the direction of what could only be a landlocked lifeboat.
It was snow-white, clinker-built, with a stub mast festooned with flags, white wheels just visible tucked under the keel below. A uniformed officer looked down from the rail above, saluted, gave a signal—and the rope ladder clattered down to our feet.
“All aboard,” I said as I led the way.
Cushioned divans awaited us while attendants beckoned and held out jars of cool drink. As soon as we were seated the officer signaled again and the drummer in the bow whirred his sticks in a rapid drumroll—then shifted to his bass drum. As the first, methodical boom boomed out the Transport of Delight shuddered. Then began to roll slowly forward.
“A galley—without slaves or oars,” Floyd said.
“Plenty of slaves,” I said as a wave of masculine perspiration wafted up from the funnel-shaped vent beside me. “But instead of oars they are grinding away at gears or some such, to turn the wheels.”
“No complaints,” Steengo said, sipping at his wine. “Not after the Chariots of Fire.”
We rolled ponderously between the buildings, nodding at the bystanders and occasionally giving a royal flick of the hand at some of our cheering fans. We moved on through what appeared to be a residential quarter and beyond it into a park-like countryside. Our road wove between the trees, past a row of ornamental fountains to ponderously stop before an immense glass-walled building. A party of elegantly dressed ancients awaited us. Led by the most ancient of them all, white-clad and standing firmly erect. But his face was wrinkled beyond belief. I clambered down the ladder and dropped before him.
“Do I address the noble Heimskur?”
“You do. And of course you are Jim of the Rats. Welcome, welcome all.”
There was plenty of handshaking and glad cries of joy before Heimskur broke off the reception and led me into the glass building.
“Welcome,” he said, “doubly welcome. To the College of Knowledge from whence all good things flow. If you will follow me I will explain our labors to you. Since you gentlemen come from the surging, mongrel worlds outside our peaceful boundaries you will surely appreciate how the application of intelligence makes our society such a happy and peaceful world. No strife, no differences, a place for everyone and everyone in their place. Down this way are the Phases of Physics, the Caverns of Chemistry. There the Avenues of Agriculture, next to them the Meadows of Medicine, while just beyond is the Museum of Mankind.”
“Museum?” I inquired offhandedly. “I simply love museums.”
“Then you must see ours. It charts the difficulties
through which we passed before coming here, a rite of passage and of cleansing, before we found safe haven on this world. Here we grew and prospered and the record is clear for all to see.”
And pretty boring if not just downright preposterous. Cleaner than clean, whiter than white. The only thing missing were the halos on the saints who had accomplished so much good.
“Inspirational,” I said when we finally reached the end of the exhibition.
“It is indeed.”
“And down this way?”
“The museum for students. Biologists can examine the plant life of our planet, geologists the strata and the schist.”
“Archeologists?”
“Alas, very little. The crudest of artifacts left by the long-dead indigenes who first settled here.”
“May we?”
“By all means. You see—fire sticks and crude pottery. A hand ax, a few arrow points. Scarcely worth preserving were we not so faithful to our role as recorders and archivists.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing.”
I dug the photograph from an inside pocket, took a deep breath—and passed it over.
“You may have heard that the warders in the Pentagon promised us favors if we helped them find this?”
“Did they indeed? I would believe nothing they said.”
He took the photograph and blinked at it, handed it back. “Just like them to lie and cause trouble for no reason.”
“Lie?”
“About this. It was brought here. I examined it myself. Not indigenous at all, couldn’t possibly be. Probably something broken off an old spaceship. Meaningless and worthless. Gone now.”
“Gone?” I fought to keep the despair from my voice.
“Discarded. Gone from Paradise. Non-existent. Men have no need of such rubbish therefore it is gone forever. Forget the worthless item Jim and we shall talk of far more interesting things. Music. You must tell me—do you write your own lyrics … ?”
CHAPTER 17
We were very silent on our return trip, scarcely aware of the manifold pleasures that rode with us in our Transport of Delight. Only behind the closed doors of our quarters did we let go. I nodded appreciatively as I listened while Floyd swore blasphemously and scatologically; he had a fine turn of phrase and went on for a long time without repeating himself.
“And I double that,” I said when lack of breath forced him to subside. “We have indeed been hard done by.”
“We have,” Steengo agreed. “But we have also been lied to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Heimskur was selling us a line of old camel cagal. More than half of his so-called history of science and nature was pure propaganda for the troops. If we can’t believe him about that—how can we believe him when he shovels a lot of bushwah about the artifact? Do you remember his last words?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But I hope someone does. I imagine that you didn’t notice it—but I was doing a lot of head-scratching and nose-picking while we were doing that tour.”
Floyd wasn’t being bright today and gaped at the news. I smiled and put my index finger into my ear. “Come in ear in the sky. Do you read me?”
“No, but I hear you,” Captain Tremearne said through my fingernail.
“Good. But more important—did you listen in to our guided tour?”
“All of it. Very boring. But I recorded it anyway, the way you asked.”
“The way Steengo asked—credit where credit is due. Would you be so kind as to play back the last speech about the artifact.”
“Coming up.” After some clattering and high-pitched voices whizzing by our aged guide sounded forth.
“Discarded. Gone from Paradise. Non-existent. Men have no need of such rubbish therefore it is gone forever.”
I copied it down and got it right after a couple of repeats. “That’s it. Thanks.”
“There,” Steengo said, tapping the paper. “Weasel wording. That tricky old devil was playing with us, knowing that we had some reason to be interested in the thing. He never said destroyed, not once. Discarded? That means it might be still around someplace. Gone from Paradise—could be anywhere else on this planet. But I particularly like the bit about men having no need for the thing.” He smiled a smile like a poker player laying down five Aces.
“If men have no need for it—what about women?”
“Women?” I felt my jaw hanging open and closed it with a clack. “What about them? There are only men here?”
“How right you are. And right on the other side of the town wall is—what? I’m betting on women. Either that or an awful lot of cloning is going on in this place. I’ll bet on nature and some kind of connection through the wall.”
My jawphone buzzed and Tremearne’s voice echoed inside my sinuses. “I agree with Steengo. And so does Madonette. She’s already on her way along the wall to the city and will report as soon as she finds out anything.”
I started to protest, realized the futility, kept my mouth shut. “It figures,” I said. “The gang in charge here lie about everything else—so lying about the artifact just comes naturally. We’ll have to wait …”
I shut up as Veldi knocked quietly, then opened the door. “Good news!” he announced, eyes glowing with passion. “Iron John has chosen to speak to The Stainless Steel Rats—in the Veritorium itself. An honor above all other honors. Hurry, gentlemen. But first brush your clothing and, with the exception of heroically-bearded Floyd, diple the five o’clock shadow now gracing your musical jaws. What pleasures do await you!”
Pleasures better lived without. But this was a royal command and no way to get around it. I took a bit of diple-fast and rubbed my jaw smooth, combed my hair and tried not to scowl at myself in the mirror. I was the last to emerge and we boarded the Transport of Delight in silence, rolled ponderously to our destiny.
“I wonder why all three of us?” Steengo said, sipping his glass of chilled wine. “Last time it was you alone at the training-film session, wasn’t it, Jim?”
“I have no idea,” I said, wanting to change the subject. Nor was I too pleased with his light-hearted attitude. I tried to think about Madonette going in alone to the other city, but my thoughts kept trundling back to Iron John. What was going to happen now?
When we entered the Veritorium I was surprised at how big it really was. It was better lit now and I saw that rows of seats reached up in a semicircle. They were all filled now—with the oldest collection of Paradisians I had seen so far. Bald heads and gray hair, wrinkles and toothless jaws.
Iron John himself stepped forward to greet us. “You are all truly welcome here—and these seats are for you.” They were three of the best in the front row—separated from the others. “You are our honored guests, musical Stainless Steel Rats. This occasion is a special one—specially so for young James diGriz. You are the youngest man here, Jim, and very soon you will find out why. Your companions will, I am sure, watch with pleasure. Not only pleasure but I sincerely hope that they will learn by observation. Now we begin …”
Cued by his words the lights died and darkness filled the Veritorium. Footsteps sounded in the darkness, and there was a small laugh. Light appeared and I saw the small boy hurry forward, stumbling a bit under the weight of the box he was carrying. He put it down and opened the lid, took out a top that started spinning when he touched its switch. Then he took out a tray of blocks, started to build a tower with them. When it was high enough he turned to take another toy out of the box. He was a very concentrated, very intense young boy, about eight years old. He rummaged deeper in the box, then looked around with a childish frown.
“Don’t hide, teddy,” he said. Looked behind the toy box, then into it again and then—with sudden determination—turned and hurried off. He vanished from sight but I could hear his footsteps going away, stopping. Then coming back. Carrying a teddy bear. A commonplace, slightly worn, very ordinary teddy bear. He propped it against the toy box a
nd started building a second tower from the blocks.
The scene grew lighter and I realized we were back in the castle courtyard. The boy was alone—or was he? Something was there in the darkness, a shape that grew clearer.
It was an iron cage and, sitting silently, inside it was Iron John. The boy shouted and knocked over the block towers, ran to pick up the strewn blocks. Looked at Iron John, then away. The cage and its occupant must be a familiar sight to him.
Nothing else happened. The boy played, Iron John watched him in silence. Yet there was an electric tension in the air that made it hard to breathe. I knew that something vitally important was about to happen, and when the boy reached again into the toy box I found myself leaning forward.
When he took the small golden ball from the box I realized that I had been holding my breath; I let it out with a gasp. Nor was I the only one for around me in the darkness there were echoes of my gasp.
The ball bounced and rolled and the boy laughed with pleasure.
Then he threw it once, harder than intended, and it rolled and rolled. Through the bars of the iron cage to stop at Iron John’s feet.
“My ball,” the boy said. “Give it back.”
“No,” Iron John said. “You must unlock this cage and let me out. Then you will have your golden ball back.”
“Locked,” the boy said.
Iron John nodded. “Of course. But you know how to find the key.”
The boy was shaking his head no as he backed away.
“Where is the key?” the man in the cage asked, but the boy was gone. “Where is the key? But you are only a boy. Perhaps you are too young to know where the key is. You must be older to find the key.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the invisible audience. It was very important to find the key, I knew that. The key …
It was then that I became aware that Iron John was looking at me. He was there in the cage; it wasn’t a holoflic. He looked at me and nodded.
“Jim, I’ll bet you know where the key is. You are no longer a boy. You can find it—now”
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