by I K Dirac
Orestia was unmoved.
“If you don't, your paymaster Splenditheran certainly does. You will have to ask him for it.”
De la Beche pondered for several seconds.
“Can I suggest a compromise. Ten down, non-refundable, and full payment of twenty-five on completion if Splenditheran agrees. I don't think even Splenditheran will be prepared to go more than that.”
Orestia nodded.
“That might be acceptable but we would need cast-iron guarantees that Splenditheran is prepared to pay.”
“Understood, but equally we will only pay for tip-top information. We would need to know all about that station – its systems, who is on it, who comes and goes, all of that.”
Orestia bristled slightly.
“Unlike some, Captain, we value our reputation for integrity, honesty and competence. You can rest assured that, if we say we will do something, it will be done with the utmost thoroughness.”
“Yes of course, Your Feminence. No offence intended. I think we understand each other. I will have a contract drawn up that I think will be satisfactory for us both.”
Jim had been on the Bridge during much of the negotiation. He watched as de la Beche leant back in his chair and Orestia's face disappeared from the screen and then he heard de la Beche's again.
“Commander Splenditheran. Lovely to talk to you again, darling. I really think we're on to something now, but I want to have a little chat about how we go from here.”
***
Jim was due back for his usual duties at Culpepper’s surgery. On his way back he could not help wondering who the Feminarchs were and how they might be able to discover things unknown to anyone else. Culpepper might be the one to ask and the Doctor would most probably be well lubricated and in expansive mood at that time of the day.
When he entered the surgery he saw Culpepper sitting at a bench on which were a number of glasses filled with amber liquids. He was tapping each with a metal spatula. He looked up as Jim came in.
“Now Jim, if you really know your whiskies, you should be able to tell which is which by the sound they make. This,” he said tapping one, “is a Glenbogle. Can’t you just detect hints of clear mountain streams, and mountain airs? And this,” tapping another, “is a Ballspocklangie, all smoky peat and soft rain. I have no idea what this one is,” he said, tapping a third. “I think it may be one of those dreadful blended concoctions that distillery companies insist on pouring down the throats of the undiscriminating.”
He tapped the others, claiming to identify each. Then lifting a glass, he said, “I shall now confirm my judgements,” and proceeded to down them all. “Spot on with most, although I did have a few doubts about the Spathbuckle and the Buckspathie. Same stream, I believe. Difficult to tell apart. Not that it matters. They’re neither of them very distinguished tots, I’m afraid. Bit oaty for my taste.”
Jim had tasted whisky a few times and wondered how anyone could tell one burning sensation at the back of the throat from another. He watched as Culpepper slumped back in his chair, his face radiating contentment, and decided it might be time to broach the subject of the Feminarchs. Culpepper shook his head.
“I’m not the one to ask, Jim. All that sort of stuff makes my head spin. Can’t stand it.”
Jim persisted.
“Is there anywhere else I might find out about them?”
Culpepper grimaced.
“Galactopedia might be the place but I don’t think I should let you see it. It’s banned, you know,” he added.
“Banned on this ship?”
The Doctor snorted.
“No, of course not. Nothing’s banned on this ship, more’s the pity, but it’s banned nearly everywhere else.”
Jim wanted to know why.
“The same old thing Jim: religion. All the great priests and panjandurms of the Galaxy say what’s in Galactopedia is against their religions – the only thing they agree on – so they want it banned and what they want they get.”
"Why would they say that?”
“A good question, Jim. I’ve asked myself that a few times. Some say it may be because Galactopedia is part of the Informatrix.”
“Why would that make any difference?” said Jim, puzzled.
A wry smile appeared on the Doctor’s face.
“Because they want to preserve ignorance, Jim. They think that ignorance is the precious gift that religion gives believers. They call it faith. All they need to know is that there is a God, and he’ll get them, if they step out of line. If Galactopedia is part of the Informatrix, then everything known is there. Believers might start getting ideas. That wouldn’t do at all for the priests and panjandrums.”
Jim thought he was beginning to understand but he still had questions.
“If the Informatrix knows everything, isn’t it a sort of god?”
“Depends how you look at it. Most of the gods I’ve ever heard of have been pig-ignorant psychopaths, but you never know. Some say that the Informatrix had a god called Bayze.”
“Bayze?”
“Yep, Bayze. Don’t ask me any more, Jim. All that stuff is way above my head.”
Jim thought it might be above his head too, but he decided it might be worth a try.
“So could I see if Galactopedia has any information on the Feminarchs?”
Culpepper shrugged.
“I suppose it won’t do any harm. Come over here.”
He gestured to a screen.
Feminarchy
It has been agreed by all recognized religious denominations that Feminarchy, Feminarchs, Feminauts, Feminultras and all similar such organizations, sects, cults and ideologies be proscribed in all territories under their suzerainty. Among many other offences and infractions, these organizations have been deemed guilty of: heresy, idolatry, blasphemy, libidinousness, dissidence, sacrilege and witchcraft.
16
Jim watched as Orestia's face appeared on the main screen of the Bountiful's deck. Her expression was as stern as ever.
“You are quite sure that Commander Splenditheran has authorized our payment, Captain?”
“Absolutely, Your Feminence, but as I have said, we will only pay top whack for top quality information. So what have you found out?”
Orestia's expression did not change.
“I think we have found out what you want. I can tell you that our members on Orson have provided us with valuable information.”
Jim saw de la Beche give a start of surprise.
“You have members on Orson?”
“Of course, Captain. We have members everywhere, since patriarchy is universal. It is particularly rampant on planets like Orson where polygamy is practised. Male Orsonians of the upper classes all take several wives. That produces a great deal of resentment among females, as you might imagine. That planet seethes with resentment against male domination. Sooner or later something will give, you mark my words.”
De la Beche smiled.
“I certainly will. So they feel grumpy about their husbands and spill the beans to you.”
“I wouldn't use those words Captain, but I can say that those down what you might call the pecking order, third or fourth wives, are often very receptive to our message. What they have told us is that this space station has been constructed as a pleasure palace for the very top echelons of Orsonian society, all male of course, and no more self-regarding cabal is to be found in the Galaxy. It has been given the name Arkadia.”
De la Beche gave a little chuckle.
“Et in Arkadia egos.”
“Pardon, Captain?”
“Just musing. Do carry on.”
“Apparently, every pleasure imaginable is available. The finest artistic objects from all over the Orsonian empire are kept there. The best chefs ply them with food and drink and naturally, even though they all have what amounts to harems on Orson, there are numbers of young females who think it their duty to satisfy their lusts. It is absolutely appalling.”
“I quite
agree, Your Feminence, absolutely appalling. What about the Kwokkah? Any news there?”
Orestia shook her head.
“Nothing specific, Captain. What we have been told is that it is Orsonian practice to hold sacred objects from planets that they have conquered as what might be called hostages. If those planets show any signs of revolt then they are warned that their sacred object will be destroyed and they will face the wrath of their deity. Most of them are superstitious enough to believe it. Apparently, many of those objects are on Arkadia to prevent any attempt at their recovery. So I think it is reasonable to assume that, if the Orsonians do have this Kwokkah, then it is probably there.”
De la Beche leant back in his chair. “What do we think?” He turned to Doctor Culpepper. “Sawbones, your thoughts.”
The doctor took a large sip of whisky and rolled it slowly round his mouth,
“Interesting, but where does it get us? I'd say it would be deuced difficult getting in and out of that thing without being seen.”
“What about you, Mister Betelgeuse?”
Mister Betelgeuse's face remained as impassive as ever.
“I accept Her Feminence's reasoning on the likely whereabouts of the Kwokkah, Captain, but I agree with the Doctor that it may be impossible to retrieve.”
De la Beche nodded.
“It does look tricky. Any help you can give us, Your Feminence? What do we know about this thing's defences?”
Orestia thought for a few seconds.
“We do know that no weapons are allowed on Arkadia itself. We were told that there had been a drunken brawl after one particularly debauched event and several Orsonians had been shot, so weapons were banned after that. Apparently, its external defences are handled by vessels of the Orsonian fleet.”
De la Beche grimaced.
“I don't think we fancy taking them head on. Is there any other way of getting on board? What about deliveries? All that food and drink must come from somewhere.”
“That method of entry did occur to us as well, Captain. It appears that all deliveries come from Orson itself, under armed escort.”
“What – all? Isn't there anything that comes from somewhere else?”
Orestia hesitated.
“We did hear that there might be one regular delivery that comes from elsewhere, but we haven't been able to confirm it.”
“That sounds more promising. Do go on.”
“Our source was very vague on this matter. Apparently, the delivery is of a meat called Chelodoney and it is delivered by commercial freighter from a planet called Desiderata. At present we know no more than that.”
De la Beche gave a smile of recognition.
“Ah yes, Chelodoney. We had some when we were on Orson and very delicious it was too. We need to know a bit more about how it gets in.”
Orestia bristled.
“I'm not sure there is anything more we could tell you, Captain. I think we have more than adequately met the contract specifications. I trust you will authorize payment immediately.”
De la Beche raised an eyebrow.
“I don't think so, Your Feminence. We are your customer and, as the saying goes, the customer is king, or should I say, in deference to you, queen. Can I point out to you a couple of points in our contract where I think you are falling a little short. Clause 2.2 states that you 'shall ascertain whether the said Kwokkah is stored, exhibited or otherwise to be found on the said space station' and Clause 3.1 states that 'in the event of the said Kwokkah being found to be aboard the said space station the contracted party shall use best endeavours to identify means of entry that could be used in pursuit of its recovery.' I do think that you have rather fallen short on both of them.”
Orestia was almost beside herself with indignation.
“Up to your old tricks again, Captain. Why I bother to deal with you at all, I cannot imagine. It was against my better judgement in the first place. Can I point out to you that Clause 2.2 begins 'In as far as it is reasonably possible ….', and, since we do not know whether the Kwokkah is actually on Arkadia, Clause 3.1 is not operative.”
De la Beche shrugged.
“You might think you have a bit of wriggle room there, Your Feminence, but you know as well as I do that arbitration is a bit of a lottery. Neither of us really want to trust to it, do we? What I am prepared to offer is a payment of ten thousand for work done so far, with the balance being payable on a mutually agreed successful outcome to enquiries. What would you say to that?”
Orestia spluttered for several seconds before regaining the powers of speech.
“I find that utterly unacceptable.”
“Let's not fall out over this, Your Feminence,” said de la Beche in a conciliatory tone. “All we want is a bit more information on this Chelodoney delivery. Who brings it, how it gets there and whether there is any way of getting into Arkadia using it. Not much to ask is it? I'm sure your organization can find that out without too much effort.”
Orestia continued to splutter.
“Glad we agree, Your Feminence. Look forward to hearing what you find out.”
Orestia slammed her fist down on the desk and shut off the communicator.
“He is absolutely impossible! Worse than any male I have had to deal with – and any female come to that.”
“And he wears such fancy frocks,” said Junipa, who had been sitting beside her.
Orestia glared at her.
“I take it you were being ironic?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Junipa, hurriedly.
Orestia pondered her next move. Initially she had wanted to tell de la Beche to stick his demands where no star would ever shine, but then she thought again. Convertible currency was hard to come by for the Feminarchy. It was needed to buy things that they could not produce themselves, but no planetary government was prepared to deal with them. They had to resort to barter and subterfuge, which meant scraping together a few Galactos here and a few there. The prospect of a large injection of cash was tempting. She turned to Junipa.
“What do we know about Desiderata?”
Junipa shrugged.
“Not a lot. Bunch of dumb farmers, so I hear. Usual thing. Women do all the work and the men sit around, drinking and smoking.”
“We must have members there.”
“Of course.”
“We need to get in contact with them. Find out what you can about this meat – what's it called?”
“Chelodoney.”
“Chelodoney. Male carnivores – worst of the lot!”
17
Try as she might, Junipa could not stop her thoughts reverting to the experiences of the morning. She had volunteered to join a programme at the Penthiliopic Institute of Psychosensual Research. The Institute had acquired an Orgasmobot, the latest model with all extras and add-ons, the only one on the planet. Volunteers were asked, under strictly controlled conditions, to record their experience with selected modules of the device's capabilities. Junipa's module had been the multi-orifice, uber-dominant, with the verbal level set at libidinous, one level below obscene. Volunteers were given half an hour on the device, one hour for recovery and a further two hours to compose their report. Junipa was determined that her report would be objective and detailed.
As she was finishing her report, she had been reminded of some of the less observant Feminarchs, who had tried congress with drones. They had all reported the experience to be deeply disappointing – lack of stamina, no verbal felicity, all over in a flash. All in all, not nearly as good as the real thing.
She turned to concentrate on completing a section of her post-doctoral thesis, which she had provisionally titled Quasi-semiotic hermeneutics and the exegesis of monogendered dialectics. She confidently expected that when it was completed it would not only be taken very seriously on Penthiliope, but would make waves across much of the Galaxy, where Feminarch ideas were beginning to penetrate. Just as she was wrestling with a particularly intricate hermeneutical conundrum, she heard O
restia's voice emanate from the communicator.
“Junipa, I assume you have made all the preparations for your trip to Desiderata?”
Junipa groaned inwardly. Feminarch solidarity was all very well, but sometimes there had to be a limit. She was attempting to resolve difficult and important theoretical questions. Visits to agrarian backwaters, where the pressing questions were the best way to grow vegetables, were not going to assist their resolution.
“Is it really necessary that I go? Couldn't we send someone else?”
Orestia's voice was firm as always.
“No. This could be a tricky mission. You need to be able to make decisions on the spot. There is no one else I could rely on.”
***
Junipa glumly surveyed her surroundings. The place was so hick – the corn doilies decorating the walls, the pictures of dancers in overalls and long, checkered dresses, the background music a bouncy, repetitive jig. She was sitting in the meeting place chosen by Feminarch members on Desiderata, a cafe in a tiny village waiting to meet local members who worked in farms raising Chelodoney for export to other planets. She had been advised that many locals were suspicious of strangers, especially ones who appeared to be very different from them, and so she should wear suitable garb and comport herself as meekly and inconspicuously as possible. She looked at the clothes she was wearing and shuddered inwardly as she felt the rough cloth of the doublet against her skin and viewed the long gingham skirt and large shapeless boots. She thought again about the warnings against ticks and other infestations that apparently were common in rural Desiderata, according to a guidebook she had read. She looked down and pretended to study intently a book that she had found on the table. It turned out to be a seed catalogue.
For fifteen minutes or so, she took in much more than she ever wanted to know about the properties, prices and availability of the multifarious vegetable, legume and grain seed available to the Desideratan farmer. Then, just as her eyes were beginning to glaze over, she heard a voice.