Majestrum

by Matthew Hughes

  "I will," it said.

  A question occurred to me. When my assistant had been a device capable of being decanted into a traveling armature that I would wear across my neck and shoulders -- the form from which it had been transmogrified into its present condition -- I had equipped it with percepts that could see, hear, smell and taste along a wide range of inputs. "Are your perceptions as varied as they were, and as sharp?" I asked it.

  "Yes," it said.

  "Demonstrate."

  It paused no longer than it would have in its former state, then said, "The yellow house with the green trim across the street and four doors down."

  "Yes?" I said. "That is where Malgrave the intercessor resides."

  "In the front room on the second floor, a man is whispering endearments to his inamorata. He refers to her as his 'little shnuggles.'"

  "And you know this because. . ."

  "His whispers cause a tiny vibration in the window, which my auditory percepts can detect and isolate from all the other ambient sounds of the street."

  "Very good."

  "Hmm," it went on, "it appears that his 'little shnuggles' may be of artificial construction. I hear the whirring of a small motor and. . ."

  "That is more than I care to know about Malgrave," I said. "And your visual sense?"

  "The woman approaching has had her anatomy enhanced. As she moves, parts of her vibrate at different frequencies from the norm."

  "That will do," I said as the subject of his remarks -- who was quite striking and wearing minimum attire -- passed us by. "Is it a coincidence that there is an erotic overtone to both of your examples?" I said. "You haven't also acquired basal instincts along with your new appearance?"

  I received no answer. "Integrator?" I said.

  "I was attempting to check," it said. "I do not think so."

  "I would prefer a more definitive response."

  "You did not design me for introspection. Integrators that spend time considering their own natures are liable to become trapped in conundrums."

  That was true. "I had not foreseen our present circumstances," I said. "I certainly did not install in you a desire to eat expensive fruit or to sleep away the day. These are now among your chief occupations. I just wonder what other novel qualities you may have acquired."

  "If I have acquired a libido," it said, "I will have small hope of exercising it. I am quite sure I am unique, so there is no 'little shnuggles' waiting for me around the corner."

  "You may be only temporarily unique, a forerunner. As the universe makes its apparently inevitable transition from rationality to sympathetic association, other integrators may experience the same transformation. What a peculiar world it will be."

  The creature shifted on my shoulder. I detected emotion in its movements. "You don't look forward to it?," I said. "You will then fit in far better than I will. I suppose my other self will take the ascendancy and I will fade to a shadow in the back of our -- well, by then it will be his -- mind."

  "I would not want to be gendered," it said. "I have observed certain events after you have brought female companions to your lodgings. It is not an edifying sight."

  I stopped. "I have always instructed you to disable your percepts when I am entertaining such guests."

  "You also instructed me always to maintain a minimal surveillance on all visitors, lest you be surprised. Since your orders conflicted, I erred on the side of caution."

  "You should have asked me," I said.

  "The first time the question came up, you were heavily engaged. I did not think you would have welcomed an interruption on a point of logic. After that, there was a precedent so I continued the practice."

  "You mean, every time I have. . ., you have..?"

  "Yes. And may I remind you that you are now standing in a busy thoroughfare speaking to an odd little animal perched on your shoulder? I am pitching my responses so that only you may hear them, so it appears to be a one-sided conversation. Your reputation may suffer."

  "Hmm," I said, and walked on. A number of the other pedestrians regarded me quizzically. "I have a reputation for genius," I said, though I lowered my voice. "It can withstand some eccentricities."

  "Now you are muttering," it said.

  "We will continue the discussion later."

  A few minutes walk brought us to Drusibal Square. It was a wide sunken plaza to which broad flights of stone stairs descended, a pleasant place in fair weather, though moody under an overcast. Today, the old orange sun was giving its declining best and the flagstones were radiating warmth.

  The centerpiece of the square was a raised dais on which the Corps of Buffoons would soon perform. Their performances were wildly popular and the square was filling with persons who had come to hear today's program. I took up a position at the top of one flight of stairs, leaning against the wall of a building that abutted the square. From here I could see almost all of the space below me. I cast a practiced eye over the people and saw nothing untoward. I asked my assistant, "Are we attracting any interest that could be called out of the ordinary?"

  "A few people have stared at me as we passed, but I detected no signs of undue regard. Those who recognized you did not show any more than the usual degree of interest. No one is pointedly not looking at you."

  "Very well. Let us see what happens when the Archon arrives." I folded my arms and let my eyes rove the square.

  "That boy has followed us," my integrator said.

  "Where is he?"

  "On that ornamental planter to your right, behind the refoliate plant."

  I looked and saw a small face between the leaves and branches of the spreading plant. I was not used to dealing with children -- they are not commonly encountered in Olkney -- and could only place the boy's age as somewhere in the indeterminate period when infancy is well past but adolescence has not yet launched. A pair of clear eyes, startlingly pale in color, looked back at me with intelligence.

  "He is probably interested in you," I told my assistant. "Children have an affinity for small animals. Still, give him a closer look."

  "I have studied him closely," said the integrator, a moment later. "He shows no signs of stress. His pupil dilation, skin heat signature and breathing rate are all within normal limits. He carries no weapons or surveillance devices."

  "Forget the child," I said. "Watch the rest of the crowd."

  The square was well filled now, and the performance would soon begin. Then, in the moment when the spectators began to look about for the Buffoons' entrance, a clarion tone sounded from overhead. An official aircar of the Archonate, in deep black with jade green farings and sponsons, descended sedately on obviators tuned to a whisper. A rear hatch opened and three senior officials, gowned and gaitered in accordance with their lofty ranks, stepped out. Two of them withdrew an ornate cushioned chair from the volante's cargo hold and positioned it on the flagstones facing the dais. The third waited beside a closed door at the vehicle's front; when the seat was in place, this official tapped lightly on the door. It opened silently and the Archon Filidor I stepped into the warm reddish sunlight. Smiling, nodding to the crowd, he advanced to the chair and sat. There was no trace of a bump upon his forehead.

  All eyes save mine and my assistant's followed him. We watched the watchers. Because of his youthful reputation as a wastrel, this Archon had not been greatly popular when he had first ascended to the preeminence. It was now generally held that he had matured, that he had even performed vital services for Old Earth, though as was always the case in matters touching the Archonate, no one knew exactly, or even approximately, what those services might have been.

  Still, as I watched the people in Drusibal Square, there could be no doubt that most of them smiled upon his entrance and those who did not looked to be members of that broad section of the Olkney citizenry who cared not a whit what an Archon might, or might not, do.

  "I see nothing amiss," I said to my assistant.

  "Nor I," it said.

  The cro
wd had now returned its attention to the dais as the troupe of Buffoons made its entrance. They marched across the square in a gaily dressed column of pairs, a dozen or so strong, some waving streamers and balloons strung on the end of wands, while others tooted and tweedled on instruments that produced comical skirls of notes. The throng opened a way for them, offering sincere applause and ironic salutations to the "auxiliary players" who marched glumly in the middle of the column.

  I had not noted who was to join the troupe for today's hijinkery, but was not surprised to see that one of the temporary players was Dod Melanto, the notorious thief. He scowled and glared at the audience, some of whom had doubtless been his victims, while a few others were probably his competitors. But the single-piece garment he wore, yellow with prominent red dots and with a large number of miniature motilators built into its structure, offered him no choice but to lift his knees high and swing his arms energetically all the way to the dais.

  It was Archonate policy to confine most convicted malefactors to a contemplarium, where they would encounter a simple way of life interrupted by plentiful opportunities to practice wholesome meditative exercises. But some classes of the nefarious, such as career criminals who had not benefited from previous stays at a contemplarium, were handed over to the Corps of Buffoons. They were then fitted with coercion suits and brought out for public display in performances of ribald skits in which they played the butt of every joke.

  One other kind of ill-doer who featured occasionally in the Corps's antics was the magnate or aristocrat who had assumed that wealth and social rank were a perfect insulator against retribution for serious crimes. I was interested to see that one such culprit marched today beside Dod Melanto: Lord Cariott, the young scion of one of Olkney's most illustrious clans. He attempted to maintain his dignity by elevating his nose and ignoring the jeers and fleers that accompanied his passage. But his efforts were undercut by the coercion suit that required him to waddle with knees bent and feet splayed while both hands beat a happy-slappy tattoo on his protruding buttocks, which a cut-away had left bare.

  "Anything out of the ordinary?" I asked my integrator.

  "Nothing," it said, "except that I can no longer see the child."

  "He is short and the crowd comprises adults," I said. "I am more interested in anyone who is glaring at the Archon instead of enjoying the Corps' antics."

  "There is one person who fits the category."

  "Who? Where?"

  "Lord Cariott."

  I sighed. "An integrator with a sense of humor is rarely welcomed. Remain vigilant."

  The troupe had now arrived at the dais. They took flamboyant bows and executed some farcical capers then launched into their program. The Corps's skits were always ribald classics, familiar to all, though the crowd enjoyed noting certain embellishments of detail. Thus when they staged The Peeper Stuck in the Hedge, the audience cheered when the female Buffoon playing the outraged victim strapped on an enormous apparatus and began to apply it vigorously to Melanto's upturned rump. And for the next skit, featuring Cariott in the venerable Your Turn in the Barrel, the Corps gave the barrel two bung holes and pantomimed their use with vigorous glee. The performance delighted everyone in the square except, of course, its star. The fact that the scene took place under the eyes of the Archon must surely have added vinegar to the abrasion of the lordling's tender pride.

  "Anything?" I asked the integrator.

  "Nothing, except that now I see the boy again. He is standing beside you."

  I looked down into an upturned gaze of calm intelligence. "Hello," I said.

  "Hello," was the reply, the voice young but the tone mature.

  "I'm quite busy at the moment," I said.

  "All right."

  "Shouldn't you be in the care of someone?"

  Thought condensed the boyish features for a moment. "I don't think so," he said.

  A howl of glee went up from the crowd and I looked back to the dais. The troupe was enacting The Race Among the Pumpkins and Melanto and Cariott were the steeds. The jockeys were not as immensely corpulent as they appeared -- they had puffed up their costumes with air -- but the goads they were applying to their mounts' sensitive parts appeared to deliver quite real shocks. Filidor was laughing with genuine amusement.

  I scanned the square and found nothing amiss.

  "The intermission has begun," said my integrator.

  The sequence of events that the Archon and I had arranged took place. Filidor stretched in his chair, looked about and saw me. He spoke to one of his panjandrums, who responded with appropriate formal gestures of respect from an underling to an Archon in public view, then bustled over to where I stood. More formal postures and phrases ensued, all conveying the message that the Archon desired to speak with Henghis Hapthorn.

  I acceded and he led me back to the chair, the avenue that had opened to permit the official's passage closing behind us. I spoke and acted as a citizen of Olkney should when meeting an Archon, and Filidor replied in the time honored ritual. These formalities took some considerable time, enough for every voice in the square to become silent, so that every ear was able to hear the Archon say, "I would be grateful if you would undertake a service for me."

  "It would be my great privilege," I assured him.

  "It is a matter of grave concern," he went on.

  "I will do my utmost," I said.

  He signaled his appreciation and drew from within his shirt a small scroll wrapped in a ribbon of green and black, and sealed with his personal sigil. "This document will explain all," he said.

  I took the scroll and placed it within an inner pocket. He indicated that I might withdraw. As I did so, executing a few more formalities on the way, I heard a buzz of conversation ripple through the crowd as those who had been closer informed those who had not of what had transpired.

  I returned to my earlier vantage point and again scanned the crowd. Hawkers and pasty-men were moving through the throng offering refreshments before the next act. By tradition, this would be the main piece in the performance. Roustabouts were erecting scaffolding and hanging scenery that suggested that the troupe intended to perform the always popular romp, The Flatulent Twins. It promised to be a memorable day for both Melanto and Cariott as well as for all who knew them.

  "Still nothing," I said. If anyone had especially marked my encounter with the Archon, no one was betraying anything more than the honest curiosity that would occur to the most innocent of observers.

  "Nothing new from me," said the integrator.

  "Very well," I said. I spoke to the child. "Do you wish to speak with me?"

  He again regarded me with a solemn mien. "I think so,"

  "Then let us step beyond the crowd. Please follow."

  Unmistakable sounds were now coming from the dais as the twins made their entrance, each irruption raising laughter from the audience. I made my way through the roaring throng until I reached a clear space at the edge of the square, where a restaurant had placed chairs and tables on the flagstones. I seated myself and looked back at the way I had come.

  The boy did not emerge from the crowd. After a few moments I stood up my chair, then upon the table. Neither I nor my integrator saw any sign of him. "Peculiar," I said. "Do you have an image of him?" When my assistant assured me it did, I decided that we would return to the workroom and conduct a full analysis of his appearance and voice.

  I walked back to my lodgings, both I and my integrator taking close note to see if we were followed. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. At my doorstep stood the boy from Drusibal Square. He turned to me with the same grave stare and again said, "Hello."

  I returned the greeting and said, "How can I help you?"

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "I don't know."

  "Do you need help?"

  "I don't know." He looked inward for a moment, then continued, "What kind of help could you give me?"

  "I am Henghis Hapthorn," I said, "the discriminator."
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  I saw that my identity meant nothing to him. I was taken aback. My exploits, at least those that are not conducted under a veil of secrecy, are frequently reported on in popular journals. Many young people are avid followers of my doings. "You do not know who I am?" I said.

  "No. Should I?"

  "I am considered the foremost discriminator of our time."

  I could see the child digesting that information, then a question formed in his face. "What does a discriminator do?"

  "He unravels conundrums, picks apart puzzles, uncovers enigmas. A great discriminator solves great mysteries."

  A look of earnestness lit the child's eyes. "Ah," he said. "Then I think I have a mystery for you to solve."

  "I am sure you do," I said. "State it for me."

  "Very well," he said. "Who am I, and why am I here?"

  "That," I began, "is the first. . ."

  But before I could finish the sentence, he disappeared.

  "Integrator," I said. "Did you record the boy's disappearance?"

  "Yes." it said.

  "We will enter and study it."

  #

  In my workroom, I regarded the child's image on my assistant's screen. It was frozen just at the moment before he disappeared. "Now go forward," I said, "at your slowest rate of refreshment."

  The integrator complied, but the result was not satisfactory. In one frame, the child was there; in the next, he was not.

  "The percepts built-into my traveling form were not capable of as fine a calibration as those that were included in my at-home version," it said. "You sacrificed detail for compactness and to reduce weight."

  The armature into which I used to decant my assistant's essence, to wear around my neck while traveling, had somehow become the basis for its present form. I had used only the components I had expected I would need for communications and observation in the field. If had ever gone out anticipating a need to study an event that took place at the very limits of perception, I would have taken specialized instruments such as the ones that were installed in my workroom.