Ecce and Old Earth Read online

  Spanchetta stopped short to take critical note of his condition. Tonight she had draped her own majestic torso in a dramatic gown of striped scarlet and black taffeta, with a black vest and silver slippers. A rope of black pearls wound round and round her great turban of dark curls; black pearls depended from her ears. Spanchetta paused only an instant to look Glawen up and down, then with averted eyes and curled lip she swept off toward the refectory.

  Glawen proceeded to the chambers he shared with his father Scharde Clattuc. He immediately stepped from his dank garments, bathed under a hot shower and started to dress in dry clothes but was interrupted by the chime of the telephone. Glawen called out: “Speak!”

  The face of Bodwyn Wook appeared on the screen. In a sour voice he said: “The sun has long since set. Surely you have read Floreste’s letter. I expected your call.”

  Glawen gave a hollow laugh. “I have seen only two sentences of the letter. Apparently my father is alive.”

  “That is good news. Why were you delayed?”

  “There was trouble on the beach, which ended up in the surf. I survived. Kirdy drowned.”

  Bodwyn Wook clapped his hands to his forehead. “Tell me no more! The news is disturbing! He was a Wook.”

  “In any event, I was just about to call you.”

  Bodwyn Wook heaved a sigh. “We will report an accidental drowning and forget the whole sickening affair. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am not altogether easy with your conduct. You should have expected such an attack.”

  “So I did, sir, which is why I went to the beach. Kirdy hated the ocean and I thought that he would stand clear. In the end, he died the death he dreaded most.”

  “Hmf,” said Bodwyn Wook. “You have a callous nature. Suppose he shot you from ambush, and destroyed Floreste’s letter: what then?”

  “That would not be Kirdy’s way. He wanted me to look into his face while he killed me.”

  “And if Kirdy altered his custom, for this particular occasion?”

  Glawen considered, then gave a small shrug. “Your reprimand, in that case, would be well deserved.”

  “Hmf,” said Bodwyn Wook with a grimace. “I am severe, certainly, but I have never gone so far as to reprimand a corpse.” He leaned back in his chair. “We need take the matter no further. Bring the letter to my office and we will read it together.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Glawen started to leave the chambers, but stopped short with his hand on the doorknob. He reflected a moment, then turned back and went to the side-room which served as utility room and office. Here he made a copy of Floreste’s letter. The copy he folded and placed in a drawer; the original he tucked into his pocket, then departed.

  Ten minutes later Glawen arrived at the Bureau B offices on the second floor of the New Agency, and was immediately admitted into Bodwyn Wook’s private chambers. As usual, Bodwyn Wook sat in his massive leather upholstered chair. He held out his hand. “If you please.” Glawen gave him the letter. Bodwyn Wook waved his hand toward a chair. “Sit.”

  Glawen obeyed the instruction. Bodwyn Wook extracted the letter from its envelope, and began to read aloud using a nasal drone not at all in accord with the extravagances and felicities of Floreste’s language.

  The letter was discursive and sometimes rambled off into an explication of Floreste’s philosophy. He expressed pro forma contrition for his deeds, but the words lacked conviction and Floreste seemed to intend the letter as a justification for his activities. “There is no question, and I state this positively,” wrote Floreste. “I am one of the few persons who may properly profess the designation ‘Over-man’; there are few indeed like me! In any case, ordinary strictures of common morality should not apply, lest they interfere with my supreme creativity. Alas! I still am like a fish in a tank, swimming with other fish, and I must obey their procedures or they will nip my fins!”

  Floreste agreed that his dedication to ‘Art’ had persuaded him to irregularities. “I have taken shortcuts on the long and tedious route to my goals; I have been trapped and now my fins must be nipped.”

  “Had I to do it all over again.” mused Floreste, “I surely would have been more careful! Of course it is often possible to gain the accolades of Society even while one is arrogantly flouting and demeaning the most sacred dogmas which are its very soul! In this respect Society is like a great cringing animal, the more you abuse it, the more it lavishes upon you. Ah well, too late now to worry about these niceties of conduct.”

  Floreste went on to ponder his crimes. “My offenses are difficult to weigh on an exact scale, or balance against the benefits derived from the so-called ‘crimes.’ The fulfillment of my great goal may well justify the sacrifice of a few futile wisps of humanity, which otherwise would have served no purpose.”

  Bodwyn Wook paused to turn a page. Glawen observed: “The ‘futile wisps’ of course would not agree with Floreste.”

  “Naturally not,” said Bodwyn Wook. “His general thesis is certainly arguable; still, we cannot allow every vagabond dog-barber who calls himself an ‘artist’ to commit vile crimes while pursuing his Muse.”

  Floreste turned his attention to Simonetta; she had told him much about herself and the events of her lifetime. After storming from Araminta Station in a fury, she had wandered the Gaean Reach far and wide, living by her wits, marrying and remarrying, consorting and reconsorting, and in general living a self-willed adventurous life. While a member of the Monomantic Cult she met Zadine Babbs, or ‘Zaa,’ as she called herself, and a brute of a woman named Sibil de Vella. The three banded together, became ‘Ordenes’ and assumed control of the cult.

  Smonny soon tired of routines and restrictions, and abandoned the seminary. A month later she met Titus Zigonie, a small plump mam of submissive character. Titus Zigonie owned Shadow Valley Ranch on the world Rosalia, as well as a spacious Clayhacker Space yacht: attributes which Smonny found irresistible, and Titus Zigonie found himself married to Smonny almost before he realized what was happening.

  A few years later Smonny visited Old Earth, where she chanced to encounter one Kelvin Kilduc, current Secretary of the Naturalist Society. During their conversation Secretary Kilduc mentioned the former secretary Frons Nisfit and his peculations. Kilduc suspected that Nisfit had gone so far as to sell the original Charter to a collector of ancient documents. “Not that it makes any difference,” Kilduc hastened to add. “The Conservancy now exists by its own momentum and will do so forever, Charter or no Charter or so I am assured.”

  “Of course,” said Smonny.” Naturally! I wonder with whom the wicked Nisfit dealt?”

  “That is hard to say.”

  Smonny made inquiries among the antiquarians and discovered one of the stolen documents. It was part of a lot sold off by a collector named Floyd Swaner. Smonny traced him down but it was too late; Floyd Swaner was dead. His heir and grandson Eustace Chilke was said to be something of a ne’er-do-well, always on the move, here and there, far and wide. His present whereabouts were unknown.

  On Rosalia, labor was scare. Smonny contracted with Namour for a workforce of indentured Yips, and in such a fashion renewed her connection with Cadwal.

  Namour and Smonny evolved a wonderful new scheme. Calyactus, Oomphaw of Yipton, had become old and foolish. Namour persuaded him to visit Rosalia for medical treatments which would renew his youth. At Shadow Valley Ranch Calyactus was poisoned; Titus Zigonie, calling himself Titus Pompo, became Oomphaw in his stead.

  Smonny’s investigators finally discovered Eustace Chilke working as a tour-bus operator at Seven Cities on John Preston’s World. As soon as possible Smonny introduced herself to Chilke and hired him to supervise Shadow Valley Ranch. She finally decided to marry him, but Chilke politely declined the honor. Smonny became peevish and dismissed Chilke from his position. Namour ultimately look him to Araminta Station.

  Smonny and Namour are an amazing pair,” wrote Floreste. “Nether have any scrupl
es whatever, though Namour likes to pose as a gentleman of culture, and for a fact is a personable fellow, with many odd competences. He can force his body to obey the steel of his will: think! He has acted the role of complaisant lover for both Spanchetta and Smonny, managing both affairs with aplomb. Namour, if for no other reason than your superb daring, I salute you!

  “So little time is left to me! Were I to live I would compose a heroic ballet, for three principals, representing Smonny, Spanchetta and Namour! Ah, the stately evolutions of my principals! I see the patterns clearly; they swing, whirl, come and go, with the awful Justice of Fate! The music I hear in my mind’s ear; it is poignant indeed, and the costumes are extraordinary! So goes the dance! The three figures project sentience, and conduct their perambulations with care. I see them now: they circle and go, up-stage and down, mincing and preening, each at his proper gait. How shall the finale be resolved?

  It is all a bagatelle! Why should I trouble my poor mind over such a question? I shall not be here to direct the production!”

  Again Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading. “Perhaps we should have allowed Floreste time to complete this last production! It sounds fascinating!”

  “I find it tiresome, “said Glawen.

  “You are either too young or too practical for such appreciation. Floreste’s mind seethes with intriguing notions.”

  “He takes a long time getting to the point: that is certain.”

  “Aha! Not from Floreste’s viewpoint. This is his testament: his entire reason for being. This is not casual frivolity that you hear but a wail of utter grief.” Bodwyn Wook returned to the letter. “I shall read on. Perhaps he is now in the mood to recite a fact or two.”

  Floreste’s tone was indeed somewhat flatter. Before Glawen’s return to Araminta Station, Floreste had visited Yipton to plan a new round of entertainments. Thurben Island could no longer be used, and another more convenient location must be selected. During a conversation, Titus Pompo, loose-tongued by reason of too many Trelawny Sloshes, revealed that Smonny had at last settled an old score. She had captured Scharde Clattuc, confiscated his flyer, and taken him to her prison. Titus gravely shook his head. Scharde would pay dearly for the prideful attitudes which had cost Smonny such grief! As the flyer, it represented partial compensation for the flyers destroyed by the Bureau B raid. After drinking from his goblet, Titus Pompo asserted that it would not be the last flyer so confiscated!

  “We will see about that” said Bodwyn Wook.

  Scharde had been taken to the strangest of all prisons where ‘out’ was ‘in’ and ‘in’ was ‘out’. The prisoners were at liberty to attempt escape whenever the mood came on them.

  Bodwyn Wook paused in his reading to pour out two mugs of ale.

  “That is a strange prison,” said Glawen. “Where could it be located?”

  “Let us proceed. Floreste is perhaps a bit absentminded, but I suspect that he will not omit this important detail.”

  Bodwyn Wook read on. Almost at once Floreste identified the unique prison as the dead volcano Shattorak at the center of Ecce: an ancient cone rising two thousand feet above the swamps and jungles. The prisoners occupied a strip outside the stockade which encircled the summit and protected the prison officials. The jungle grew high up the slopes; the prisoners slept in tree-houses or behind makeshift stockades to avoid the predators from the jungle. By reason of Smonny’s vindictiveness, Scharde had not been killed out of hand.

  Titus Pompo, now thoroughly drunk, went on to reveal that five flyers were concealed at Shattorak, together with a cache of weapons. From time to time, when Smonny wished to travel off-world, Titus Pompo’s Clayhacker space yacht landed upon Shattorak, taking care to avoid the Araminta Station radar. Titus Pompo was quite content with his pleasant routines at Yipton: an amplitude of rich food; sloshes, slings, punches and toddles; incessant massaging and stroking worked upon him by Yip maidens.

  “That is all I know,” wrote Floreste. “Despite my happy relations with Araminta Station where I had hoped to build my great monument, I felt, rightly or wrongly, that I should not betray Titus Pompo’s drunken confidences, for this reason: they would surely be revealed of themselves soon and without my intercession. You may consider this qualm weak-minded and maudlin. You will insist that ‘right’ is ‘right’ and any deviation or skulkery or failure to bear the burdens of virtue are ‘not right’. At this moment I shall not disagree.

  “To make a feeble demonstration on my own behalf I will point out that I am not utterly faithless. As best I could, I paid my obligation to Namour, who would not have done the same for me. Of all men, he probably deserves consideration the least, and he is no less guilty than I. Still, in my lonely and foolish way, I have kept faith and allowed him time to make good his flight. I trust that he never troubles Araminta Station again, since it is a place dear to my heart, where I planned the Araminta Center for the Performing Arts: the new Orpheum. I have transgressed, but so I justify my peccancies.

  “It is too late for tears of penitence. They would not in any case carry conviction – not even to myself. Still, when all is said and done, I see that I die not so much for my venality as for my folly. These are the most dismal words known to man: ‘Ah, what might have been, had only I been wiser!’

  “Such is my apologia. Take it or leave it as you will. I am overcome by weariness and a great sadness; I can write no more.”

  * * *

  Chapter I, Part 2

  Wook placed the letter carefully down upon his desk. “So much for Floreste. He has declared himself. If nothing else, he knew how to contrive exquisite excuses for himself. But to proceed. The situation is complex and we carefully consider our response. Yes, Glawen? You have an opinion?”

  “We should strike Shattorak at once.”

  “Why so?”

  “To rescue my father, of course!”

  Bodwyn Wook nodded sagely. “That concept is at least simple and uncomplicated: so much can be said for it.”

  “That’s good to hear. Where does the idea go wrong?”

  “It is a reflex, prompted by Clattuc emotion rather than cool Wook intellect.” Glawen growled something under his breath which Bodwyn Wook ignored. “I remind you that Bureau B is essentially an administrative agency, which has been pressed to perform quasi-military functions only by default. At best, we can deploy two or three dozen operatives: all highly trained, valuable men. There are how many Yips? Who knows? Sixty thousand? Eighty thousand? A hundred thousand? Far too many.

  “Now then. Floreste mentions five flyers at Shattorak: several more than I would have expected. We can put at seven or eight flyers into the air, none heavily armed. Shattorak is no doubt defended by ground weapons. We strike boldly at Shattorak. In the worst case, we could take losses that would destroy Bureau B, and next week the Yips would swarm across to the Foreshore. And in the best case? We must reckon with Smonny’s spies. We might storm over to Shattorak, land in force, and discover no fine jail, no flyer depot, nothing but corpses. No Scharde, no flyers, nothing, just failure.”

  Glawen was still dissatisfied. “That does not sound like the best case to me.”

  “Only under the terms of your proposal.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “First, consideration of our options. Second, reconnaissance. Third, attack, with full stealth.” He brought an image to the wall screen. “There you see Shattorak, a mere pimple on the swamp. It is of course two thousand feet high. The river to the south is the Vertes.” The image expanded, to provide a view across the summit of Shattorak: a sterile expanse, slightly disk-shaped, surfaced with coarse grey sand and ledges of black rock. A pond of copper-blue water occupied the center. “The area is about ten acres,” said Bodwyn Wook. “The picture is at least a hundred years old; I don’t think we have been there since.”

  “It looks hot.”

  “So it does, and so it is. I will shift the perspective. You will notice a strip about two hundred yards wide surrounding the s
ummit where the incline begins. The ground is still barren except for a few large trees. These are evidently where the prisoners sleep. Below the jungle begins. If Floreste is correct, the prisoners reside around the strip, and are free to escape across the swamp whenever they like.”

  Glawen studied the image in silence.

  “We must scout the terrain with care, and only then proceed,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Are we agreed?”

  “Yes,” said Glawen. “We are agreed.”

  Bodwyn Wook went on. “I am puzzled by Floreste’s references to Chilke. It appears that he is here at Araminta Station only by reason of Smonny’s scheming to find and control the Charter. I wonder too about the Society on Old Earth: why are they not taking steps to locate the lost documents?”

  “There are not many members left, so I am told.”

  “Are they indifferent to the Conservancy? That is hard to believe. Who is the current Secretary?”

  Glawen responded cautiously: “I think that he is a cousin of the Conservator, named Pirie Tamm.”

  “Indeed! Did not the Tamm girl go off to Earth?”

  “So she did.”

  “Well then! Since - uh, what is her name?”

  “Wayness.”

  “Just so. Since Wayness is present on Old Earth, perhaps she can help us in regard to the missing documents from the Society archives. Write her and suggest that she make a few inquiries into this matter. Emphasize that she should be absolutely discreet, and give out no clue as to her objectives. For a fact, I can see where this might develop into an important issue.”

  Glawen nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, Wayness is already making such inquiries.”

  “Ah ha! What has she learned, if anything?”

  “I don’t know. I have had no letters from her.”

  Bodwyn Wook raised his eyebrows. “She has not written you?”

  “I’m sure she has written. But I have never received her letters.”