Imbry was doing heavy damage to the hearty fare, while Baro spooned up the less insubstantial stuff. He found that the thin porridge dissolved on his tongue—fortunately, since he had only the most rudimentary fine control over that muscle—and if he tilted his head back the stuff ran down his gullet. Around the room, he saw that the afflicted passengers were doing as he did, elevating their chins like birds drinking from a fountain.
It was difficult to read emotion on faces that might as well have been hewn from wood, but Baro thought that Olleg Ebersol ate his mush with stoic acceptance, even though he was so far advanced in the lassitude that his wife had to spoon the stuff into him. Flix, on the other hand, somehow managed to radiate a sense of resentment as her hand made a slow repetitive journey from plate to mouth.
The next course was an effervescent liquid. It, at least, was the same for both categories of diners, except that Baro, Flix, and Olleg must drink theirs through thin tubes. Baro found that he had to use his fingers to press his lips into a seal around the straw, after which he could draw the liquid up. He was rewarded by the most wondrous taste he had ever encountered—the world was apparently full of delightful experiences reserved for the few who could afford them. He was particularly glad to wash away the taste of truffle, which left an aftertaste he found repellent.
Imbry wiped his mouth and addressed Monlaurion. “You are, if I am not mistaken, the celebrated imagist? I saw a collection of your works in Shabatowsky Street a year or two ago.”
Monlaurion admitted his identity. “But the Shabatowsky Street show was four years ago now,” he said. “Quite frankly, demand for my robust realism has faded. They’re all chasing after idiotic abstractions again. Daubs and splatters, I call them. I’ve been creating less lately, and not at all since my dear Flix was gripped.”
While Imbry made consoling sounds and gestures, the imagist indicated Baro and asked how the two agents were attached to each other. Imbry smiled and explained their supposed relationship.
“I am an academic,” said Imbry, “and hold the rank of Eminent Discourser besides a few other distinctions.” He modestly touched the Fezzani Prize runner-up pin on his chest. “Young Master Wasselthorpe here is the scion of an ancient family. His father has engaged my services, other avenues of hope for a cure having led nowhere.”
As the next course was being served—truffles in a thick sauce under flaked pastry for the healthy, more gruel for the afflicted—Imbry described himself as a lifelong student of the work of Dom Jorgen Abzanef, who centuries ago had labored to identify and name every one of the several hundred expressions and micro-expression that the human face was capable of forming.
“As you know, we have names for scarcely more than a handful of facial configurations—smile, grin, frown, leer, pout, scowl, smirk, and so on—and must resort to lengthy descriptive phrases for such common looks as skepticism tinged with condescension and amusement, which is the one you’re wearing now,” he said to Monlaurion. “Dom Abzanef named that one a ‘fehdiddle.’”
Monlaurion recomposed his face but Imbry continued. “Now I see you have changed from a fehdiddle to a ‘froslon,’ which is Abzanef’s term for that arrangement of the features which we would otherwise describe as feigned interest occasioned by a desire not to give offense.”
Now Monlaurion’s face went through a number of rapid changes of expression, but Imbry had moved on. He explained how Abzanef had recognized that a great deal of communication between human beings happened at an unconscious level, as people unwittingly transmitted and reacted to each other’s facial semaphore. Indeed, a face might be sending a message completely at odds with what the voice was saying, evoking confusion or even hostility in the recipient.
Abzanef was convinced that by assigning names to every unique arrangement of the features, he could lift communication out of the lower levels of the mind and make it entirely a conscious activity. He believed that many conflicts could thus be avoided.
“An interesting scheme,” said First Officer Kosmir. “How is it we’ve never heard of it?”
“Alas,” said Imbry, “the dominee felt that he ought to test his method in a variety of milieus. One night in a barroom in Port Auger he interrupted two quarreling sailors. He declared that his system could resolve their dispute.
“However, the two were old antagonists and the argument they were immersed in had been going on between them for two decades. They strongly resented Dom Abzanef’s intrusion. The last thing he saw was both of their faces formed into the expression he had named ‘alargle.’”
“Which means?” asked Monlaurion.
Imbry sighed. “It means I utterly detest you and I am about to kill you.”
The conversation now ebbed as the healthy passengers demolished truffle pastries and the lassitude sufferers downed more gruel. Three more courses followed and the talk returned to Monlaurion’s works, one of which Imbry said he had seen in a store that sold used furnishings.
The imagist rolled his eyes. “There was a time I would have cared,” he said. “But to maintain an artistic career at the highest levels requires persistent effort, especially the assiduous stroking of people one would rather not touch. Even before Flix was stricken, I had lost interest in all the hurly burly and was ready to retire. I have sworn that if she recovers, I will devote the rest of my days to her comfort. We have enough to live a simple life in some quiet rural corner.”
“An admirable ambition,” said Imbry, though Baro thought he saw the eyes of the imagist’s companion grow even harder and darker than before.
At that moment, their attention was attracted by the striking of a gong at one end of the room, where a dais was raised a few steps above the floor and illuminated by a cone of light. Imbry looked at Baro and flashed an expression that said, Here we go, and Baro wondered briefly what name Dom Abzanef might have given it, if the tragic academic had ever existed.
But it was not actually Gebbling who stepped onto the dais and stood silently, waiting for their attention. As the eyes of all in the room moved to regard the indicated space, the cone of neutral light began to fill with a swirl of color and motion, from which a simulacrum of a thin man of middle years clarified itself.
“Good evening,” said the image of Horslan Gebbling. “I am Father Olwyn. I welcome you all.”
Imbry looked sideways at Baro and formed an expression that indicated grudging acknowledgment of a good trick. Baro tried to frown in response but his facial muscles did not answer his summons.
“I regret that I cannot be with you at the start of our journey together,” the image of Gebbling was saying. “But I must prepare for your arrival and the ceremony of inculcation. Until then, I ask you to study the program available from the Orgulon ’s information system and prepare yourself for a wondrous transformation.”
The image’s eyes looked up toward the ceiling of the dining room as if they saw a transcendent fulfillment there. Baro, watching the performance, had to admit to himself that Horslan Gebbling must be a more than able practitioner of the arts of deception.
“I know what it is to suffer the lassitude,” the image said. “I know because I have borne the affliction myself.”
There were gasps among the crowd and a rumble of murmurs that died almost immediately as Gebbling spoke again. “But I also know that I was healed.” Now the silence in the room was immense. It was more than a mere absence of sound; it was the almost palpable presence of a powerful emotion expressed as stillness.
The image said, “As you will be healed,” and the room was filled with the sound of pent-up breath released. Someone moaned softly.
“A new world awaits you. A new life beckons,” the sonorous voice continued. “But you must prepare yourself. This journey across the Swept will be your readying. Tonight I will open the first door in your progress. I will give you a mantra. You must clear your mind and chant the syllables: fah, sey, opah. Say them now.”
It was a ragged chorus. Baro looked about the great room an
d saw a variety of expressions on the faces of the crowd. Some, like Ule Gazz, wore a look of pure hope; others—he saw Guth Bandar at a distant table—bore a more skeptical mien; still others, like Tabriz Monlaurion, appeared slightly embarrassed, as if caught singing along to a children’s tune. The lassitude sufferers could show no emotion, but from those still able to make coherent sounds rose a contribution to the chorus.
Luff Imbry’s plump palms struck the tabletop a gentle beat as he heartily intoned the mantra, and First Officer Kosmir joined in with an indulgent air. Baro made the best job he could of chanting the four syllables deep in his throat, throwing his partner a look. Imbry gently shrugged in return and continued to sing out fah, sey, opah!
The first faltering chorus strengthened as the chanting continued. Around the room, eyes began to lose their focus and turn inward. Even the skeptics seemed to be brought over by the fervor of those who had accepted Gebbling’s conviction, although Baro noted that Guth Bandar was looking about him with mingled bemusement and concern.
The sound went on for minute upon minute, Gebbling’s amplified voice always audible above the massed chant. Then the image raised its hands and said, “Enough!”
The crowd fell silent, except for a large woman with blue-fire gems in her white hair and a wealth of glittering metal about her neck who kept up the chant in a voice somewhere between hysteria and ecstasy. Finally, a table companion jostled her to bring her back from wherever she had been transported to. Beside her, a thick-bodied man with a wine-colored birthmark on his neck and cheek sat immobile, his eyes dull.
In the silence, Gebbling spoke again. “Many of you will already have begun to feel the effect of the mantra. It generates the numinous virtue named chuffe.”
“I feel it!” called the white-haired woman. “Yes!”
“The harmonical qualities of the Swept, compounded by its gravitational peculiarities, are most conducive to the generation of chuffe,” Gebbling went on. “Take time to contemplate the stillness of the land and chant again before you sleep tonight.
“But for now, sing the mantra, elevate your chuffe, and sleep well!”
The image winked out. A buzz of conversation rose up around the room, accompanied by a renewal of fah, sey, opah. At Baro’s table Ule Gazz, a sheen of perspiration visible on her bald cranium, chanted loudly, her eyes tightly shut and her hands grasping those of her stricken companion.
First Officer Kosmir regarded the Lho-tso pair with mild interest, then shrugged and turned to Tabriz Monlaurion, but finding the artist rather diffidently mouthing the four syllables, he switched his attention to Luff Imbry. “What did you think of …” he began, but the inquiry went uncompleted.
Flix, the artist’s companion, rose trembling to her feet on the other side of the table.
“Look!” someone shouted, and all eyes turned toward the slender young woman. For a long moment, nothing happened. The only motion in the room was Flix’s shivering, which now became a shuddering of her whole body. She placed her delicate hands on the tablecloth, still quaking, and Baro saw the muscles of her face pull her lips into a grimace, then into a cavernous yawn.
A line from the Bureau surveillance manual replayed itself in Baro’s head: Whatever the crowd is watching, the agent watches the crowd. Baro took his eyes away from the artist’s companion and looked about him. Everyone in the room was riveted on the shivering Flix—except for the security officer Raina Haj; she, too, was letting her eyes range the room. For a moment they locked with Baro’s and he saw one of her eyebrows draw down before he looked away.
Flix half turned toward Tabriz Monlaurion, her expression unreadable. She lifted both hands, palms up, and placed them on her cheeks, then slid them up to cover her wide eyes. A moment later, the trembling abruptly ceased. Flix opened her hands as if they were shutters uncovering a window. She used her fingertips to mold and massage her facial muscles, opening and closing her jaw and moving it from side to side.
“I can talk,” she said, in a voice that seemed to creak from long disuse. She looked down at Monlaurion. “I really can talk, can’t I? You can really hear me?”
At this the artist rose and enfolded Flix in his arms. “I can hear you,” he said, in a voice made liquid by tears. “I can hear you.”
The two sat back down together, oblivious to all others in the room and to the roar of conversation that now filled the place. Ule Gazz, chanting louder than ever, reached to touch Flix’s shoulder, a tentative pat as if she half expected a shock from the contact.
Many of the passengers were chanting the fah, sey, opah with renewed fervor. Others were rising from their seats, some craning their necks the better to see the cured one, others pressing forward. A chair was knocked over and someone stumbled.
First Officer Kosmir rose swiftly to his feet. He used a voice accustomed to being heard and obeyed. “Honorables and distinctions,” he shouted over the growing tumult, employing the archaic forms still retained for formal occasions, “please remain calm! Stewards! Assist the passengers to their seats!”
The uniformed crew moved into the crowd but already the first impulse toward hysteria had lapsed. The passengers settled back into their places.
“Clearly something remarkable has happened here tonight,” said Kosmir. “We have witnessed a marvel. But Tabriz Monlaurion and Flix have experienced it directly and it would be good manners to allow them time to come to terms with it.”
There were murmurs of agreement from some of the passengers. Others were gently restrained by the crew. Those afflicted by the lassitude sat still as totems, but all who could move their eyes set them on the imagist and his companion.
Kosmir made placating gestures with both hands. “Let them be alone for a while,” he said. “I am sure they will be amenable to talk with us after. In the meantime, the stewards will bring a selection of liqueurs and essences that we may toast their good fortune.”
The officer spoke more quietly to the other persons at the table, asking them to be so gracious as to rise and depart, though Kosmir would stay to protect the privacy of Flix and Monlaurion. Ule Gazz, still chanting hoarsely, assisted her partner to his feet and drew him reluctantly away with many a backward glance. Baro and Imbry likewise rose, and Baro moved around the table in a direction that took him toward the wall of the room, but also past the imagist and the young woman. In passing Monlaurion, Baro appeared to suffer stiffness in his limbs and almost stumbled, reaching out and catching himself by clasping the imagist’s shoulder. The man scarcely noticed the touch, so immersed was he in the restoration of his companion.
Baro continued on his way, then stopped before one of the large round windows and gazed out over the darkened prairie. Imbry joined him. “What do you make of it?” the older man said.
“I do not know,” Baro replied, watching Monlaurion’s and Flix’s reflections in the window. “If they are shills for Gebbling, they play their parts most convincingly.”
“Indeed,” said his partner, “though she was an actress and he is accustomed to being in the public eye.”
“But being celebrities in their own right, why would they join in a fraudulent scheme?”
Imbry gave his characteristic shrug. “For any of a slew of reasons. Monlaurion’s finances may be even worse than they appear. Gebbling may have evidence of some peccadillo the imagist would prefer not to see made public. There may be a debt of gratitude. Or perhaps a beloved pet is held hostage.” He indicated the stars. “Flix may pine for a luxury cruise on a Spray liner and Monlaurion cannot afford first class.”
“We have left out one possibility,” said Baro. “Could Gebbling have in fact come to a religious epiphany and found a cure for the lassitude?”
“You are joking,” said Imbry. “Gebbling couldn’t cure a rash.”
“Yet, in all fairness, it is one explanation for what we saw.”
“That is a curious attitude for a scroot.”
“We are required to examine all possibilities,” Baro said.
“That only demonstrates that the Bureau swoops when guilt is plain, as happened in your own instance.”
“I argue not merely from my own example but from the experience of many I have known.”
“How many of them were innocent of what they were arrested for?” said Baro.
“Some who were convicted were technically innocent of the particular offense they were charged with.”
“But all were guilty of something?”
“That description could apply to a great many people whose collars will never feel a scroot’s grip,” said Imbry.
“I cannot speak for the Bureau at large,” said Baro, “only for myself. I would not fit a suspect to a crime just to clear a case, nor would I scoop up a villain I had failed to catch honestly and manufacture evidence against him. Neither do I believe my father would have done so.”
“I never knew your father,” said Imbry. “But the road to the rank of captain-investigator is not strewn with marigolds and marshmallows.”
Baro stiffened. “You will not slander my father,” he said and even through the translated version of his voice that emerged from Imbry’s earpiece the warning tone must have been clear. His partner raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Baro was only partly mollified. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that you would be wise to cease trying to convince me that the Bureau condones arrest on falsified evidence. If I ever came over to your point of view, it’s likely that you would be my first victim.”
Imbry changed the subject. He cocked his head toward Monlaurion and Flix and said, “We might have all the genuine evidence we need if we were privy to that conversation.”
“We will be,” said Baro. “As I passed them I slipped a clingfast under Monlaurion’s collar. It will record for more than an hour.”
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