Big Planet

19 Wisdom for Lysidder

The sun dropped behind the fronds of Myrtlesee Fountain. A mesh of cirrus clouds flared golden in the sky. Dusk drifted in from eastern lands where night had already fallen over peoples and cities and tribes and castles still unseen.

A marble pavilion extended to the east of Myrtlesee Dome, enclosed by a colonnade of ornate design. Behind the colonnade was a pond of still water, dimly reflecting the afterglow with the fronds and ferns of the grove silhouetted in reverse. Four blond and slender youths bearing torches came from the dome. Their hair was cut in effeminate bangs. They wore skin-tight costumes sewed of red and green diamonds, black satin slippers with curled toes. They set the torches in tripods of dark wood, returned within.

A moment later six men in black kilts carried forth a square table which they placed in the exact center of the pavilion. The blond boys brought chairs, and the men in black kilts marched away in a single file.

The boys spread the table with a gold and brown-striped cloth, giggling like girls. At the center they arranged a miniature landscape—Myrtlesee Fountain in exact detail, complete with dome and pavilion, even to a table on the pavilion, where five persons sat to the light of tiny candles.

Flagons of liquor and wine were bedded in ice, trays of crystallized fruits, tablets of insect gland-wax, cakes of pressed flower petals were laid exactly in place, then the boys went to pose under the flaming torches, consciously beautiful.

Minutes passed. The boys fidgeted. Dusk gave way to feather-soft Big Planet night. Stars gleamed. A syrup-smooth breeze drifted through the colonnade to flutter the torches.

Voices sounded from the dome. Out on the pavilion came Mercodion, the High Dain of Myrtlesee Fountain and Charley Lysidder, Bajarnum of Beaujolais. Mercodion wore his richest robes, with a stole woven of pearls and metal. The Bajarnum wore a gray jacket of heavy soft cloth, red breeches, soft gray boots.

Behind came the Prefect Superior and two nobles of the Beaujolais empire.

Charley Lysidder remarked with pleasure at the table, glanced appreciatively at the statue-like youths, seated himself.

Wine was poured, food was served. Charley Lysidder was in high spirits and Mercodion extended himself to laugh graciously at his jovialities. Whenever there was silence a girl blew chords on a flute. When one of the diners spoke, she stopped instantly.

Ices and sorbets were brought in glass goblets, and finally pots of fuming incense were placed before each of the diners.

“Now,” said the Bajarnum, “now for our oracle, Claude Glystra. Originally I had planned to question him under torture, but the oraculation will prove easier for all concerned. He is a man of wide experience and knowledge; he will have much to impart.”

“A pity that such brief opportunity exists to plumb his wisdom.”

The Barjarnum shook a finger. “It is a matter you must concern yourself with, Mercodion—the maintenance of longer life in your oracles.”

The High Dain bowed his head. “It is as you say… And now I will order the oracle prepared and we will go to the auditorium.”

The hall was crowded with the rustling black-gowned priests. By custom hoods were not worn at night, but the characteristic motivation of reducing individuality to the lowest common denominator was expressed by a white head cloth banded loosely around the forehead, around the nape of the neck, forward under the chin.

Special ceremonial chants had been ordained. Twelve choirs situated each to a wall, mingled their voices in a twelve-part polyphony.

The Bajarnum, Mercodion and their retinue entered the hall, strolled to benches before the oracle’s dais. A serious-faced girl with shining blonde hair appeared at a side door. She wore black silk pantaloons and a gray-green blouse. For a moment she paused in the doorway, then slowly crossed the room, the only woman among hundreds of men, a peacock among crows. Eyes covertly followed her, tongues moistened celibate lips.

She stopped beside the Bajarnum, looked down at him with an oddly searching expression. Mercodion bowed politely. The Bajarnum smiled a cold tremble-lipped smile. “Sit down.”

The expression of intentness vanished, her face became blank. She sat quietly beside the Bajarnum. A whisper, a buzz, a rustle of garments rose from the spectators. By rumor the woman was the new toy of the High Dain. Eyes curiously probed his face, but the sallow skin was set like the rind of a pudding and no emotion appeared.

A sad chime sounded; a second tremor ran through the hall, a shifting of stance, a motion of eyes. The Bajarnum suddenly seemed to become aware of the assemblage; he muttered to the High Dain, who nodded, rose to his feet.

“Clear the hall. All must go.”

Murmuring, dissatisfied, the priests filed out the great doors. The hall was now near-empty, and reverberated with echoes of every movement.

A second chime sounded; the oracle appeared. Two prefects stood by his side, the Inculcator in his stiff white gown and tall hat followed close to the rear.

The oracle was wrapped in a robe of gray and red, and white swathing veiled his head. He walked slowly, but without hesitation. At the dais he paused and was lifted to the oracle’s seat.

The silence in the hall was like the inside of an ice-cave. Not a breath, not a sigh, not a whisper could be heard.

The prefects held the oracle’s arm, the Inculcator stepped close behind. He took the hypodermic from his hat, he swung his arm.

The High Dain frowned, squinted, jumped to his feet. “Stop!” His voice was harsh.

The watchers sighed.

“Yes, Dain?”

“Remove the head-swathing; the Bajarnum would look on the man’s face.”

The prefect hesitated, then reached forward, slowly unhitched the white burnoose.

The oracle looked straight ahead, down into the eyes of the Bajarnum. He smiled grimly. “If it isn’t my old shipmate, Arthur Hidders, dealer in leather.”

The Bajarnum made a slight inclination of the head. “More people know me as Charley Lysidder.” He examined Glystra with a narrow scrutiny. “You appear nervous, Mr Glystra.”

Glystra laughed, rather shakily. Enormous overdoses of vitamins, amino and nucleic acids were reacting on his motor system like stimulants. “You do me an honor of which I hardly feel myself worthy—”

“We shall see, we shall see,” said the Bajarnum all too easily.

Glystra’s eyes went to Nancy. She met his eyes a moment, then looked away^ He frowned. Seen in the new context beside the man he had known as Arthur Hidders, she took on a new identity—one not unfamiliar. “The nun,” he exclaimed.

Charley Lysidder nodded. “Rather a clever disguise, don’t you think?”

“Clever—but why was it necessary?”

The Bajarnum shrugged. “A fur-and-leather-dealer might conceivably accumulate enough Earth exchange to make the old world pilgrimage—but hardly likely that he would bring his talented young concubine with him.”

“She’s talented all right.”

Charley Lysidder turned his head, examined Nancy with dispassionate appreciation. “A pity, really, that she had to become a base tool of policy, she is apt at finer things… But that fool Abbigens dropped the ship too far from Grosgarth and I had no one at hand to serve me. Yes, a pity, since I will never use a woman fresh from another man’s couch. And now she must find another patron.” He glanced humorously at Mercodion. “I fancy that she will not need to seek far, eh, Dain?”

Mercodion flushed, darted an angry glance at Lysidder. “My tastes are perhaps as nice, in some respects, as yours, Bajarnum.”

Charley Lysidder settled back in his seat. “It’s no matter; I have uses for her in Grosgarth. Let us proceed with the oraculation.”

Mercodion waved his hand. “Continue.”

The Inculcator stepped forward, raised the hypodermic.

The point stung deep into Glystra’s neck. There was a feeling of injection, of pressure.

The prefect’s grip tightened on his arms, tensing in anticipation of his motion. He noticed that Nancy had turned her face to the floor; the Bajarnum of Beaujolais, however, watched the proceedings with lively interest.

A great dark hand clamped on his brain. His body expanded enormously; his arms felt twenty feet long; his feet were at the bottom of a cliff; his eyes were like two long pipes leading out on the world. The Bajarnum’s voice came like a sibilant whisper in a vast cave.

“Ah, now he squirms. Now it takes on him.”

The prefects held Glystra with practiced ease.

“Look!” exclaimed the Bajarnum delightedly. “Look how he flails about… Ah, he has caused me much trouble, that one. Now he pays the price.”

But Glystra felt no pain. He had passed beyond mere sensation. He was reliving his life, from earliest foetus up through the years, reliving, re-experiencing, re-knowing every detail of his existence. Reviewing these events was a great super-consciousness, like an inspector watching a belt of fruit. As each distorted concept, misunderstanding, fallacy appeared, the hand of the inspector reached down, twitched events into rational perspectives, smoothed out the neural snarls which had clogged Glystra’s brain.

Childhood flickered past the super-awareness, then early life on Earth, his training among the planets of the System. Big Planet bulked outside the space-ship port, again he crashed on the Great Slope of Jubilith; again he set out on the long journey to the east. He retraced his route through Tsalombar Woods, Nomadland, past Edelweiss, the River Oust, Swamp Island, down the monoline through the Hibernian March, Kirstendale, across the desert toward Myrtlesee Fountain. Present time loomed ahead; he plunged through like a train coming out of a tunnel. He was once more aware and conscious, with the whole of his life rearranged, all his knowledge ordered into compartments, ready for instant use.

The High Dain’s voice came to his ears. “You see him with his brain purged and clear. Now you must hasten; in a few minutes his life-force dwindles and he dies.”

Glystra opened his eyes. His body was at once warm and cool, tingling with sensitivity. He felt strong as a leopard, agile, flooded with potential.

He looked around the hall, studied the troubled faces of the people before him. Victims they were, the result of their inner warps. Nancy was pale as eggshell, her eyes full and moist. He saw her as she was, divined her motives.

The Bajarnum said doubtfully, “He looks perfectly happy.”

Mercodion answered, “That’s the common response. For a brief period they float on a sea of well-being. Then their vitality fails and they go. Hurry, Bajarnum; hurry if you wish knowledge.”

Charley Lysidder spoke in a loud voice. “How can I buy weapons from the System Arms Control? Who can I bribe?”

Glystra looked down at the Bajarnum, at Mercodion, at Nancy. The situation seemed suddenly one of vast humor; he found it hard to control his face.

The Bajarnum repeated the question, more urgently.

“Try Alan Marklow,” said Glystra, as if imparting a precious secret.

The Bajarnum leaned forward, excited in spite of himself. “Alan Marklow? The chairman of the Control?” He sat back, a pink flush, half-anger, half-anticipation, on his face. “So Alan Marklow can be bought—the sanctimonious scoundrel.”

“To the same extent as any other member of the Control,” said Glystra. “That is the reasoning behind my advice: if you plan to bribe any of them, the best person to subvert is the man at the top.”

The Bajarnum stared. The High Dain’s eyes narrowed. He jerked upright in his seat.

Glystra said, “As I understand it, you want weapons so that you may extend your empire; am I right?”

“In essence,” the Bajarnum admitted warily.

“What is the motive behind this desire?”

Mercodion raised his head, started to bellow an order, thought better of it, clamped his mouth in a tight white line.

The Bajarnum reflected. “I wish to add glory to my name, to make Grosgarth the queen city of the world, to punish my enemies.”

“Ridiculous. Futile.”

Charley Lysidder was nonplussed. He turned to Mercodion. “Is this a usual manifestation?”

“By no means,” snapped Mercodion. He could contain his fury no longer. He leapt to his feet, black brows bristling. “Answer the questions directly! What kind of oracle are you, evading and arguing and asserting the ego which you must know has been numbed by the drug of wisdom? I command you, act with greater pliability, for you will die in two minutes and the Bajarnum has much he wants to learn.”

“Perhaps my question was inexact,” said the Bajarnum mildly. He returned to Glystra. “What is the most practical method for me to acquire metal weapons at a low cost?”

“Join the Star Patrol,” said Glystra waggishly. “They’ll issue you a sheath-knife and an ion-shine free.”

Mercodion exhaled a deep breath. The Bajarnum frowned. The interview was not going at all as he had expected. He tried a third time. “Is it likely that Earth-Central will forcibly federate Big Planet?”

“Highly unlikely,” said Glystra, with complete honesty. He thought it was almost time to die, and sank limply into the chair.

“Most unsatisfactory,” grumbled Mercodion.

Charley Lysidder chewed his lip, surveyed Glystra with his deceptively candid eyes. Nancy stared numbly; for all his sharpened perceptions, Glystra could not fathom her thoughts.

“One more question,” said the Bajarnum. “How can I best prolong my life?”

Only by the sternest measures could Glystra control his features. He responded in a weak and doleful voice, “Allow the Inculcator to shoot you full of wisdom-stuff, as he has me.”

“Faugh!” spat Mercodion. “The creature is insufferable! Were he not three-quarters dead, I swear I would run him through… Indeed—”

But Glystra had slumped to the dais.

“Drag the hulk to the ’toir-room,” roared Mercodion. He turned to Charley Lysidder. “A miserable mistake, Bajarnum, and if you wish, a second oracle will be prepared.”

“No,” said the Bajarnum, thoughtfully surveying Glys— tra’s body. “I wonder only what was his meaning.”

“Aberrated mish-mash,” scoffed Mercodion.

They watched the prefects take the body from the hall.

“Strange,” said Charley Lysidder. “He seemed completely vital—a man very far from death… I wonder what he meant...”

A naked man stole through the night, trailing the odor of death. He came through Nello’s garden plot, ducked into the alley, quietly approached the street.

No one was in sight or ear-shot. He trotted quietly through the shadows to the house of the sword-smiths.

Light glowed yellow through the shutters. He knocked.

Nymaster opened the door. He stood stock-still, his eyes bulging. A second man came to look suspiciously over his shoulder—Corbus, who stared a breathless moment. “Claude,” he said huskily, “You’re—you’re—” his voice broke.

Glystra said briskly, “We’ve got to hurry. First a bath.”

Corbus nodded wryly. “You need something of the sort.” He turned to Nymaster. “Fill a tub. Get some clothes.”

Nymaster turned away wordlessly.

“They hauled me to their abbatoir,” said Glystra. “They threw me in a bin full of corpses. When the head-boiler came with his knife, I jumped out at him, and he went into a fit. I escaped through the wall.”

“Did they pump you full of nerve-juice?”

Glystra nodded. “It’s quite an experience.” During his bath he gave Corbus and Nymaster an account of his adventures.

“And now what?” Corbus asked.

“Now,” said Glystra, “we do Charley Lysidder one in the eye.”

Half an hour later, slipping through the gardens, they looked out on the marble courtyard where the Bajarnum’s air-boat rested. A man in a scarlet tunic and black boots lounged against the hood. An ion-shine at his waist.

“What do you think?” whispered Glystra.

“If we can get in it, I can fly it,” said Corbus.

“Good. I’ll run around behind him. You attract his attention.” He disappeared.

Corbus waited two minutes, then stepped out into the court-yard, levelled his ion-shine. “Don’t move,” he said.

The guard straightened, blinked angrily. “What’s the—” Glystra appeared behind him. There was a dull sound; the guard sagged. Glystra took his weapon, waved to Corbus. “Let’s go.”

Myrtlesee Fountain dwindled below them. Glystra laughed exultantly. “We’re free, Corbus—we’ve done it.”

Corbus looked out across the vast dark expanse. “I won’t believe it until I see Earth Enclave below us.”

Glystra looked at him in surprise. “Earth Enclave?”

Corbus said tartly. “Do you propose to fly to Grosgarth?”

“No. But think. We’re in a beautiful position. Charley Lysidder is marooned at Myrtlesee Fountain—without his air-car, without his radio to call for another, if he owns one.”

“There’s always the monoline,” said Corbus. “That’s fast enough. He can be back in Grosgarth in four days.”

“The monoline—exactly. He’ll use the monoline. That’s where we’ll have him.”

“Maybe easier said than done. He won’t venture out unless he goes armed to the teeth.”

“I don’t doubt it. He might conceivably send someone else back to Grosgarth, but only if he owns another air-car. We’ll have to make sure. There’s a spot, as I recall, where the monoline passes under a bluff, which should suit us very well.”

Corbus shrugged. “I don’t like to play a string of luck too far—”

“We don’t need luck now. We’re not the poor hagridden fugitives that we were; we know what we’re doing. Before the Bajarnum was hunting us; now we’re hunting him. Right down there—” Glystra pointed “—that bald-headed bluff. We’ll settle on top and wait out the night. Early tomorrow—if he’s coming at all—we should see Charley Lysidder scudding west under full press of sail. He’ll want to get back to Grosgarth as soon as possible.”