Land of Unreason (20 page)

            "Oh. One of your fellow
crawfish?"

            "Naturally. Splendid
chap; one of the Astak family, who bear argent a blood-ax gules. Very old line,
but he was a younger son and had to difference it. I remember the time Krebitz
and Sir Karkata and I drove a whole tribe of bullheads from the Muddy Pool.
They were lined up like this, y'see—" he illustrated with a string of
pebbles—"when we took 'em in the flank and then, Santiago for the red and
whitel I say, that was a real fight. I lost an arm."

            Barber looked at Sir
Lacomar's two muscular arms.

            "Came off near the
shoulder," Lacomar went on, without noticing, "and that's always a
bad business. Had to go into retreat for months while I was growing the new
one. Don't know who'll take the war-cry and the profit after Krebitz; young
Cambarus, most likely. He's the old man's sister's grandson. But an unlicked
whelp—an unlicked whelp; never been blooded, and he has no real right to be
Warden of the Inner March, because that doesn't pass in the female line. I
suppose Scudo will put in his claim and then You-know-who will want to
arbitrate."

            "Are you people going
to let him?"

            "Hah! Not without
putting up the standard and giving Him the battle of his life. That's His way
of getting a foot in the door. Did it with the trout in the West Reach, you
know. Not that anyone minded what happened to the crew of damned pirates. Served
'em right."

            "Didn't they
fight?"

            "Tried. But they were
disorganized, d'you see, and had no proper weapons. Not like us. Besides, the
gods took their chief, Christy, just as the attack started. They're always
just."

            "Perhaps," said
Barber, "they were less interested in Christy's character than in his
edibility."

            Sir Lacomar's face froze a
trifle. "Now, now, young fella, don't blaspheme. All very well to talk
that way among your fellow poets, and personally, I quite understand you have
to be a little loose in your morals, keep up the artist's life, eh? Sowed a few
wild oats myself, once. But it simply won't do if you want to be taken up by
the right people. Sort of thing a mussel would say."

            "Thanks, I'll watch
it," said Barber humbly. "They're not very well brought up, are
they?"

            The knight snorted.
"Wouldn't do 'em any good if they were. Education, my boy, is something
for which the masses are not fitted. Like trying to make a sword out of a piece
of wood; must have a bit of the right stuff first. What they need is a spot of
discipline. Now, mind you—" he shook a finger under Barber's
nose—"I'll grant What's-his-name is no gentleman, and He gave little Cola
a pretty thin time of it. But you must admit He does know how to make His own
people look sharp. He'll turn them into something yet, mark my word. Wouldn't
do my mussels any harm to have a bit of that treatment, the ungrateful beggars.
Risk life and limb for 'em, give 'em sound government and stability, and what
d'you get? A deputation to ask for more holidays!" Another snort expressed
Sir Lacomar's supreme contempt for holidays, and he caressed his mustache with
energy.
"We
can't afford to take holidays. What if the trout came
down on a raid the afternoon we chose for a little outing? Would the mussels
defend us? Turnabout's fair play and fair play's a jewel, I always say."

            The crawfish-knight was
actually puffing in his indignation and Barber judged it prudent to change the
subject. "You know," he said, "I'm on rather a serious mission
as it happens. I'm looking for a piece of property that belongs to the Mother
of the Gods, and I've been led to believe it might be in Whoozis' possession.
Could you suggest how I might .go about recovering it?"

            Sir Lacomar frowned.
"Don't know about that, my boy. I hardly think You-know-who would violate
property rights. Not His style; too big for that sort of thing, if you
understand."

            "All the same I'd like
to look into it. Where does Thingumbob keep himself?"

            "Nobody knows but Cola,
and she doesn't tell. You might ask the leeches. They're subjects of His."

            "Where do I find
them?"

            "Upstream a way, where
a tributary comes in from the right bank."

            "Well, I think I'll go
see. Good-by and thanks." Barber poised on the edge of the tower to take
off.

            " 'By, old man, and
'ware fish. Oh, by the way, I'd be grateful if you'd look into His methods a
little. Interested in finding out how He achieves such order."

            As Barber swam upstream, a
vague general malaise told him, more through instinct than reason, that he
needed another breath of air. He slid easily upward and his eyes broke surface
into that dead, black-and-white world which faded into a blur, at any distance.
Like stepping into a worn, old-fashioned movie. An insect rocketed past, and
one eye followed it unbidden, but its appearance did not telegraph
"food" to his sphincters as those of the dragonflies had before he
plunged into the life of the Pool. Perhaps it was just as well that he had lost
the desire for that form of nourishment; an adjustment that had brought his
world more into harmony with his own temperament and the inherited human
taboos.

            But it did set him wondering
about the dietetic arrangements of the underwater people. He had not felt
hungry yet and was not now—what would he do when he was? Before he could
achieve any speculation on the question his eye caught the fleeting movement of
a shadow on the bottom as he propelled himself through the
atmosphere—hydrosphere—with easy, powerful strokes, and it occurred to him that
his froggish-ness had made him not too ill-adapted to this new environment.
Compare it with the world above, he told himself smugly. Like the daring young
man on the flying trapeze, he could sail through the skies above such
earth-bound agrarians as the mussels. Or even Sir Lacomar, probably. He
experienced a surge of pity for that hardy veteran of the limited outlook.
Brave Sir Lacomar, I sympathize; but you cannot, like me, ride the airs with
Kaja-Cola.

            In fact, he might do worse
than stay there beneath the silvery, tight-fitting surface with that
tempestuous and lovely—vole. The word brought the meditation to a halt. He was
an interloper in this submarine world, more separate from her thought and way
of life than Barber of the Embassy had been from Kaja, of Budapest or Soho. It
wouldn't do; it wouldn't do even if he could abandon his origins to live her
life, under the Laws of the Pool. For that matter, he could not abandon those
origins. It was an attempt to do that, at Fawcett's farm, that had brought him
here, produced the mutation. Correct enough for the Yank, who had another and
different destiny to fulfill, as the life of the submarine world was the dish
for Cola. He, Barber the frog, the Barber of Seville, would only risk another,
unhappier metamorphosis by the attempts to share their tasks and contentments
when he was geared for other, more difficult jobs.

            No escape except upward,
then; no path but the hard and hateful one of a duty he had not sought. For
that matter, which he did not even know how to perform. He remembered with
dismay a tag from old Nietzsche: "He who cannot find the way to his ideal
lives more shamelessly than the man without an ideal." The most and best
he could do was carry on.

            "Good morning! Good
afternoon! Good evening!" called a voice. Barber looked down to find
himself just moving past the entrance of a tributary so hidden in reeds that he
might have missed it altogether but for the sound. He banked and planed down
beside the curious-looking individual who had called out. Like the mussels, he
was innocent of hair. Forehead and chin receded from a sharp-nosed, vacuous
face whose mouth was set in a mechanical grin; there was a nice, sun-tan brown
around the grin, but whenever the individual moved it became evident that his
back was green, a sharp dividing line running down arms and ribs.

            A limp boneless hand was
thrust into Barber's. "Welcome to Hirudia!" said the individual, with
energy. "Welcome to the land of order and plenty!"

-

            "Can you tell me where
I can find the leeches?" Barber said. "Unless you're one of
them."

            "Of course I'm a leech,
and proud of it!" Greenback whistled sharply, and from among the reed
columns was joined by three more, bearing to him the same maddening resemblance
that Chinese have for each other. All bowed. "Visitors are welcome to
Hirudia, sir! We are honored to escort you—an unforgettable experience."

            The last phrase was a trifle
ambiguous, and Barber found the welcome a disturbing parody of that he had
received in the Kobold Hills. "Well, I don't know that I want to go that
far," he said. "Perhaps you could give me the information I
want."

            "Certainly, sir. It
would give us the greatest pleasure."

            "Very well. Can you
tell me where the Low One lives?"

            The leeches looked at each
other, their expressions changing. They drew off a few steps and put their
heads together—whisper, whisper. After a moment or two the first one came back,
his face bland. "We're very sorry, indeed, sir, but we are not allowed to
discuss political matters. There are certain regulations, as I'm sure you'll
understand. But if you would care to step into Hirudia, the Boss could inform
you. The Boss knows everything."

            "Who is your
Boss?"

            "Why, he's our father
and mother! It was the Boss who rescued us from weakness and disorganization,
and co-ordinated us into our present state of order and progress. He keeps us
safe from the depredations of the trout, and protects us from the encirclement
of the crawfish. A wonderful person! So modest and intelligent! We'd do anything
for the Boss."

            There was something not
altogether reassuring about this avowal, the more so since Barber's
lie-detecting sense gave him no intimation that the leeches were telling
anything but the truth. He hoped the Boss was as good-natured as he seemed to
be admired. In any case the leeches were undersized, flabby creatures, visibly
weaponless. If it came to another Kobold Cavern difficulty, he could handle a
dozen of them— and he held here an advantage he had never held there. He could
leap up; swim away at a speed he was certain the leeches could not match.

            A sense of confidence in his
own powers enveloped him as he followed the first leech, with the other three
behind. The leader chattered continuously over his shoulder. "Hirudia has
become a changed place since our Boss arrived. You wouldn't recognize it.
Everything systematic, the work done so easily and efficiently. The rest of the
world will someday learn to appreciate us, whom they have neglected. We cannot
remain forever hemmed in among the reeds."

            "Hm," said Barber.
"And what's your personal part in this, if I may ask?"

            "Me? Oh, I have
leisure."

            "You have
leisure?"

            "Certainly. Take the
mussels, for instance. They live in one of the old-fashioned, competitive
communities, where economic pressure forces everyone to endless and hopeless
labor." He rattled this off like a train of cars going over a switch, then
paused and added proudly:
"Our
Boss assigns certain of us to the
duty of having leisure. We take it outside the city, where passers-by can see
us and know the lies that are told about our beautiful land for what they are.
That is social justice."

            "Do you have leisure
twenty-four hours a day?"

            "Of course. There is no
time wasted in Hirudia. The competitive communities are monuments to
inefficiency and waste."

            "I should think you'd
get bored," said Barber, holding to the point.

            "Bored? Oh, no! Boredom
is a product of the class system and social disintegration. One never gets
bored in Hirudia. It would be disloyalty to the achievements of our Boss."