Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera (7 page)

“Yes, Sire!” Vitello cried, throwing himself on the floor at Chuch’s feet.

“It’s dangerous,” Chuch said. “I tell you that straightaway. But the reward is correspondingly great. It’s a chance at the big time, Vitello!”

“Sire, I am ready.”

“Then take my shoelace out of your mouth and listen closely.”

14

Dramocles reclined on a king-sized water bed in a corner of the sitting room he had had constructed in one of the smaller turrets of his palace of Ultragnolle. At the foot of the bed sat a slender minstrel girl clad in the traditional costume of russet and fawn undies. She was singing a ballad and accompanying herself on a miniature moog dulcimer. Golden sunlight with dust motes in it poured through high slit windows. Dramocles listened absent-mindedly to her plaintive song:

“
In faith it listeth not, nor likely

That the deer should, passing lightly

’
Neath the arches of a forest sprightly
,

Be yet uncerted in a glowing pass.

“
And silver finches, dropping slowly

Through a pass which, ever lowly,

Doth yet made a sound of crowly

As in a tinkling glass.

“
And jocund daffodil, in wind so blowly

Causes chill in those who knowly

Play the deadly love-game sowely

With one so crass.

“
And em’rald raven, not untoely
–”

“Enough,” said Dramocles. “These old ballads have a sinister sound to one who understands them not. Fah! Old shoes! I am unamused.”

“Would Your Majesty prefer that I perform delicious obscenities on your regal body?” the girl inquired.

“Your last obscenities left me with an aching prostate,” said Dramocles. “Better leave that sort of thing to the experts. Now go away, for I would cerebrate.”

As soon as the minstrel girl was gone, Dramocles regretted having sent her away. He didn’t like being alone. But perhaps, in solitude, a sign would be vouchsafed him concerning his next move in pursuit of his glorious but still unknown destiny.

It had been three days since the conquest of Aard-vark, two days since his robot army had invaded Lekk. Count John, Snint, and Adalbert were demanding explanations. Their behavior toward him had become sarcastic in the extreme. Adalbert, in particular, seemed to be losing his grip. He spent his nights in the gambling halls of Thula Island, losing vast sums and impressing the local ladies with tales of how he had been a king before Dramocles had taken away his patrimony. Worst of all, he was charging his gambling debts to the Exchequer of Glorm, and Dramocles really didn’t have the heart to stop him. The pretense that he was intefering in the affairs of their planets out of purely altruistic motives was wearing increasingly thin. Even the loyal Rufus was upset–still loyal, but his mouth now a grim line as he contemplated the vistas of dishonor that lay before him no matter what he did.

And Dramocles still didn’t know what to tell anyone. It had all seemed so right at the time. Wasn’t destiny supposed to work itself out? Why, after such sure indications, was he still in such a state of confusion? If only a new sign or portent would be given to him. Surely he must have arranged for something like that, thirty years ago, when he had set all this up.

His computer swore it had no more envelopes, no clues of any sort, nor was it expecting to find any. Perhaps something had gone wrong. The next link in the chain of revelations–perhaps another old woman–might have met with some sort of misadventure, might be lying dead in a ditch, as often happened to old ladies who meddled in the affairs of royalty, especially when invited to do so by royalty itself. Or one of his enemies might have learned of his plans through an unlucky inadvertence on Dramocles’ part, like bragging in some low tavern while drunk, or talking in his sleep while lying with some wench, and taken steps to prevent their completion. Or he might simply have forgotten to prepare the proper sequence thirty years ago before having Dr. Fish expunge his memory of the matter.

Now he had conquered Aardvark, a place he didn’t have the slightest interest in, and soon he would have Lekk, a place he cared for even less. And he also had the hostility of his son, Chuch, who felt left out, as usual; and his wife Lyrae was irritated with him; and all, so far, for nothing. What was most annoying was the fact that he didn’t know what to do next.

Dramocles gnawed his hairy knuckles, trying to think of something good to do, or, if not good, at least something. He couldn’t think of a damned thing. Furiously he called for his computer. It came in quickly, having been lurking in the corridor in anticipation of such a call.

“You still don’t know where the next piece of information is?” Dramocles demanded.

“Alas, Sire.”

“Then can’t you at least make me some sort of contingency plan?”

“I can suggest certain probability-ranked courses of action based on von Neumann’s recently discredited Theory of Games.”

“That’ll have to do. What do you suggest?”

The computer cleared his response bank–a low, gritty sound–and said, “It seems to me that you need a good irrational approach, since, if rationality could serve you, I’d have had the matter solved already.”

“Irrational,” Dramocles mused. “I like the sound of that. What do you propose?”

“Your Majesty might consider consulting an astrologer, phrenologist, tea-leaf reader, I Ching thrower, or, possibly best of all, an oracle skilled in trance states.”

“But which oracle?”

“There are many of repute on this planet. One in particular has a most excellent reputation. Your Majesty may remember–”

“My daughter, Drusilla,” Dramocles said.

“She has scored very well on the Rhine tests that the ancients left us.”

“My own daughter,” Dramocles said. “Why didn’t I think of her before?”

“Because it is Your Majesty’s penchant to think of the members of his family only once a year, two weeks after their birthdays.”

“Did I send Dru a present this year?”

“No, Sire, nor last.”

“Well, send her two magnificent gifts. No, make it three and we’ll take care of next year, too. And tell Max to get my space yacht ready. I’m leaving at once for Ystrad.”

When the computer had gone, Dramocles walked up and down the room, rubbing his hands together and chuckling deep in his chest like a lion. Good old Dru! She would go into her holy frenzy and figure out what he was to do next. And the beauty part was, she was utterly trustworthy.

15

“Good wot, Daughter,” Dramocles said, in the formal manner he sometimes adopted when moved by deep emotion.

“Hello, Daddy,” Drusilla said. Dramocles had just arrived in Ystrad. Father and daughter were seated in the pine-scented bower at the end of the garden. Below, the sluggish little waves of Lake Melachaibo lapped at the shore, faithful to their work of undermining the gray granite foundations of the castle, a job that would take uncountable centuries to accomplish, and that they therefore worked at without much urgency.

“Oh, Daddy,” Drusilla said, “I’ve been so upset and worried. All these years of peace, and now Aardvark and Lekk. Why are you doing it?”

“I guess it doesn’t look good, huh?” Dramocles said.

“People
are
talking.”

Dramocles laughed sardonically.

“They say you’ve suddenly become power-crazy, and that you intend to reestablish the old Glormish Empire. But that’s untrue, isn’t it? Father, what is the real reason behind your recent actions?”

“Well, Dru,” Dramocles said, “the fact is, all of this concerns my destiny, which I have just learned about.”

“Your destiny? You’ve found it at last? How wonderful! What is it?”

Dramocles said, “It’s a secret.”

“Oh,” Drusilla said, her disappointment evident.

“Now don’t get sulky. This stuff is so secret I don’t even know it myself. You’re the first person I’ve even told this much to, not counting my computer. I’m going to tell you what I know. I know you’ll keep my secret better than I will myself. I remember back when you were a little girl, you never told Momma about my girl friends, even though she always found out somehow.”

Drusilla nodded. Her love for her father and detestation of her mother was well known in circles intimate with the royal family. Now, on a drowsy Sunday afternoon, not long after her brother, Chuch, had departed, she scratched her left eyelid with her left index finger–an unconscious gesture that would have betrayed her inner perturbation to an observant observer, had one been present–and waited for her dearly beloved father to continue talking his way into trouble.

Dramocles said, “I actually discovered my destiny thirty years ago, soon after Father’s death. But circumstances were not right for me to do anything about it then. For various reasons, I had to have all memory of my destiny suppressed until now. Last week some of my memories returned and I got the first clue: capture Aardvark. The second clue bade me invade Lekk. But that was a few days ago and I don’t know what I should do next.”

“Can you tell me what your destiny is, Father?”

“I can’t because I still don’t know myself. Although many of my memories have returned, I still don’t have that particular piece of information. That’s why I’ve come here. I don’t know what to do next. I need your official oracular help.”

Drusilla looked at her father’s eager face, boyish despite his beard and shaggy eyebrows. Although her father’s story made little sense to her, she hoped to learn more later.

Rising, she took her father’s two hands. “Come, then, let us go to the Shrine of the Goddess. We will take the sacred substances. In a state of trance you will walk in the Palace of Memory, where all the answers lie.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dramocles said. “Those sacred substances of yours are the best dope on Glorm.”

“Daddy! You’re incorrigible!” Laughing, they proceeded to the Shrine Room.

16

Drusilla made her preparations in the dressing room just behind the oracular chamber. First she took a bath, using some of her dwindling supply of sacred bath salts, the secret of whose manufacture had been lost in the destruction of the ancient world. Her skin all tingly, she next anointed herself with a few precious drops of Mazola corn oil and dressed in the special robe used only for oracular mutterings. Dramocles smoked a cigarette during all this and thought of other matters.

They proceeded to the Shrine Room–a subterranean chamber carved from black basalt. It was dimly illuminated; torches, set in walled embrasures, cast long flickering shadows across the polished marble floor. At the far end of the long, narrow room was a pool of water. It reflected the austere face of the Goddess carved into stone above it. A faint monotonous drone of bagpipes and scratching of snare drums filled the air: a tape of these potent sounds had been activated by a pressure-sensitive switch as they had entered. Dramocles pulled his cloak more closely about him, suddenly chilled by the air of ancient and uncaring mystery that the place exuded.

Drusilla led her father up three flagstoned steps leading to the marble altar in front of the pool. The altar itself was composed of semiprecious stones joined by veins of silver. Upon its surface were three sandalwood boxes of various sizes.

“Is that where you keep the dope?” Dramocles asked.

“Oh, Father, jest not,” Drusilla said, her voice issuing deeply from her previously described chest. With reverent fingers she opened the first chest and removed from it a chamois bag pricked out in gold and silver thread. Opening it, she spilled a quantity of dried green herbal matter into an ebony handled sieve. Quick motions of her deft fingers separated the powdery residue from the seeds and twigs, the latter being reserved for the tame swallows who staggered around the castle’s atrium. She poured the herbal matter into a rectangle of rice paper inscribed with the name of the ancient Terran deity Rizla, deftly rolled it into a slender cylinder, lighted it, and gave it to her father.

“Far out,” Dramocles said, inhaling deeply. A second and third inhalation followed, each of them combined with an appropriate exhalation. Dramocles let smoke dribble out of the corners of his mouth and sniffed appreciatively. “Hey, where’d you get this stuff?” he asked.

They were speaking now the ancient lost psychedelic language of their visionary forefathers from Earth. Question and response proceeded ritualistically, in the manner revealed in the ancient records.

“It gets the job done,” Drusilla said.

“Dynamite,” Dramocles said reverently. “Kindly do not bogart that joint, my friend.”

“The trip is only beginning,” Drusilla said, passing the rice-paper cylinder and opening the second sandalwood box.

From it she removed a flat silver case. Opening it she laid out a highly polished gold mirror and a razor blade whose edge remained forever sharp. From a small bottle carved from a single ruby she poured a quantity of crystalline substance onto the mirror.

“Look at them rocks,” Dramocles said.