Wyst: Alastor 1716 (11 page)

“Her name is Skorlet.”

Sarp emitted a wild hoot of derision. “Skorlet! Neat? With
her incessant cult-globes? And ‘quietly self-contained’? She is not only
talkative but meddlesome and domineering! She hectored poor Wissilim so that
he not only changed levels but moved clear out of Old Pink! What kind of fool
do you take me for?”

“You misunderstand her; she is actually quite mild. Look
here; I’ll even include an inducement.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, I’ll paint your portrait, in several, colors.”

“Ha! Yonder hangs the mirror; what else do I need?”

“Well—here is a fine stylus I brought from Zeck: a scientific
marvel. It draws carbon and water and nitrogen from the air to formulate a soft
ink which it then burns permanently upon paper. It never fans and lasts a lifetime.”

“I write very little. What else can you offer?”

“I don’t have a great deal else. A jade and silver medallion
for your cap?”

“I’m not a vain man; I’d only trade it out on the mud fiats
for a mouthful of boater, so what’s the odds? Good old gruff and deedle with
wobbly to fill in the chinks: that’ll do for me.”

“I thought Kedidah was such a trial.”

“Compared to Skorlet she’s an angel of mercy. A bit noisy
and over-gregarious; who could deny it? And now she’s taken up with Garch Darskin
of the Ephthalotes… In fact, here she comes now.”

The door swung aside; into the apartment burst Kedidah with
three muscular young men. “Good, kind Sarp!” cried Kedidah. “I knew I’d find
him borne! Bring out your jug of swill and pour us all a toddy; Garch has been
at practice and I’m exhausted watching him.”

“The swill is gone,” growled Sarp. “You finished it
yesterday.”

Kedidah took heed of Jantiff. “Here’s an obliging fellow!
Jantiff, fetch us in your jug of swill. Hussade is a taxing occupation and we’re
all in need of a toddy!”

“Sorry,” said Jantiff rather stiffly… I’m not able to
oblige you.”

“What a bore. Garch, Kirso, Rambleman; this is Janty Ravensroke,
from Zeck. Janty, you are meeting the cutting edge of the Ephthalotes: the most
efficient team on Wyst!”

“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” said Jantiff in
his most formal voice.

“Jantiff is very talented,” said Kedidah. “He produces the
most fascinating drawings! Jantiff, do us a picture!”

Jantiff shook his head in embarrassment “Really, Kedidah, I
just don’t knock out these things on the spur of the moment. Furthermore, I
don’t have my equipment with me.”

“You’re just modest! Come now, Janty, produce something
witty and amusing! Look, there’s your stylus, and somewhere, somewhere, somewhere,
a scrap of paper… Use the back of this registration form.”

Jantiff reluctantly took the materials. “What shall I draw?”

“Whatever suits you. Me, Garch, or even old Sarp.”

“Don’t bother with me,” said Sarp. “Anyway I’m going out to
meet Esteban. He’s got some mysterious proposal to communicate.”

“It’s probably just his bonterfest; rd go instantly if I had
the tokens. Jantiff, perform for us! Do Rambleman; he’s the most picturesque!
Notice his nose; it’s like the fluke of an anchor: pure North Pombal for you!”

With stiff fingers Jantiff set to work. The others watched a
moment or two then fell to talking and paid him no further heed. In disgust
Jantiff rose to his feet and left the apartment. No one seemed so much as to
notice his going.

Dear all of you:

Thanks forever for the pigments; I’ll guard these with great care.
Skorlet snerged my last set to paint designs upon her cult-globes. She hoped to
sell them for a large sum, but now she thinks Kibven, the Disjerferact
booth-tender, cheated her. She’s dreadfully exasperated, so I walk very
carefully around the apartment. She’s become abstracted and distant; I can’t
understand why. Something is hanging in the air. The bonterfest? This is a big
event both for herself and for Tanzel. I don’t pretend to understand Skorlet;
still I can’t evade the impression that she’s disturbed and unsettled. Tanzel
is a pleasant little creature. I took her to Disjerferact and spent all of half
an ozol buying her such delicacies as toasted seaweed and sour eel
tarts. The Disjerferact traders are none of them Arrabins, and a more curious
collection you never saw. Disjerferact covers a large area and there are thousands
of them: folk from I don’t know where. Monte-banks, junk dealers,
prestidigitators, gamblers, puppeteers and clown-masters, illusionists and
marvel-makers, tricksters, grotesques, musicians, acrobats, clairvoyants, and
of course the food-sellers. Disjerferact is pathetic, sordid, pungent,
fascinating and a tumult of color and noise. Most amazing of all are the Pavilions
of Rest, which must be unique in the Gaean universe. To the Pavilions come Arrabins
who wish to die. Proprietors of the various pavilions vie in making their services
attractive. There are five currently hi operation. The most economical
operation is conducted upon a cylindrical podium ten feet high. The customer
mounts the podium and there delivers a valedictory declamation, sometimes
spontaneous, sometimes rehearsed over a period of months. These declamations
are of great interest and there is always an attentive audience, cheering,
applauding or uttering groans of sympathy. Sometimes the sentiments are
unpopular, and the speech is greeted with cat-calls. Meanwhile a snuff of black
fur descends from above. Eventually it drops over the postulant and his explanations
are heard no more. An enterprising Gaean from one of the Home Worlds has
recorded a large number of these speeches and published them in a book entitled
Before I Forget.

Nearby is Halcyon House. The person intent upon surcease, after
paying his fee, enters a maze of prisms. He wanders here and there in a golden
shimmer, while friends watch from the outside. His form becomes indistinct
among the reflections and then is seen no more.

At the next pavilion, the Perfumed Boat floats in a channel. The
voyager embarks and reclines upon a couch. A profusion of paper flowers is
arranged over his body; he is tendered a goblet of cordial and sent floating
away into a tunnel from which issue strains of ethereal music. The boat
eventually floats back to the dock clean and empty. What occurs in the tunnel
is not made clear.

The services provided by the Happy Way-Station are more convivial.
The wayfarer arrives with all his boon companions. In a luxurious wood-paneled
hall they are served whatever delicacies and tipple the wayfarer’s purse can
afford. All eat, drink, reminisce; exchange pleasantries, until the lights
begin to dim, whereupon the friends take their leave and the room goes dark.
Sometimes the wayfarer changes his mind at the last minute and departs with his
friends. On other occasions (so I am told) the party becomes outrageously jolly
and mistakes may be made. The wayfarer manages to crawl away on his hands and
knees, his friends remaining in a drunken daze around the table while the room
goes dark.

The fifth pavilion is a popular place of entertainment, and is conducted
like a game of chance. Five participants each wager a stipulated sum and are
seated in iron chairs numbered one through five. Spectators also pay an
admission fee and are allowed to make wagers. An index spins into motion, slows
and stops upon a number. The person in the chair so designated wins five times
his stake. The other four drop through trap doors and are seen no more. A
tale—perhaps apocryphal—is told of a certain desperate man named Bastwick, who
took Seat Two on a stake of only twenty tokens. He won and remained seated,
his stake now a hundred tokens. Two won again, and again Bastwick remained
seated, his stake now five hundred tokens. Again Two won, and Bastwick had gained twenty-five hundred tokens. In a nervous fit
he fled the pavilion. Seat Two won twice more running. Had Bastwick remained
seated, he would have won 62,500 tokens!

I visited the pavilions with Tanzel, who is very knowing; in fact
my information is derived from her. I asked what happened to the cadavers, and I
learned rather more than I wanted to know! The objects are macerated and
flushed into a drain, along with all other wastes and slops. The slurry, known
as “spent sturge,” is piped to a central processing plant, along with “spent
sturge” from everywhere in the city. Here it is processed, renewed and replenished
and piped back to all the blocks of the city as “ordinary sturge.” In the block
kitchens the sturge becomes the familiar and nutritious gruff, deedle and wobbly.

While I am on the subject, let me recount a rather odd event which
took place one morning last week. Skorlet and I chanced to be up on the roof
garden when a corpse was discovered behind some thimble-pod bushes. Apparently
he had been stabbed in the throat. People stood around muttering, Skorlet and I
included, until eventually the Block Warden arrived. He dragged the body to the
descensor, and that was that.

I was naturally perplexed by all this. I mentioned to Skorlet that
no one on Zeck would touch the corpse until the police had investigated thoroughly.

Skorlet gave me her customary sneer. “This is an egalistic
nation; we need no police, we have our Mutuals to advise us and to restrain
crazy people.”

“Evidently the Mutuals aren’t enough!” I told her. “We’ve just
seen a murdered man!”

Skorlet became annoyed. “That was Tango, a boisterous fellow and
a cheat! He notoriously trades, his drudge, then never finds time to work off
the stint He won’t be missed by anyone.”

“Do you mean to say that there won’t be an investigation of any
kind?”

“Not unless someone files a report with the Warden.”

“Surely that’s unnecessary! The Warden hauled the body away.”,

“Well, he can hardly write out a report to himself. can he? Be
practical!”

“I am practical! There’s a murderer among us, perhaps on our very
own level!”

“Quite likely, but who wants to make the report? The Warden would
then be obliged to interrogate everyone, and take, endless depositions; we
would hear no end of disgraceful disclosures and everyone would be upset, to
what real end?”

“So poor Tango is murdered, and no one cares.”

“He’s not ‘poor Tango’! He was a boor and a pest!”

I pursued the subject no further. I speculate that every society
has a means of purging itself and ejecting offensive elements. This is how it
is accomplished under egalism.

There’s so much to tell you that I can’t come to a stopping place.
The public entertainments are prodigious. I have attended what they call a “shunkery,”
which is beyond belief. Hussade is also very popular here; in fact, a friend of
mine is acquainted with certain of the Ephthalotes, a team from Port Cass on
the north coast of Zumer. None of the Arrabins play hussade. All the players
hail from other parts of Wyst or offplanet. I understand that the games are
rather more intense here than—

A tap-tap-tap. Jantiff put aside his letter and went to the
door. Kedidah stood in the corridor. “Hello, Jantiff. Can I come in?”

Jantiff moved aside; Kedidah sauntered into the room. She
gave Jantiff a look of mock-severe accusation. “Where have you been? I haven’t
seen you for a week! You’re never even in the wumper!”

“I’ve been going late,” said Jantiff.

“Well, I’ve missed you. When one gets used to a person, he
has no right to slink off into hiding.”

“You seem preoccupied with your Ephthalotes,” said Jantiff.

“Yes! Aren’t they wonderful? I adore hussade! They play
today as a matter of fact. I was supposed to have a pass but I’ve lost it.
Wouldn’t you like to go?”

“Not particularly, I’m rather busy—”

“Come, Janty, don’t be harsh with me. I believe that you’re
jealous. How can you worry about a whole hussade team?”

“Very easily. There’s exactly nine times the worry, not
counting substitutes. Nor the sheirl.”

“How silly! After all, a person can’t be’ split or
diminished merely because she’s very busy.”

“It depends upon what she’s busy at,” muttered Jantiff.
Kedidah only laughed. “Are you going with me to the hussade game? Please,
Janty!”

Jantiff sighed in resignation. “When do you want to go?”

“Right now; in fact this very minute, or well be late. When
I couldn’t find my pass, I was frantic until I thought of you, dear good boy
that you are. Incidentally, you’ll have to pay my way in. I’m utterly bereft of
tokens.”

Jantiff turned to face her, mouth quivering in speechless indignation.
At the sight of her smiling face he gave a sour shrug. “I simply don’t understand
you.”

“And I don’t understand you, Janty, so we’re in balance.
What if we did? How would we benefit? Better the way we are. Come along now or
we’ll be late.”

Jantiff returned to his letter:

—elsewhere.

By the strangest coincidence, I have just escorted my friend to
the hussade game. The Ephthalotes played a team known as the Dangsgot Bravens,
from the Caradas Islands. I am still shaken. Hussade at Uncibal is not like hussade
at Frayness. The stadium is absolutely vast, and engorged with unbelievable
hordes. Nearby one sees human faces and can even hear individual voices, but
in the distance the crowd becomes a palpitating crust.

The game itself is standard, with a few local modifications not
at all to my liking. The initial ceremonies are stately, elaborate and
prolonged; after all, everyone has plenty of time. The players parade in
splendid costumes, and are introduced one at a time. None, incidentally, are
Arrabin. Each performs a number of ritual posture, then retires. The two
sheirls appear at each end of the field, and ascend into their temples while a
pair of orchestras play
Glory to the Virgin Sheirls.
At the same time a
great wooden effigy is brought out on the field: a twelve-foot representation
of the karkoon
[21]
Claubus, which the sheirls pointedly ignore, for reasons you will presently understand.
A third orchestra plays blatant braying “karkoon” music, in antiphony to the
two
Glorys
.
I took note of the folk nearby; all were uneasy and
restless, shuddering at the discords, yet earnest and intent and keyed taut
for the drama to come. The sheirls at this point stand quietly in their temples,
enveloped in Dwanlight and a wonderful psychic haze, each the embodiment of
all the graces and beauties; yet, certainly, through the minds of each whirl
the thrilling questions: Will I be glorified? Will I be given to Claubus?