Big Planet

6 The Gypsies

Darrot and Vallusser were buried in a common grave with the Beaujolains: the young swaggerer who had fallen from the tree and the six soldiers who had been killed when Glystra had first seized the blaster.

Abbigens heaved a great sigh when earth began to fall on the bodies. Glystra grinned. Evidently Abbigens had expected to be one with the seven.

Shafts of sunlight, heavy and bright as bars of luminex, prodded down at a slant through the foliage. Pale smoke drifted up from the ashes of the campfire. It was almost time to leave.

Glystra looked around the clearing. Where was Nancy? There she stood, by the pack-beasts, as inconspicuous as she was able to make herself. Behind her the tree-trunks rose like the columns of a great temple, admitting brief glimpses of the sunlit slope.

Nancy felt Glystra’s eye, turned him her quick wide glance, with a hopeful hesitant smile. Glystra felt his heart beating. He looked away. Corbus was watching him with an unreadable expression. He compressed his lips, strode forward.

“You’d better be on your way, Nancy—back to Jubilith.”

Her smile faded slowly, her mouth drooped, her eyes became moist. She looked off into the forest. “I’m— afraid,” she said in a voice which lacked conviction. “Those soldiers who escaped may be waiting in the forest”

Glystra snorted. “They’re half-way to Montmarchy by now—worse luck. Besides, you can almost see Jubilith from here, straight up the slope. I’m sorry if you’re frightened. You can take a catapult and darts if you like”

She apparently realized the hopelessness of argument, turned away without a word, crossed the clearing. At the edge of the forest she paused, looked over her shoulder.

Glystra watched silently.

She turned away. He watched her a few moments, moving through the trees. He saw her come out on the sunny bracken, listlessly start up the slope toward Jubilith.

Half an hour later the column got under way. The Beaujolains walked single-file, each tied to the man ahead and behind by ankle ropes. They carried their swords and catapults, but the darts were packed in panniers, on one of the pack-beasts.

The officer led the column; Abbigens was the last man. Then came the pack-beasts, with Corbus on a litter between the first two. He was awake and cheerful, and guarded the rear of the column with the big heat-gun.

The village overhead was awake, watching. As the column passed through the forest, the thud of feet sounded along the walkways, along with the creak of fiber fastenings, sometimes a mutter of voices, a child crying. Presently a ceiling of tangled and tattered vegetation, supported by a patchwork of branches, vines and dried yellow fronds, cut off the sunlight. This second floor to the forest spread to a surprising extent, dank on the bottom, trailing bits and shreds of rotting vegetation.

“What do you make of that?” asked Pianza.

“Offhand,” responded Glystra, “it looks like a hanging garden… We don’t have an ecologist with us any more. Darrot probably would have known something about it…”

Shafts of sunlight ahead indicated the end of the suspended field. Glystra went to the head of the line, where the officer walked, looked sullenly straight ahead.

“What’s your name?” asked Glystra.

“Morwatz. Leg-leader Zoriander Morwatz, 112th at the Champs-Mars Academy.”

“What were your orders?”

The officer hesitated, debating the propriety of answering the questions. He was a short man, with a full round face, protuberant black eyes. He spoke in a slightly different dialect than did his soldiers, and carried himself with a trace of self-importance. Apparently he was a warrior by accident of caste rather than inclination, essentially not a bad fellow, Glystra decided. A man like Abbigens would completely overshadow him, reduce him to vacillation and querulousness.

“What were your orders?” repeated Glystra.

“We were placed at the command of the Earthman.” He jerked his hand back toward Abbigens. “He carried a cachet from Charley Lyssider, an instrument of great authority.”

Glystra digested the information a moment, then asked, “An order addressed to you specifically?”

“To the commanding officer of the Montmarchy garrison.”

“Hmmmm.” Where had Abbigens obtained this order, signed by the Bajarnum of Beaujolais? There was a pattern here which as yet he was unable to see in the whole. Certainly the fact of Vallusser’s guilt did not explain all the events of the last few weeks.

He asked further questions, and learned that Morwatz had been born into the Guerdons, a caste of lesser nobility, and was foolishly proud of the distinction. His home was the village of Pellisade, a few miles south of Grosgarth, and he believed Earth to be the home of a mindless robot race, obeying the sound of gongs and bells like machines. “We’d die here in Beaujolais, before we’d let ourselves be emasculated,” declared Morwatz with fine fire.

Here was the obverse, thought Glystra, to the stereotype in Earth minds of the Big Planeter as a flamboyant, reckless creature, totally without restraint. Grinning he asked, “Do any of us look as if our powers of free will were lacking?”

“You’re the elite. Here in Beaujolais we have a single lord, Charley Lyssider; never such tyranny as you experience on Earth. Oh, we’ve heard all about it, from people who know best.” He nodded his plump head several times.

Now he looked at Glystra sidelong. “Why do you smile?”

Glystra laughed. “Naisuka. The reason that is no reason at all.”

Morwatz said suspiciously, “You use an extremely high-caste word. Even I would not feel proper speaking so.”

“Well, well,” Glystra arched his eyebrows. “You are not allowed to use certain words—but neither do you live under tyranny.”

Morwatz pursed his lips. “To be sure the Bajarnum is a harsh man, but he is conquering the barbarians and forcing them to live correctly.”

“And they won’t be able to use high-caste words either.”

“Precisely. As it should be.” And now Morwatz screwed up his courage to ask a question of his own. “And what will you do with us?”

“If you obey orders, you’ll have the same chances we have. Frankly, I’m counting on you and your men to protect us on our march. Once we arrive at our destination, your life is your own.”

Morwatz said with interest, “Where do you march for?”

“Earth Enclave.”

Morwatz frowned. “I don’t know the place. How many leagues?”

“Forty thousand miles. Thirteen thousand leagues.”

Morwatz faltered in his stride. “You are mad!”

Glystra laughed. “We have the same man to thank for our troubles.” He jerked his thumb. “Abbigens.”

Morwatz found it difficult to shape his thoughts. “First there is Nomadland and the gypsies. If they capture us, they’ll roast us alive and eat us. They are men of a different race and they detest the Beaujolais.”

“They won’t attack fifty men as readily as they might eight.”

Morwatz shook his head despondently. “Last six-moon Heinzelman the Hellhorse raided deep into Beaujolais, and paved the way with the utmost in terror.”

Glystra looked ahead through the thinning tree-trunks, to the open slope ahead. “There’s Nomadland, ahead of us. What lies beyond?”

“After Nomadland?” Morwatz wrinkled his brow. “First, the River Oust. And then the swamps, and the Ropemakers of Swamp Island. And after the swamps—”

“What?”

“Directly east, I don’t know. Wild men, wild animals. Southerly is the land known as Felissima, and Kirstendale, and the monoline to Myrtlesee Fountain and the oracle. Past Myrtlesee is the Land of Stones, but of this I know nothing, since Myrtlesee is far to the east.”

“How many leagues?”

“Several hundred. But it is hard to determine exactly. From here to the river is—five days. To cross you must use the Edelweiss high-line to Swamp Island, or else you must follow the River Oust south-west back toward Beaujoiais.”

“Why can’t we cross the river in boats?”

Morwatz made a wise face. “The griamobots.”

“And what are they?”

“Savage river beasts. Horrible creatures.”

“Hm. And after the river? What then? How long to cross the swamps?”

Morwatz calculated. “If you journey east, four days— if you find a good swamp car. If you choose to bear southerly, you may take the monoline which leads down past the March—the Hibernian March, that is—to Kirstendale. Possibly six days or a week to Kirstendale. Then, if you’re able to leave—”

“Why should we not leave Kirstendale?”

“Some do,” said Morwatz with a sly wink. “Others don’t… From Kirstendale the monoline runs west to Grosgarth, south through the Felissima trade-towns, east to Myrtlesee Fountain.”

“How long to Myrtlesee from Kirstendale?”

“Oh—” Morwatz made a vague gesture “—two days, three days on the monoline. A dangerous trip otherwise, due to the tribesmen down from Eyrie.”

“And beyond Myrtlesee?”

“Desert.”

“And beyond?”

Morwatz shrugged. “Ask the Magic Fountain. If you are wealthy and pay much metal he will tell you anything you ask.” He spoke with confidence.

Glystra thought it might be well to inquire the best way to convey himself and his comrades to Earth Enclave.

Overhead the foliage thinned and the column broke out into the blinding Big Planet sunlight. The slope fell away ahead, a vast windy moor, rolling slightly concave before them. No human habitation or artifact was in sight, but far to the north a dense pillar of smoke bent eastward in the wind.

Glystra halted the column, regrouped the soldiers, arranging them in a square around the pack-beasts— zipangotes, so Morwatz called them. The beast carrying the darts was guarded by Corbus riding in a litter directly behind. He carried a catapult and dart in his hand, with the heat gun tucked inside his shirt secure from any swift clutch. Abbigens walked at the right forward corner, Morwatz at the left rear. Flanking as guards to left and right were Pianza and Cloyville with ion-shines; behind came Bishop and Ketch.

Two hours before noon they set forth across the moor, and as they marched the tremendous slope behind them began to lose its bulk. The upper reaches became murked in the haze, the forest became a dark band. The slope was levelling out into the River Oust pene-plain.

A mutter from the soldiers reached his ears. They were faltering in their step, the whites showed in their eyes. There was a general nervous motion along the column, a jerking of arms, a tossing of the grotesque black felt hats.

Following their gaze Glystra saw along the horizon a dozen tall hump-backed zipangotes, approaching at a careless pace.

“Who are they? Gypsies?”

Morwatz scanned the column, his face set in rigid lines. “They’re gypsies, but not the Cossacks. These are high-caste warriors, possibly even Politburos. Only Politburos ride zipangoes. We can fight off Cossacks, they have little spirit, no discipline, no method, no mind. Only hunger. As soon as there are a few bodies, no matter whose, they are content. But the Politburos…” His voice faltered, he shook his head.

Glystra prompted him. “What are the Politburos?”

“They are the great warriors, the leaders. When they appear the gypsies fight like devils. The Cossacks alone are mere robbers. When a Politburo leads them— demons!”

Glystra looked at Bishop. “Know much about these gypsies, Bish?”

“There’s a short chapter in Vendome’s Big Planet Lore on the gypsies, but the emphasis is on their racial background rather than their culture. The stock was originally a tribe of Kirghiz herdsmen from Earth. Turkestan, I believe. When Cloud Control increased trans-Caucasian rainfall, they moved out to Big Planet, where steppes presumably would remain steppes. They shipped out third-class, and in the same hold were a tribe of old-fashioned gypsies and a brotherhood of Polynesians. On the trip out the gypsy leader, one Panvilsap, killed the Kirghiz head-man, married the Polynesian matriarch, and when they were discharged on Big Planet, controlled the entire group. The ensuing culture was mingled Kirghiz, Polynesian and Romany, and dominated by the personality of Panvilsap—an enormous man, a killer, a butcher, as ruthless as he was single-minded.”

The column was now less than a mile distant, approaching without haste.

Glystra turned to Morwatz. “How do these people live?”

“They herd zipangotes, hare-hounds, pechavies, milk-rats. They gather fungus from the cycads in Depression. Spring and autumn they raid into Beaujolais and Kerka-ten to the north, Ramspur to the south. The Oust cuts them off from Felissima and the Rebbirs of Eyrie. Ah,” sighed Morwatz, “what a grateful war that would be, between the Rebbirs and the gypsies.”

“Typical nomadic society,” inserted Bishop. “Not a great deal different from the ancient Scythians.”

Morwatz said fretfully, “Why are you so interested in the mannerisms of the race? Tonight, they intend to eat us…”