Six Moon Dance (24 page)

“All the valley farms gone?” asked Myrphee g’Mindon, stroking his chins. “I used to get quite a good goat cheese from up there.”

Estif nodded. “The firm hired some supernume outlyers to place some sensors near the big caldera on the scarp. It’s too high to climb to without breathing apparatus, which we’ve ordered but not received yet. Two of the men did get high enough to see that some new vents have opened during the past year, and there’ve been gas and ash flows all down the valleys. I suggest we ask the firm to give us their best estimate on city security. We can’t evaculate Naibah or Sendoph without considerable notice!”

There were nods, some sanguine, some troubled.

Estif cleared his throat to signify a new matter, tapping restless fingers on the sheet of heavy vellum that lay on the table before him. Writing on vellum was considered sufficiently traditional that receiving it would not insult either pre-or posttechnological societies. It was, therefore, habitually utilized for formal interplanetary notifications.

“Newholme has received a communication from … from the Questioner,” he said in a voice that was usually dry and emotionless but trembled now, very slightly. “The Questioner intends to visit Newholme, and it sends a formal announcement of that fact via a freighter that now sits outside Naibah. Does anyone here have any idea why it would be coming just now?” He regarded the problematical document, biting his lip, as though the meaning might become clear through protracted observation.

The ECMOB shifted restlessly, each member glancing covertly at his neighbors. Slab g’Tupoar, a portly fellow with dark, squirming eyebrows, snarled, “For Family’s sake, ‘Stif. You know why now. There’s only two reasons it could be! Coming just now, I mean.”

Bony Bin g’Kiffle, moved to immediate belligerence, muttered, “Of all the stupid … Why must we deal with this?”

Myrphee g’Mindon struggled to his feet and wobbled unsteadily toward the information wall. “Questioner,” he said. “Enlighten.”

“Bionic construct,” murmured the wall. “Nominally female. Containing, in words of enactment, text and commentaries on Haraldson’s Edicts of Equity as well as wisdom of ages acquired since inception.” The wall hummed a moment, as though thinking. “Wisdom of ages not susceptible of definition.”

“Purpose of,” Myrphee grated in an annoyed tone. “Enlighten.”

“Purpose of Questioner,” said the wall. “Primary assignment: Assess member worlds of COW on regular schedule to determine continued compliance with edicts of Haraldson. Secondary assignment: Assess other mankind-settled worlds to determine if cultures meet minimal standards of ethical conduct regarding human rights. Final assignment: Take every opportunity to accumulate knowledge about cultures, mankind and other. Report to COW any divergence from council edicts applying to all mankind settlements, whether members or nonmembers of COW, regarding human rights, age or gender rights, or rights of indigenous races.” The machine silenced itself, then, with a whir said, almost conversationally, “Questioner is also authorized to order disposal of mankind populations who are egregiously transgressing the edicts.”

At this addition, Myrphee’s chins quivered, the tremor passing to those at the table as a little wind might move through a grove of trees, a sudden and collective shudder that left a trembling quiet in its wake. After some moments, Myrphee drew back his pudgy fist as though to hit the wall, but contented himself with an obscene gesture.

“Excrement,” he said feelingly.

“Gentlemen.” Estif tapped his little gavel, saying in his high, serious voice, “Come now. It’s unlikely to be … well, it just can’t be that bad.”

“About as bad as it can get,” grated Myrphee g’Mindon as he returned to his seat.

“Like tidal wave, tornado, forest fire,” offered Calvy g’Valdet, in the light, slightly amused tone that the other members often found offensive. Calvy made a point of being amusing about important things, and he did it in a way that came close to condoning immorality. Often the others punished him for it, as now, by seeming not to notice. If morals were the measure of a man, Calvy had no business being a member of ECMOB, for it was known that Calvy’s wife of some fifteen years had not bought a Consort, though her contract allowed her to do so. It was rumored that prior to his marriage, Calvy had pretended a lengthy business trip while actually spending a month or two in a Consort house, learning whatever dirty things it was that Consorts did, just so his wife would never supplant him in her affections. The story said he was in love with her, which if true, was both unmanly and indecent.

Though this story was known to the other members of ECMOB, none of them had ever discussed it with Calvy himself. Had they done so, custom would almost have required that they denounce his behavior. Pleasuring a wife was not proper for a Family Man, and they felt Calvy should be far too bowed down by guilt to be amusing.

Why then, Bin g’Kiffle asked himself, did Calvy seem to enjoy life so much more than he, Bin, who conducted himself in perfect accordance with custom? Bin’s couplings were unfailingly joyless, and reason dictated that the Hagions should, therefore, reward him more than they had! The cockade in his hat, the g’ before his name, and six children, four of them supernumes, did not seem a sufficient compensation for all his years of struggle. The thought was a recurrent one, and as usual it made him splenetic.

“The Questioner’s visit could mean total disaster,” he fumed, glaring at Calvy.

“Bin, let’s not overreact. Calm, please!” Now slightly peevish himself, Estif looked from face to face, annoyance plain on his own.

“What does it … she
say?”
Diminutive Sym g’Sinsanoi hoisted himself higher in his chair. It was a habitual movement, this hoisting up, though Sym appeared little shorter than the other men when seated. “She must say
something!”

Himself annoyed by all these festering feelings, Estif threw the vellum onto the table before him and sank into his chair. “The letter of announcement says she wishes to visit our lovely world, which she has not yet had the pleasure of assessing.”

Myrphee shifted in his chair, redistributing his considerable weight. “The Questioner will look at our way of life to see if we comply with the edicts. We are going to have to prove that we do comply with the edicts. Which means we will need the help of the Hags.”

“How many in the party?” asked Calvy g’Valdet, who was not given to muttering over what could not be changed. His way was to smile, to avoid recrimination, to cut through the tangle, to decide and move, to do what was necessary without endless nattering. No matter what the others might think of his morals, they all agreed that Calvy got things done.

“And, where will we put them?” asked Myrphee.

“Here in the fortress?” Bin g’Kiffle suggested. “It’s the easiest place. It’s already staffed with … ah, well, you know.”

“It has a human staff,” said Sym, sourly. “Chef, assistants, stewards. For reasons of security.” He put his hands together and examined the ceiling above him.

“How many are coming,” asked Myrphee, “with the Questioner? We need to know! One or two we could maybe … manage. More than that …” He scowled at the tabletop.

“I’m afraid the notice mentions an entourage,” admitted Estif. “There will be two Old Earthians to do the actual ‘contact work,’ as they call it, plus a Cluvian protocol officer, some bodyguards, plus whatever specialists she figures she needs. The protocol officer will arrive on planet before the others.”

“There’s no way we can keep the Hags out of it, I suppose?” Bin snarled.

“We didn’t receive the only copy,” said Calvy. “The Hags will have been notified as well.”

Myrphee squeezed his hands together until his knuckles made white dimples in the plump sausages of his fingers. “How about asking for a delay, on the grounds of insufficient notice, or time for preparation?”

Calvy said, “We’re not supposed to prepare, Myrph. She’s supposed to catch us as nearly unaware as makes no difference.”

“You don’t suppose she’s heard about …?” asked Slab, his eyebrows rising into a single hairy bar across his forehead.

It took no effort for the others to keep their faces carefully blank. They did not suppose. Every habit they had cultivated since childhood kept them from supposing. Not one of them would even momentarily consider that there was something particular on Newholme in which the Questioner might be quite interested. Even if the something particular bit them with long, sharp teeth on their collective ass, they would bear the pain without seeming to notice.

Considering that their true concerns were unspoken and nothing was put forward as a solution to the unspecified, the meeting lasted longer than necessary. Calvy tried a time or two to push for some resolution, but the general discomposure made decision impossible. Whenever the Hags or the edicts came into MOB discussions, the meetings dragged on while a chronic complainer vented anger at his wife or mother and a hobby-historian blathered on about olden times when there weren’t any Hags and when women did as they were damned well told. The committee always seemed to have at least one of each. At present they were Bin and Myrphee respectively. Though Calvy was a better historian than Myrphee, he didn’t blather about it.

Estif muttered, “If you’re sure the Hags are going to be involved, we ought to appear cooperative, I suppose. Is there a volunteer to take this document into Sendoph to the Haggery?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Bin g’Kiffle raised one hand. “I’m going back there tonight. I suppose I can take it.” He intended to catch the afternoon boat upriver, and could, in fact, deliver it that evening. It would give him an excuse for not going home immediately on arrival. As everyone in the room knew, Bin would use any excuse not to go home. His wife was a termagant.

“I’m going up to Sendoph tonight on business,” murmured Calvy. “I can take it if Bin doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“I said I’d take it,” snapped Bin. “And I will!”

Calvy bowed, making an ironic face. He intended to call on an old friend in Sendoph, and he was glad enough not to make a time-consuming call at the Panhagion.

Estif handed over the vellum and the fancy envelope with the seals and ribbons. Bin stowed it away in his leather-and-gilt document case, almost as important a symbol of status as his cockade and the g’ before his name. After which the men carefully affixed their veils across their faces, adjusted their honorable cockades, and took themselves back to home cities and places of business, where they belonged.

O
nly in the secrecy of the Fortress of Lost Men was the Temple in Sendoph referred to as “the Haggery,” and Bin g’Kiffle was careful not even to think the words as he climbed the wide stone steps leading to the huge bronze doors. One of the Consort Houses had doors like that, also, part of the cargo of the ship the first settlers had pirated. Pirated or not, males did not approach those doors for anything trivial. Males did not hurry when there were Hags in the vicinity. When at the Temple, even workmen or delivery men took their time, abating any tendency toward immodest alacrity. Here, everything was done slowly, deliberately, with due weight and moment.

Bin, therefore, climbed in a dignified, almost ritualistic manner. When he had completed this errand, he would take off his cockade and go to one of the basement taverns hidden in the warehouse district near the river. He would stay there as long as possible. He would tell his wife he had had an errand at the Temple, and if she didn’t believe him, the hell with her—the Temple offices were always open.

He was solicited by a holy prostitute, not a bad-looking boy, considering, and Bin produced a generous contribution while murmuring the acceptable excuse. Tonight was his wife’s night, he said. The prostitute smiled slightly and went back to his fellows. No one questioned that excuse, but one had to be a Family Man to get away with it.

Bin bowed outside the door, waiting until three very pregnant women had preceded him to the font, then dipped his own fingers in the water, thereby symbolically cleansing himself of the taint of business, the stink of profit. Here at the Temple, business did not apply. Here one could not set a price on a sentient life, though people did so constantly elsewhere in the city. Here one did not speak of gain. In the Temple, there was no network of honorable Family Men on whom one could depend for information or influence. Here Bin was simply another man of Sendoph, like any other man of Sendoph, whether g’family or otherwise.

He opened the small door set into the huge one and went through into the Temple forecourt, a broad semicircle of mosaic pavement that bordered the outer half of the circular Sanctuary. To one side, a gentle ramp led to the birthing rooms below. The pregnant women were already partway down, chatting among themselves. All devout women tried to bear their children in the Temple; certainly Bin’s wife had done so, for all the good it did. Five sons and only one daughter to show for it, and now his wife had a Hunk. Every cent he got for the girl would go to dower his eldest boy, and what was he to do with the others? He’d made the mistake of raising them above their expectations, at least the older two, so they were resentful and useless. He’d intended to start a dynasty, and now there was damn little wherewithal to start anything. Whatever he did, there’d be no profit in it!

Fifty feet above his head, the barrel-vaulted ceiling curved away to right and left, the air hazed by the smoke of a dozen incense kiosks. The opposite wall, concentric with the outer wall, was a row of pillared and heavily curtained arches, beyond which was the Sanctuary, the statues of the Hagions, the lofty seats of the Prime Hags, the rites and observances that kept Newholme ticking. Even at this time of night, there was movement through the curtained arches, and Bin checked his veil compulsively. If a man wanted a slow, agonizing execution, just appear in the Temple unveiled. That would do it. There were always women here, women quite willing and eager to be punctilious about male behavior. Not to mention the ubiquitous Haggers.