King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  Aoli was tired of machines. He began to experiment in a new field, watched benevolently by the Tin Mothers.

  Genetic engineering. It’s the only scientific field where some kind of machine is not the ultimate objective.

  What is your ultimate objective, then?

  To get rid of machines altogether.

  And, lying on his deathbed, Aoli had enunciated the code that became known throughout the galaxy as the Kikihuahua Examples.

  I’m not saying it’s possible to live in accordance with these Examples at present, but they do represent an ideal for us to strive for. When we succeed, we will be qualified to teach others, all over the galaxy. We will be teaching harmony. We will be teaching the galaxy that its most precious natural resource is the genes of living cells. We will be teaching perfection.

  And a thousand years later, a large number of kikihuahuas left their planet and began to roam the galaxy in spacebats with thousand-mile wingspans, leaving the Tin Mothers on the home planet, wondering where they had gone wrong.

  Fang had educed it all before, but it was a fascinating study. He never tired of the interior of the spacebat and the life of the kikihuahuas; it was in his blood. Moving forward, he eavesdropped on another ancient conversation.

  We must now select the characteristics of our initial colonization party.

  It was a kikihuahua called Ou-Ou speaking. Fang snapped to attention so quickly that the Princess, watching him, put an arm around his shoulders and eased him into a more relaxed position.

  First, the form our colonist will take. Obviously it should be a biped, like this. An apelike creature appeared in Fang’s mind’s eye. Although it needn’t be so big. A smaller form would be more economical. It will have an intelligence equal to our own. It must reproduce sexually in order to fit in with the current state of evolution on our new planet. Two sexes. Now, that should provide our designers with something to think about. Of course, the creature will need to be considerably more aggressive than we are.

  Aggressive?

  There are frightful monsters down there. Our representative must be able to defend himself. To do this he must have certain innate characteristics.

  Like what?

  Like not submitting himself readily for slaughter when attacked. Like having the ability to make himself a few simple weapons, to beat off predators. Like kindling the Wrath of Agni occasionally, to frighten off night prowlers.

  You’re saying that our representative should contravene every single Example.

  Or die.

  The subsequent argument was heated by kikihuahua standards, and Fang followed it avidly, knowing he was coming close to his goal. An ancient Memorizer named Offo swayed the meeting by recalling several instances when the Examples had been broken in the name of colonization. The discussion became more specific.

  A creature so powerful would be in danger of taking over the world. It would create a huge and intricate society, and we would suddenly find that our advance party had become colonists themselves, and would refuse to come back to the bat.

  Only if they are allowed to breed freely.

  But that’s exactly what sexual creatures do.

  Not if we inhibit them.

  Then they would become extinct in a very short time.

  Not if we make the sexual act a duty instead of a pleasure. Like all advance parties, their whole lives will be governed by a set of duties, one of which will be occasional reproduction.

  That makes sense. But how shall we make sure the inhibition can be removed if their numbers fall dangerously low? It would be pointless if they became extinct down there, and there was nobody left to report back. We wouldn’t know whether they had succeeded or failed.

  It will be their duty to recognize such a situation. I suggest that they should also consciously recognize these elements before proceeding further:

  • that they are in real danger of extinction,

  • that their physical form has proved satisfactory,

  • that there is no shortage of habitable land for expansion,

  • that the incentive to procreation is a last resort, and

  • that having used it, they must return to the spacebat within fifteen Earth years, or die.

  That last element. That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?

  If we did not insist on that, their population could recover exponentially, and we would be faced again with our original dilemma. All we want is that they should prepare the Earth for the eventual colonists, and report back to us when the job is done. Fifteen years of unlimited procreation will be long enough to restore a satisfactory memory pool. It should more than double their population, if I know sexual creatures.

  Has it ever occurred to you how lucky we kikihuahuas are, Afah, to have eliminated sexual reproduction from our genetic makeup?

  Fang opened his eyes. “I think I’ve got it,” he said. “It’s just a question of knowing a collection of facts, and thinking about them all at the same time.” The children, released from bondage, began to expend their surplus energy around the burrow. Fang watched them and the Princess for a moment, a deep sadness within him. “But if we go ahead with this, we’ll have to leave Earth fifteen years from now. That’ll mean leaving all this—our home, gnomedom, Nyneve, everything—and going to live in a huge, dark thing with walls made of flesh.”

  “But supposing we didn’t? Supposing we refused to go?”

  “Then I think there’s some kind of metabolic switch in us that would just click off.”

  The Princess was silent for a long time. At last she said, “It’s our duty, Fang.”

  “My father was a good gnome!” announced Fang.

  “Is a good gnome, you mean,” said Elmera. “He’s not dead yet.”

  “I mean was,” Fang explained, “in the sense that he is no longer our Memorizer. Or a member of our village.”

  “The bugger ran out on us!” shouted the Miggot. “Always remember that, Elmera!”

  The regular Memorizing meeting was in session and, as usual, was getting offtrack. As a quarrel broke out between the Miggot and his wife, Fang tried again.

  “I have the greatest respect for my father and his methods, but you will have noticed that I’ve made some changes to our Memorizing meetings over the years. Our proceedings are less formal. People can speak out more.”

  “Why don’t you do the job properly?” Elmera asked.

  “Properly?”

  “Like your father used to. The robe. The incense. The wand and the mumbo jumbo. It was more of an occasion when your father did it. I like to see a bit of ceremony. A bit of respect for gnomish traditions.”

  “You should respect me for myself,” said Fang.

  There was a roar of gnomish laughter.

  “Well, anyway,” shouted Fang, becoming annoyed, “I’m making another change. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve come to the conclusion that a Memorizing session should be a two-way exchange. You will continue to give me your items for Memorizing but I, in return, will relate to you interesting events from the past. We all need to know more about our gnomish culture. It’s something the beach gnomes seem to have forgotten entirely.”

  There was a buzz of interest.

  “I was examining my memory only last night,” said Fang, “and I came across a fascinating story that you may not know. Settle yourselves down, gnomes, and I’ll tell it to you.”

  The gnomes relaxed happily against the roots of the blasted oak. They liked being told stories. It was much better than having to think. And so Fang had a receptive audience as he related the fable of the Bat and the Grasshopper.

  It is remembered that there was a grasshopper who lived in a green meadow. The meadow sloped down to a winding stream overhung with willow trees. In the meadow it was always summer. It was a beautiful place in which to live, yet the grasshopper was not satisfied. He dozed through the sunny days when he should have been working, so that he could stay awake at night and gaze at the moon. “Oh, what
a beautiful place that must be.” He sighed. “See how silvery it shines. Oh, how I would love to live on the moon.”

  One day it occurred to him that if he could learn to jump high enough, he could reach the moon. It was only a matter of practice. So practice he did, every day, measuring his growing prowess against the willow trees until he could clear them with a single bound. And as is the way with fables, his perseverance was rewarded. The day came when he leapt so high that he escaped from Earth’s gravitational field and found himself gliding through space.

  “Whoopee!” he cried.

  Soon he met a bat. “Where are you going, Grasshopper?” asked the bat.

  “I am flying to the moon, which is the most beautiful place in the solar system, and where I will live my days in everlasting joy,” replied the grasshopper.

  “Stay with me,” said the bat. “You may not like what you find on the moon.”

  “Who would want to live in empty space?” The grasshopper sneered and glided on by.

  “More people than you can imagine!” the bat called after him. “It’s not so bad, if you find a good home here!” But the grasshopper paid no attention.

  Finally the grasshopper touched down on the moon and received a terrible disappointment. The moon was not silver, after all. That was a cruel deception perpetrated by the sun. The moon was covered with a fine, choking black dust. There was no food, no water, no willow trees. In fact, the whole place was thoroughly objectionable. The grasshopper tried to jump off the moon to get back to Earth, but he was belly-deep in dust and could get no leverage.

  “Woe is me!” he cried, struggling. “Why did I ever leave my meadow?”

  The bat heard his cries and swooped low. “I’ll help you,” he said, and he dragged the grasshopper out of the dust and flew with him into space.

  “Mark my words,” said the bat, “a world always looks more beautiful from the other side of the void. If you travel to strange places, you must allow for the possibility of disappointment. And you must always, always make sure you have a means of getting home again. Now take a look over there at Earth.”

  “That dull old place?”

  “Just look,” said the bat.

  So the grasshopper looked, and to his amazement, Earth resembled a big, beautiful silver coin. “Go,” said the bat, and gave him a push, and set him gliding home.

  The grasshopper returned to his meadow and lived there happily, singing and hopping, but never hopping higher than the willow trees in case he should accidentally leave Earth’s gravity again and not be able to get back. He hadn’t yet worked out a way to travel safely, and another time the bat might not be around to help him. But he thought about what the bat had told him, and toward the end of his days he did discover a safe way to travel. That, however, is another story. …

  “That, however, is another story,” concluded Fang.

  “That bat is too smug,” said Lady Duck. “He reminds me of my mother, telling me I should be satisfied with my lot.” She looked proudly at King Bison. “I wouldn’t be where I am now, if I’d followed her advice. Come now, Bison. We have work to do. We don’t have time to listen to stories.” And she left, Bison following with some reluctance.

  “I think …” said Fang slowly, “I think the story is intended to tell gnomes not to leave Earth until the right time. It was the first fable ever told. It just possibly might have been told by the kikihuahua to the first Mara Zion Memorizer. The bat could have been the spacebat.”

  “And the grasshopper?”

  “Well, gnomedom, of course. But it could also refer to our route off Earth. You see, there’s the end of the fable: ‘Toward the end of his days he did discover a safe way to travel.’ “

  “I thought it referred to him dying and going to heaven. …” Wal the Bottle’s voice trailed away.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Just an odd thought. Have you ever wondered why people swear by the Great Grasshopper? It’s just a saying, but could there be a connection?”

  “The Great Grasshopper …” Fang repeated thoughtfully. That evening he tried to track down the origin of the phrase, but without success. It seemed the gnomes had always sworn by the Great Grasshopper. He translated the words into the ancient gnomish tongue, but it didn’t make any difference.

  That afternoon, however, the gnomes soon tired of speculation. Flasks were passed around, and a few eyes closed in contemplation. “Tell us another story!” shouted Clubfoot.

  “Another story!” The gnomes took up the cry.

  Fang eyed them, a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was it. This was the crucial moment. And they all looked so happy and relaxed, drinking beer with little thought for the future and the terrible unknown. If he went ahead with what he planned, he might well save the race from extinction, but he would be committing these gnomes to finding a route off Earth within the next fifteen years. If they didn’t find it, they would die.

  And yet he had no alternative.

  He forced his face into an ingratiating expression. “It’s a little poem,” he said. “It comes right from the earliest days of gnomedom, when Avalona first taught us this language. It’s probably translated from the language before that,” he continued, improvising.

  “A poem!” they cried happily. Poems were fun. They didn’t take a gnome long to learn. “What’s the poem about, Fang?”

  “It’s about gnomes.” And taking a deep breath, Fang recited a poem composed by the Princess.

  The shape of a gnome is a wonderful thing,

  Two eyes and two elbows and two everything.

  This island that we and the animals share,

  Has room for us all and there’s plenty to spare.

  It’s sad that we gnomes get more scarce every day,

  It seems that our species will soon fade away.

  So lend us the will to conceive and beget,

  In fifteen more summers we’ll honor our debt!

  “And that’s it,” he said. “It’s not much, but it’s a piece of gnomish culture.”

  “It sounds a little suspect to me,” said Spector.

  But the gnomes were busy muttering. He heard snatches of the poem, then they fell silent. It was safely in their memory lobes.

  “The Memorizing session will now begin,” he said. “Bring me your memories.”

  He noticed Jack o’ the Warren smiling at Bluebelle but was unable to decide whether the smile contained any element of lust. The other gnomes watched one another, waiting for the first memory to be suggested so they could dispute its validity in time-honored fashion. The Memorizing session commenced.

  At one point Fang fancied that Elmera leered at him, but he hoped it was his imagination.

  14

  THE FALL OF DREXEL POXY

  ARTHUR CAME TO CAMELOT IN LATE JUNE. IT WAS midnight when he arrived, but his bedchamber was kept ready for such occasions. After making sure the rest of his small party was taken care of, he retired for the night.

  “Shall I tell Queen Guinevere you’re here, Sire?” asked the chambermaid.

  “No. She’ll be asleep. I’ll see her in the morning.”

  He lay back in bed staring at the vaulted ceiling, his head pillowed on his hands. Strange, how a man could be afraid of meeting his own wife. But it was almost two years since he’d last seen Gwen; two years of fighting and peacemaking around England. It was over now, for the time being. But within months someone would be plotting against him, and he’d have to go to Cirencester.

  Cirencester … What a stinking hole it was. Crowded streets, people everywhere, the river a veritable sewer. How good it was to be back in Cornwall! The journey had taken’ over a fortnight because of the various calls he’d been obliged to make on the way: to pacify a ruffled Baron here, to settle a boundary dispute there.

  But gradually, as he rode, the countryside had changed in character. The sandstone Cotswold hills had given way to the rolling hills of Devon until, quite suddenly, he was riding across the moors. Th
e very air smelled different. The sun shone more brightly, the wind blew more keenly. He felt the most extraordinary tightness in his throat when the massive outcrop of Pentor came into view. Then he topped a rise and saw the familiar river with Camelot tucked under its elbow. He was home.

  Nyneve …

  Better not to think of Nyneve. Better to think of Gwen and the good times they were going to have that summer. They would take a boat on the river and sail down to the sea. They would climb to the top of Pentor and drink wine. They would walk the forest paths to Mara Zion village and see the people there; those who hadn’t moved to Camelot when Torre and Governayle and the others moved. There were many happy days ahead for Gwen and him. He’d earned these days, and so had she. This was the reward.

  So why was he frightened to meet her?

  Two years was a long time. A woman could change her mind about a man in two years. There had been signs that she was becoming dissatisfied before his last departure. She’d complained of the loneliness, but then she’d always been a complainer. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. And she’d found other interests to occupy herself: praiseworthy interests like championing the cause of the gnomes.

  Lancelot supported her in that. Lancelot, whose name was so often connected with Gwen’s. It seemed he’d heard little else in Cirencester. “Why didn’t you bring Sir Lancelot du Lac with you, Sire?” And from the more powerful nobles: “I’m surprised you’ve left Lancelot and Guinevere back at Camelot together, Arthur.”

  The legend had spread as far as Wroxeter and farther. It had distorted people’s view of the present, and it had aroused all kinds of unreasonable expectations of the future. He felt like the son of a famous father. The legend was impossible to live up to—and yet it had made things easier in some ways. It was so familiar to people that if he deliberately followed its course, he got very little opposition. On the other hand, if he acted contrary to the legend, he was met with outrage.