There was not much real meat. Waldo could see no way round that, except maybe cannibalism. As he got to know Katuki better that seemed less improbable. Behind the tough battered face lay an even tougher inside. The crews did just what he told them, with no arguments and no discussion. Waldo followed the same approach himself. His work was mainly on the lowest level tank, where Katuki seemed to think he was exceptionally reliable. It wasn't easy. Katuki had been so impressed by Waldo's remark on the virtues of silent accord that his instructions had become almost unintelligible, delivered through isolated words and a series of nods, grunts and winks. But since he clearly continued to regard Waldo with special esteem, everything must have been going well. And as Katuki had said, the guards much preferred the upper levels of Station Up, where the gravity and the sewage were less noticeable. Waldo hadn't seen one down on the lowest levels since his arrival, and his fears regarding the condensing coils of the still off the second level corridor had greatly eased.
You have to remember that I'm reporting Waldo's version of events, plus a few things that came out after the visit of the Space Federation VIP's to Venus Station. So it's very possible that Waldo was not quite the popular, respected figure that he describes. Be that as it may, one day Katuki came rushing down to Waldo's room for advice and assistance. He was so worried that his speech had become quite normal.
"Waldo, we got a bad problem coming up," he said. "Next week's the tenth anniversary of the terra-forming project. President Dinsdale and a whole bunch of VIP's are coming here for a big ceremony in Station Down—special algal spraying, banquet, everything. Trouble is, they'll be coming to Station Up as well, to give us a big inspection."
It was nice to receive Katuki's comments in words rather than in mime. Waldo could see no reason for the big panic, though.
"Don't worry about it, Katuki. He's not called Dandy Dinsdale for nothing, you know. I've seen him before. He wears thousand-credit suits and he changes his clothes five times a day. He has his own barber and his own manicurist. He can't stand dirt or filth in any form—it's a mania with him. I'm telling you, you'll never get Dinsdale within six levels of the vat areas."
"Waldo, he don't know what it's like here. He asked to see everything, and that dumb superintendent took him at his word. Rusty up in the guard block showed me the tour plan and it includes all our levels." Katuki paced up and down Waldo's room, two steps each way, then hammered his fist on the steel bulkhead. "Damn it, Waldo, what use is a prison if you can't keep the wrong people out of it?"
While Katuki was talking, Waldo's stomach had moved steadily up his throat and was now pushing at the roof of his mouth. That damned still! It would be the ruin of all of them. Why had he been fool enough to let a few bottles of liquor get him mixed up in another illegal deal? Why hadn't he stayed out or blown the whistle?
Because he'd heard Katuki's views on the way you deal with squealers and double-crossers, that's why. Waldo had the feeling that he'd been predestined for this set-up, ever since the judge had said the words Venus Station. Katuki was still airing his woes. "They want me to go over to Station Down and explain the way we feed the algal seeders. That means I can't be here to steer the tour the way I'd like to. I'll rush back over here as soon as I can, but I can't rely on one of those other dummies to show Dinsdale and the other brass round here. Christ, can you imagine Blattwitz or Grapelli leading the tour? It's taken me two years to teach those two to wash up before they come through for dinner. Waldo, it has to be you. You'll have to make sure the visitors only see what we want them to see. You'll do it, right?"
Waldo began to appreciate the narrowness of the beach between the devil and the deep blue sea. He was stuck with it.
"Right." He thought of the old advice to the woman being raped: relax.
"Then I'll make sure we have tour signs put up, to make it as easy for you as we can," Katuki went on. "People always follow arrows, even off a cliff. That's where I'd like to send that pansy Dinsdale. Damned troublemaker, why wouldn't he settle for a banquet like anybody else?"
Katuki had real venom in his tone. Waldo realized that Katuki's dislike of President Dinsdale went well beyond a difference of political opinions.
* * *
They spent most of the next few days scrubbing everything in sight, preparing for the big tour. When President Dinsdale finally appeared on the third hydroponics level, however, surrounded by a retinue of VIP's, it was clear that the cleaning efforts hadn't been sufficient. Waldo's predictions had been on the mark. Dinsdale, impeccably dressed and coiffured, was holding a fine silk handkerchief close to his nose, and his expression left no doubt as to his feelings. The superintendent handed the tour over to Waldo with obvious relief. Dinsdale's great disdain had penetrated even the superintendent's bovine brain. As they walked along the third level, Waldo babbled anything that happened to come into his head. He was preparing himself for the detour that would have to be made down on the second level, to by-pass the still.
Fortunately, President Dinsdale showed no interest in anything at all beyond his handkerchief. A couple of the others, though, were looking about them keenly and seemed to understand what they were seeing. Waldo led them nervously to the second level staircase, following the arrows that Katuki had set out.
As they came out into the second level corridor Waldo stopped, unable to believe his eyes. Instead of diverting them down to the lowest level, the arrows were pointing along the corridor, straight past the still.
The group was passing Waldo, blindly following the arrows, before he could get his brain working. They had reached the trapdoor and in two more seconds would be able to see the still.
At that precise moment, Waldo had a sudden flash of total insight, an apocalyptic vision of truth. Katuki, in his hatred of President Dinsdale, didn't care whether they saw the still or not. He was planning to kidnap Dinsdale and hold the party hostages. Why else would he let the secret of the still be revealed?
In moments of great stress, the body moves faster than the brain. While Waldo was still dithering mentally, his legs moved him over to the corridor wall. His hands, unprompted, pulled the red lever. The trapdoor swung open, and President Dinsdale and his entourage disappeared with a chorus of screams.
Waldo advanced to the edge of the pit, unsure what to do next. His sudden vision of absolute truth hadn't given him a follow-up act. He dithered on the brink, noting absently that all of the party with the exception of Dinsdale himself had managed to land feet-first in the sewage channel below. The President had eventually regained his footing, but he had suffered a sea-change into something undeniably strange and overpoweringly rich. He had lost his handkerchief along the way.
As Waldo hesitated, Katuki suddenly appeared at the second-level staircase on the other side of the trapdoor. He was carrying a heavy wrench in his hand. "Dirty double-crosser," he shouted, and ran towards Waldo. Waldo turned to flee, but another vatman was coming the other way, a heavy iron pipe in his hand and a murderous expression on his face. Waldo's problem of what to do next seemed to be solved.
With a moan of anticipation, he flung himself backwards through the trapdoor and immersed himself in his work.
In due course, the lowest level's ever-rolling silent stream bore Waldo, President Dinsdale and the rest of them along into the lowest hydroponics area, where they were able to climb out onto the catwalk beside the big tank full of blue-green vegetation. Waldo was the last to arrive, and had expected a certain amount of commotion to greet him. But the reality exceeded his wildest imaginings. He had never heard anything like it.
* * *
Waldo didn't mention that he had saved President Dinsdale from being captured and held hostage? That's not too surprising. You see, it just wasn't true. The trouble with apocalyptic visions is that they often won't withstand a rational examination. Waldo's wild surmise about Katuki's intentions seemed to make sense to him at the time. Why else would Katuki let the still be seen?
The trouble was, it wasn't a stil
l at all. If Waldo had known as much science as the average ten-year-old, he'd have realized that those coils were just part of the standard water recycling equipment on the Station. The thing that Katuki didn't want the visitors to see, and the thing that he was sure Waldo wouldn't let them see, was the lowest level hydroponics tank.
Katuki had misinterpreted Waldo's wink when they had taken their first tour. As Waldo said, just because you've seen a piece of cheese doesn't mean you'd recognize a cow if you saw one. The thing that so excited the visitors who had been plunged through the trapdoor—with the exception of Dinsdale, who had his own preoccupations—was the lowest level hydroponics tank.
The healthy vegetation there, producing oxygen for use in the Station, was also producing—under Katuki's guiding hand—four acres of top-quality taliza plants, for shipment to Earth in return for liquor and other luxuries. Waldo's own knowledge of botany, as a deep hypnoprobe verified, stops at mixed vegetables.
Waldo was given an award by the grateful Space Federation for breaking the taliza ring. And Katuki's repeated attempts to get to Waldo during the trial and kill him with his bare hands proved pretty conclusively that Waldo had never had any part of the drug ring. But evidence or no evidence, Waldo never during the course of the whole trial received anything but a negative vote from President Dinsdale.
Afterword.
At the end of 1976, I attended a NATO Advanced Research Institute meeting in Bermuda. When I went there, I felt very conscious of the fact that Shakespeare's "The Tempest" is set on an island very like Bermuda—Shakespeare had of course never been there, but he had heard descriptions of the place. It must have formed part of his inspiration.
While I was there, what emerged was not much like "The Tempest." It was the unsavory tale you have just read. Make of that what you will. Myself, I blame it on the changes that have taken place in the island since 1613.
WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT
"So we now group all the World into six classes of essence. First, and lowest, the rocks and earth; second, all plants; third, all animals; fourth, mankind; fifth, the corporeal spirits that abide in water and air; and sixth and highest, the pure spirits of the gods, who rarely assume earthly shapes.
"Now we can divide these groups further. First—"
"Cyrus! Hey, Cyrus!"
He peered through the arch to his left, then back to the podium. Luckily, the lecturer didn't seem to have heard the loud whisper. Cyrus waved his hand feebly, trying to banish the purple robe and grinning face without attracting attention. No good. Damon was beckoning, and all set to try again at higher volume. Damn the man! He put on his sandals and slipped silently out of the auditorium.
"What are you playing at, Damon? Don't you know Cambyses came all the way from Persis to give these talks? I want to hear him!"
"Wordy old fool. Who cares where he came from? It's no use to come from the Tin Isles, even, if you talk rubbish when you get here . . ."
Cyrus sighed. As his hair turned grey, his own respect for age and wisdom grew, but Damon had all the impatience of youth and royalty.
"It's not rubbish. He's a great philosopher—and I want to hear him. What were you kicking up that fuss for—couldn't it wait a while?"
"No. You said I'd have a chance to win back that wager any time I wanted to. Well, I want it now. Come on, quick, let's go."
Outside in the hot sun, he threaded the way quickly down the hill from the lecture hall, ignoring Cyrus' protests of age, lack of breath and arthritis, and stopped before the hanging barrel of the vintners.
"They're tapping the big tun of white wine, into the little barrels for shipping. I want to bet on it. I'll bet I can get nearer than you can on the number of little barrels it fills. Double or nothing—if you win, you get the other mare; if you lose, I get the first one back."
Cyrus stood in the courtyard and scratched at his beard. A wager was hard to resist, but there was something odd here. Damon's bets ran more to the number of teeth of a whore, or the color of a horse's droppings. He hesitated, squinting at and assessing the big tun and the little barrels.
"You've not been cheating, now, have you? No talking to the tellers?"
Damon's grin was suspiciously broad. "Haven't talked to a teller, haven't seen a measuring table. Now, what's your bet?"
"Never seen one like this tapped before?"
"Never."
"We-ell, all right then. I bet—six score."
"—And I bet—eight and a half score. Nearest is the winner. Come on, let's count. They'll be finished before dark."
One hundred and seventy four barrels—and a lost mare—later, suspicion approached certainty. Cyrus sat on the warm marble bench in the forecourt and looked up at Damon's triumphant face.
"A bet's a bet. So, you won—now, tell me the secret."
Damon sat next to him and laid a brown hand on Cyrus' shoulder.
"It's not a secret really. You know One-Ear Afshar came back a month ago from a merchant trip to the Mid-World Sea? Well, he bought a slave in Alexandria, a big, hulking barbarian from the ends of the Earth. He got him cheap, because his old owner said he was a useless idiot who couldn't be relied on to watch a fire without letting it go out.
"He really is an idiot, too. I've talked to him. But he's possessed. Sometimes when you ask him something, you can see the spirit take him, and he's gone for a while. Then at last he gets his body back.
"Anyway, I found out that this demon answers questions about numbers. I asked about the tun and the barrels this morning, and he gave me the answer—between eight and nine score. Wasn't really cheating, was it?"
"Not far off it." Cyrus looked down the hill to the blue, salty lake. "A devil who can calculate, eh? Now there's a new one. I've heard of devils who give a man the strength of ten, and even of devils who tell the future. But devils who calculate? Wait now, maybe there's an answer here. He saw in the future how many barrels they would get, and told you that. Maybe he answers number questions by seeing ahead."
"Maybe. Ask him if you like. He's been standing over by that well for a while, doing absolutely nothing." Damon raised his voice. "Hey, Melos. Come over here!"
The figure by the well was motionless for a long moment, before he looked around him.
"Here, over here on the bench."
Close up, he towered over them, much taller even than Damon. His hair was a pale, fine mop, and Cyrus saw that his eyes were not brown, but a cold blue.
"Yes, Lord?"
"Melos, how many barrels like this one in the great tun?"
"As I said, Lord, between eight and nine score." The words were strangely accented but grammatically perfect. A frown spread across the pale features and he looked puzzled. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing wrong," Cyrus broke in. "Melos, I am sure that is not your original name. What were you called in your country?"
The reply was a broken mixture of rough gutturals. Cyrus raised his eyebrows, then smiled.
"I think I'll have to call you Melos. I won't even try and pronounce the other.
"Melos, there is no problem. But suppose I had used, say, this drinking horn to empty the great tun. How many horns to empty it then?" He turned to his companion. "There, Damon, that should answer any question of seeing the future. No one will empty the vat with that."
The slave looked at the complex curved shape of the horn, and at the simple cylindrical barrel. He hesitated. "Lord, forgive me, but I cannot . . . unless . . ."
The face muscles slackened, the jaw dropped and all expression went from the eyes. The fair hair blew in the breeze over the empty mask of an idiot.
"There, see, Cyrus—possessed. I told you so. Now if you wait a minute, he'll be back."
Melos stood motionless. After a long pause, the mouth closed, the eyes focussed, and he said, "One moment, Lord."
He took the horn and small barrel over to the well, drew water and filled the barrel using the horn. Then he returned. "Between sixty-two and sixty-eight score, Lo
rd."
Cyrus' eyes were alight with excitement. "Damon, do you know what he did—or I think he did? Well, never mind. Melos, before you were a slave, were you a teller and measurer?"
"No, Lord. A sailor."
"Then how did you know how many horns would be needed to empty the tun? Come, speak up, don't be afraid."
Melos hesitated. "I am not afraid, Lord. But I do not know how to explain. It is many things. It is measurement, and counting, and—other things for which I have no words."
"See," Damon nudged Cyrus. "Possessed, clear as crystal, just as I said."
"No, Damon, there's more to it than that. Damn it, I'll have to talk to One-Ear Afshar, if I can."
"Why don't you? He's just down the hill."
"I'm not sure he'll talk to me. It was before your time, and I don't talk about it much, but it's my doing that he's called One-Ear. I was the one who caught him cheating on his weights. They lopped off an ear. Long ago, but he's never forgiven me.
"I'll talk to him anyway—in the morning."
He looked back to Melos, who stood motionless and expressionless. "That's all, Melos."
"Yes, Lord." The slave did not move or speak further as Cyrus and Damon went on down the hill towards the stables.
* * *
"He's an idiot all right—most of the time. What do you want with him, Cyrus?"
Afshar, spade-bearded and powerful, looked slantingly up. "Like him for a boy friend, maybe, would you? I don't think Thais would be too fond of that idea. Still, he'd be a nice big armful, I'll give you that." He smiled, showing a graveyard of rotting teeth.
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