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  “This is an important occasion,” Barduys told the company. “I am anxious that it succeed. Let me define my position. I am a businessman, not a party to the discussion; my opinions, had I any, would be irrelevant. You may regard me and my staff as neutral observers. However, we will maintain order. The two groups will keep to their pavilions and refrain from unsolicited admonitions, advice, or any interference whatever. The reason for this restriction will be clear to all.

  “In passing, I would like to call your attention to my crew. Some of you may recognize their uniforms, which are Scuters, the platoon of heroes who served the fabulous King Sha Kha Shan. My Scuters are not so prone to beard-pulling and ear-lopping as their namesakes; still, it is well to accept their guidance.

  “So now, if you will return to your pavilions, we will start our conversations.”

  Julian, who had been idly chatting with Dame Clytie during Barduys’ remarks, turned now and surveyed the table. He started toward one of the chairs, but Flitz came from the Rondine pavilion and seated herself with her back to the lagoon. She carried several books, portfolios and other works of reference which she placed on the table. Julian halted, nonplussed. Dame Clytie and Smonny seated themselves opposite each other; Barduys went to stand by his place at the end of the table.

  Julian asked petulantly: “Where am I to sit? There must be a mistake; no chair has been set out for me.”

  “The seating is purposely limited,” said Barduys. “You are entitled to sit in the pavilion with the others of your group.”

  Julian hesitated, then fretfully turned away, muttering under his breath. He marched across the area to the pavilion and plumped down beside Roby Mavil, to whom he made a series of disgruntled observations.

  “Ladies,” said Barduys, “notice these buttons. If you want your group to hear the proceedings, press the red button. To solicit their advice, press the yellow button.” He looked from the tight-lipped Dame Clytie to the surly Smonny. “Meetings of this sort often fail because they lose their focus. I hope that we will avoid this pitfall. A plan may already exist; it would be foolish to come here unprepared, even though minor differences remain to be reconciled. Since I am not one of the principles, I can make no substantive suggestions, nor do I wish to do so.”

  Dame Clytie had become increasingly annoyed with Barduys’ manner, which she felt to be disrespectful and even autocratic. She spoke shortly: “You are beating a dead horse. No one is looking to you either for advice or intercession. What we require is transport capacity; no more no less.”

  “Then we are of the same mind.” Barduys seated himself.

  “Let us get down to cases.” He looked from Smonny to Dame Clytie. “Which of you is the spokesman?”

  Dame Clytie cleared her throat. “I am in a position to elucidate our program. The operation must proceed with what I shall call ‘massive precision.’ Our goals are altruistic and philosophically correct: we wish to bring democracy to Cadwal; and here, of course, I use the word ‘democracy’ in its new, extended sense.

  “As good LPFers, we are non-violent and hope to avoid bloodshed. The ruling clique at Araminta Station will be helpless in the face of so much power and must submit to the facts, as gracefully as they are able, and no doubt there will be tasks for all in the new order.

  “Now, as to practicalities. We will transport only thirty thousand Yips to Deucas: this number is both adequate and desirable. In its full scope, the plan is elaborate -”

  Smonny, speaking in a sharp quick voice, interrupted. “There is no elaborate plan and no need to dance in circles, or otherwise confuse the issue. The single and basic plan is to transport all the Yips to the Marmion Foreshore on Deucas. There are about one hundred thousand people; all must be put ashore as rapidly as possible, in order to paralyze the Station authorities. With this in mind, you may declare how many transports will be needed, and what it will cost.”

  “Certainly,” said Barduys. “I can supply such an estimate in half an hour or less. But certain conditions must be met. First of all, I need a firm commitment. With whom am I dealing?”

  Dame Clytie said coldly: “I think that I can explain this bit of confusion. My colleague, as always, has produced an accurate analysis, except in one or two small respects. She still adheres to the tenets of a youthful idealism, in which democracy is equated to nihilism. All of us, of course, have known the bliss of these romantic dreams, but when they exploded around our heads, we were forced to meet the world on its own terms. Now we deal in practicality.”

  “All very well,” said Barduys, “but I can work only with a coherent organization using a single voice.”

  “Just so,” said Dame Clytie. “We must now, each and all of us, unite behind the system which maximizes benefits for the most people. That system exists. It is a program which we call ‘Structured Democracy.’ Simonetta, of course, has an important part to play, and her talents will definitely be put to good use, perhaps as -”

  From Smonny came harsh laughter. Dame Clytie’s eyebrows raised in irritation. “If you please -”

  Smonny cut short her mirth. “My dear lady, really! You misread every portent! Events have bypassed no one, and why? Because nothing has changed. Araminta Station is still a citadel of greed and jealous cruelty; everyone scrambles up the golden ladder, pausing only to kick at the faces of those below, while the good and the worthy are cast aside! Those are the realities which we are addressing!”

  Dame Clytie spoke ponderously, as if resolved to be patient despite all incitement to the contrary. “That is, perhaps, a trifle overstated. The Chartists are dour and pompous, but in the end they will see that our way is best. As for the Conservancy in a modified form -”

  “‘Conservancy’? What a joke! It conserves privilege and unspeakable selfishness! You are living in a dreamcloud if you expect gratified welcome from the patricians! You will meet only their horrified resistance. They are as stern as iron statues, and must be humiliated and punished!”

  Dame Clytie frowned and held up her hand. “I urge that we insulate our personal grievances from aspects of official policy.”

  Smonny’s dog-brown eyes glittered. “The grievances go far beyond my own small tragedies. The Yips have been exploited for centuries; now they will avenge themselves upon this stinking hive of privilege; they will root out the vile Offaws and Wooks, the Lavertys and the Diffins, the Veders and the Clattucs; they will chase their ancient lords south to Cape Journal, over the rocks and into the sea. Why should we interfere? Their way is final and definite.”

  Dame Clytie closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Once again, I ask for temperate judgments. Too much fervor is not truly helpful, and only makes the official plan of ‘Structured Democracy’ the more difficult. We have calculated that for the new counties, a population of thirty thousand happy country folk is enough, since we wish to maintain the sylvan charm of this wonderful environment! The remaining Yips will be transported to new homes off-world. These thirty thousand can be kept under strict discipline and will be allowed no looting or pillage, which only destroys property.”

  Smonny spoke offhand: “The plan is ill-conceived, useless and unacceptable, in all forms and phases. This plan is now defunct. We need not refer to it again.”

  Dame Clytie forced herself to smile. “My dear lady! You are issuing fiats and manifestos as if we were your subalterns!”

  “Well, what of that?”

  “It is not appropriate to the occasion. But let it go by. There are crucial developments which compel us to a policy of moderation.”

  “I know of no crucial developments. I doubt if such exist.”

  Dame Clytie, ignoring the remark, spoke ponderously. “Recently there has been a large migration of old-time Naturalists from Stroma to Araminta Station. These folk are our own kin; my sister and her two children now live near Riverview House. Every LPFer is in the same position. We cannot endorse the unbridled acts you suggest. They are tantamount to savagery.”

  Standing
in the shadows, Glawen and Chilke observed the interchanges and tried to predict the outcome.

  “They are playing by different rules,” said Glawen. “Each of them thinks she is winning.”

  “Both are very tough,” said Chilke. “Dame Clytie is probably the more versatile. Listen to her now! She is lathering Smonny up and down with the essence of sweet reason. It soaks into Smonny like water soaking into a rock.”

  The two stood in sober contemplation of the scene: Dame Clytie, with head lowered, her heavy jaws corded with sinews; Smonny, sitting half-turned away, watching with insulting disinterest.

  Conditions were changing in some subtle fashion. Dame Clytie’s narrow gray eyes were widening and starting to bulge; a tide of pink crept up Smonny’s burly neck. The voices rose and became strident; Dame Clytie’s control broke; she rose from her chair and gripped the table with both hands. “I have explained it, and this is how it must be!” She leaned forward and struck the table. “‘Structured Democracy’ is the way!”

  Smonny cried out “You belching old cow; you shall not roar in my face! Vex me no further!”

  Dame Clytie uttered a guttural croak. “Intolerable creature!” She struck out and buffeted Smonny across the face; jerking back, Smonny fell sprawling from her chair. Dame Clytie bellowed: “Hear me and hear me well ...” Before she could continue Smonny heaved herself to her feet and attacked.

  The two began a terrible battle on the sands of Thurben Island, spitting, squealing, kicking, tearing out of hair, moaning and groaning in the extremity of their hate. Dame Clytie seized Smonny’s proud mass of hair and slung her down across the table, which broke beneath her weight. Snorting like an angry horse Dame Clytie marched forward to inflict further harm, but Smonny scrambled away. She wrested one of the legs from the broken table and heaving herself to her feet, delivered a blow to the side of Dame Clytie’s face, then another and another to head and shoulders. Dame Clytie tottered backward; she stumbled and fell flat on her back. Smonny panted forward and sat squashily down on Dame Clytie’s face, clamped her legs over Dame Clytie’s arms and started to beat on Dame Clytie’s abdomen with the table leg.

  Julian, face stark with shock, stumbled from the pavilion. “Stop! Stop this insanity! Mr. Barduys –”

  The Scuters seized him and pushed him back into the pavilion. “You may not interfere while the discussion is in progress. You heard the orders!”

  Dame Clytie, with her torso and arms pinioned, waved her legs in the air. She gave a frantic lurch and managed to dislodge Smonny; red-faced and gasping, she pulled herself to her feet. She faced Smonny. “Before I was only annoyed. Now I am angry! I warn you: beware!” She lurched forward, wrested the table leg from Smonny and cast it aside. “Unspeakable thing with your foul haunches! Now we shall see!”

  Dame Clytie was neither so tall nor so heavy as Smonny, but she was constructed of tough substances and her legs were like iron stanchions. Smonny’s insensate fury kept her fighting well past her ordinary endurance, but at last she collapsed, and fell to the sand. Dame Clytie, cursing and croaking, kicked at her, until she herself was overtaken by fatigue and reeled backward, and sat upon one of the chairs. Smonny watched through glazed eyes.

  Barduys spoke. “Now then! We have cleared the air, and once again can direct ourselves to the issues. Shall we continue the meeting?”

  “Meeting?” moaned Julian. “What is there to meet about?”

  “In that -” Barduys began, but no one was listening. Julian and Roby Mavil were escorting Dame Clytie toward their flitter. Smonny, heaving herself to her feet, limped down the beach to her dinghy and was silently rowed to the boat.

  The crew of the Rondine struck the pavilions, set the pieces of the broken table afire, and cleaned the site of litter. The embers were buried in the damp sand, and no sign remained that folk had come, met and departed.

  * * *

  Chapter 7, Part III

  The Rondine lifted into the sly. To the general puzzlement, Barduys set a course to the north, where nothing existed save empty ocean and the arctic icecap.

  Glawen finally asked: “Why are we going in this direction?”

  “What?” Barduys demanded. “Is it not obvious?”

  “Not to me. Commander Chilke, is it obvious?”

  “If Mr. Barduys says it is obvious, then it must be. But don’t look to me for an explanation. Flitz knows, of course.”

  “No,” said Flitz. “Thurben Island has left me limp.”

  “It was an affecting episode,” Barduys agreed. “We were exposed to emotions in the raw. If you recall, I refused to speculate upon what might or might not occur, and quite rightly; an attempt to predict the unpredictable is an epistemological outrage, even in the abstract.”

  “And so we are flying north?” asked Glawen.

  Barduys nodded “In a general sense, yes. Thurben Island served its purpose, but the meeting ended before we could turn to my own agenda. Smonny made no mention of the submarine nor of her debt, and Namour was conspicuously not on hand. Therefore, we are flying north.”

  “Everything you say is clear in itself,” said Glawen. “But your chain of logic still lacks a link.”

  Barduys chuckled. “There is no mystery. Smonny needed a submarine - why? So that she could travel from Yipton off-world without alerting the monitor. The submarine takes her to where she can transfer to the Clayhacker space yacht undetected. Where can she locate her depot? Only in the far north are privacy and isolation guaranteed. The submarine needs open ocean; the Clayhacker must rest on something more solid. We find these conditions where ice meets water.”

  The search began at a point directly north of Lutwen Atoll, at the edge of the icecap. Halfway through the night an infrared detector noted a glimmer of radiation. The Rondine moved aside and stood by until dawn, then approached the area from the north. Glawen and Chilke, with two men from the crew, descended in a flitter and scouted the area. They discovered an artificial cavern under the ice, communicating with the sea by a tongue of water. The landing dock was empty; neither submarine nor any other vessel lay at moorings. Adjacent, on a pair of runways, rested Titus Zigonie’s Clayhacker and Lewyn Barduys’ Flecanpraun.

  Another ten men descended to the ice, and the group unobtrusively made their way into the depot.

  Eight Yips comprised the staff of the depot and all were discovered taking their breakfast in the mess hall. They surrendered with rueful resignation. None gained access to the communications office, so that no messages were transmitted to the outside world.

  The three space craft flew south. Behind them the depot had been destroyed. The overburden of ice and snow had slumped into the cavity so that nothing remained of the base except a gully in the white landscape.

  Barduys flew his Flecanpraun, in company with Flitz; Chilke and three of the crew flew the Clayhacker, while Glawen remained aboard the Rondine, with the Yips and the balance of the crew.

  Glawen noticed that the Yips all wore the shoulder braid of the Oomp caste. He spoke to the commander. “May I ask your name?”

  “Certainly. I am Falo Lamont Coudray.”

  “How long have you been an Oomp?”

  “For twenty years. We are an elite corps, as you know.”

  “Then it would be limited to a very few persons. How many? A hundred? Two hundred?”

  “One hundred ordinaries, twenty captains and six commanders, such as myself.”

  “There is an Oomp named Catterline. Is he a commander?”

  “He is a captain only. He will progress no further, due to a lack of flair.” Here the Yip used a term essentially untranslatable, comprising fortitude, grace, and much else, and which was reflected by the mask of smiling tolerance by which the Yip concealed his emotions.

  Glawen asked: “And what of Selious? Is he also a captain?”

  “So he is. Why do you ask regarding them?”

  “When I was young they were stationed at Araminta Station.”

  “That was long ago.”


  “So it was.”

  The Yip hesitated a moment, then asked: “Where are you taking us?”

  “To Araminta Station.”

  “And we are to be killed?”

  Glawen laughed. “Only if we can prove that you have committed a capital crime.”

  The Yip considered. “I doubt if you can prove any such crime.”

  “Then I doubt if you will be killed.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7, Part IV

  Upon leaving Thurben Island, Smonny’s boat proceeded west, skimming the swells at high speed. It arrived at Yipton during the middle evening.

  Smonny waited not a moment. She knew her most immediate enemy - indeed, the knowledge had been with her for months. She had temporized, hoping that the problem might resolve itself, but this was not to be the case, and she could wait no longer. She went immediately to her desk, sat with a groan, every ache and twinge almost a pleasure, since they foreshadowed what now would and must be.

  Smonny touched a button and spoke carefully into a mesh. In response to the request for verification, she repeated her orders, and received acknowledgment.

  That was all there need be done. Smonny painfully doffed her garments, bathed, soothed her bruises with analgesics, then sat down to a meal of oyster tart and steamed eel roe in sweet sauce.

  Meanwhile a large fishing boat had drifted from the harbor: nothing here to excite the attention either of the crew or the instruments aboard the monitor ship hovering overhead.

  The fishing boat moved placidly off to the south until out of range of the monitor; then the deck slid open and a flitter took to the sky. It flew at speed due south, and so passed the night. As Lorca and Sing rose into the sky, bringing a false pink pre-dawn light, the flitter arrived at Cape Faray, at the northernmost tip of the continent Throy.

  Below passed the mountains and moors, the crags and crevasses, of the southern land, and presently the flitter, now flying low, arrived at a great gash into the mountains, with a channel of gray-green water at the bottom: Stroma Fjord.