And another:
Every visitor to Wyst expects shocks and surprises, but never can
he prepare himself for the sheer bogglement inflicted upon him by reality. He
observes the endless blocks dwindling in strict conformity to the, laws of
perspective until finally they disappear; he stands on an overpass watching the
flow of a hundred-foot man-river, with its sensitive float of white faces; he
visits Disjerferact on the Uncibal mud flats, a place of carnival, whose
attractions include a death house where folk so inclined deliver eloquent
orations, then die by suicide to the applause of casual passersby; he watches a
parade of chunk lurch fatefully toward the stadium. He asks himself, is any of
this truly real, or even possible? He blinks; all is as before. But the incredibility
still persists!
Perhaps he may depart the confines of Arrabus, to wander the misty
forests to north and south: the so-called Weirdlands. As soon as he crosses the
scarps, he finds himself in another world, which apparently exists only to
reassure the Arrabins that their lot is truly a fortunate one. Hard to imagine
that a thousand years ago these wastes were the provinces of dukes and princes.
Trees conceal every trace of the former splendor. Wyst is a small world, only
five thousand miles in diameter; a relatively few miles of travel takes one far
around the horizons. If one travels south beyond the Weirdlands he comes at
last to the shore of the Moaning Ocean, to find a land with a character all its
own. Merely to watch the opal light of Dwan reflecting from the cold gray waves
makes the journey well worth the effort.
The casual visitor to Wyst, however, seldom departs the cities of
Arrabus, where he may presently feel an almost overpowering suffocation of
numbers, a psychic claustrophobia. The subtle person becomes aware of a deeper
darker presence, and he looks about him in fascination, with a crawling of the
viscera, like a primeval man watching a cave mouth, certain that a horrid beast
waits inside.
The Connatic smiled at the somewhat, perfervid style of the
report; he looked to see who had submitted it: Bonamico, the current cursar, a
rather emotional man. Still—who could say? . The Connatic himself had never visited
Wyst; perhaps he might share Bonamico’s comprehensions. He glanced at a final
note, which was also signed by Bonamico:
Zumer and Pombal, the small continents, are mountainous and half
frozen; they deserve mention only because they are home to the ill-natured
shunk and the no less irascible folk who manage them.
Time pressed: in a few minutes the Connatic must meet with the
Whispers. He gave the globe a final glance and set it spinning; so it would
turn for days, until air friction brought it to a halt.
Returning aloft, the Connatic went directly to his dressing
room, where he created that version of himself which he saw fit to present to
the people of the Cluster: first a few touches of skin toner to accentuate the
bones, of jaw and temple; then film which darkened his eyes and enhanced their
intensity; then a clip of simulated cartilage to raise the bridge of his nose
and produce a more incisive thrust to his profile. He donned an austere suit of
black, relieved only by a silver button at each shoulder, and finally pulled a
casque of black fabric over his close-cropped mat of hair.
He touched a button; across the room appeared the holographic
image of himself: a spare saturnine man of indeterminate age, with an aspect
suggesting force and authority. With neither approval nor dissatisfaction he
considered the image; he was, so to speak, dressed for work, in the uniform of
his calling.
Esclavade’s quiet voice issued from an unseen source. “The
Whispers have arrived in the Black Parlor.”
“Thank you.” The Connatic stepped into the adjoining chamber:
a replica of the Black Parlor, exact to the images of the Whispers themselves:
three men and a woman dressed in that informal, rather frivolous, style current
in contemporary Arrabus. The Connatic examined the images with care: a reconnaissance
he made of almost every deputation, to offset, at least in part, the careful stratagems
by which the visitors hoped to further their aims. Uneasiness, rigidity, anger,
easy calm, desperation, fatalistic torpor: the Connatic had learned to
recognize the indicators and to judge the mood in which the delegations came to
meet him.
In the Connatic’s estimation, this seemed a particularly
disparate group, despite the uniformity of their garments. Each presented a
different psychological aspect, which frequently signaled disunity, or perhaps
mutual antagonism. In the case of the Whispers, who were selected by an almost
random process, such lack of inner cohesion might be without significance, or
so the Connatic reflected.
The oldest of the group, a gray-haired man of no great
stature, at first glance appeared the least effectual of the four. He sat awry:
neck twisted, head askew, legs splayed, elbows cocked at odd angles: a man
sinewy and gaunt, with a long-nosed vulpine face. He spoke in a restless,
peevish voice: “—heights give me to fret; even here between four walls I know
that the soil lies far below; we should have requested a conference at low altitude.
“
“Water lies below, not soil,” growled another of the Whispers,
a massive man with a rather surly expression. His hair, banging in lank black
ringlets, made no concession to the fashionable Arrabin puff; of the group he
seemed the most forceful and resolute.
The third man said: “If the Connatic trusts his skin to
these floors, never fear! Your own far less valuable pelt is safe.”
“I fear nothing!” declared the old man. “Did I not climb the
Pedestal? Did I not fly in the Sea Disk and the space ship?”
“True, true,” said the third. “Your valor is famous.” This
was a man somewhat younger than the other two and notably well-favored, with a
fine straight nose and a smiling debonair expression. He sat close beside the
fourth Whisper, a round-faced woman with a pale, rather coarse, complexion and
a square assertive jaw.
Esclavade entered the room. “The Connatic will give you his
attention shortly. He suggests that meanwhile you might care to take
refreshment” He waved toward the back wall; a buffet slid into the parlor. “Please
serve yourselves; you will find that we have taken your preferences into
account.” Only the Connatic noticed the twitch at the corner of Esclavade’s
mouth.
Esclavade departed the parlor. The crooked old Whisper at
once jumped to his feet. “Let’s see what we have here.” He sidled toward the
buffet. “Eh? Eh? What’s this? Gruff and deedle! Can the Connatic afford a
trifle of banter for our poor deprived jaws?”
The woman said in an even voice: “Surely he thinks it only
courteous to serve familiar victuals to his guests.”
The handsome man uttered a sardonic laugh. “The Connatic is
hardly of egalistic persuasion. By definition he is the elite of the elite.
There may be a message here?’
The massive man went to the buffet and took a cake of gruff.
“I eat it at home; I shall eat it here, and give the matter no thought.”
The crooked man poured a cup of the viscous white liquid; be
tasted, and made a wry grimace. “The deedle isn’t all that good.”
Smiling, the Connatic went to sit in a heavy wooden chair.
He touched a button and his image appeared in the Black Parlor. The Whispers
jerked around. The two men at the buffet slowly put down their food; the handsome
man started to rise, then changed his mind and remained in his place.
Esclavade entered the Black , Parlor and addressed the image.
“Sir, these are the Whispers of Arrabus Nation on Wyst. From
Waunisse, the lady Fausgard.” Then he indicated the massive man. “From
Uncibal, the gentleman Orgold.” The handsome man: “From Serce, the gentleman Lemiste.”
The crooked man: “From Propunce, the gentleman Delfin.”
The Connatic said: “I welcome you to Lusz. You will notice that
I appear before you in projection; this is my invariable precaution, and many
uncertainties are circumvented.”
Fausgard said somewhat tartly, “As a monomarch, and the
elite of the elite, I suppose you go in constant fear of assassination.”
“It is a very real risk. I see hundreds of folk, of every
condition. Some, inevitably, prove to be madmen who fancy me a cruel and
luxurious tyrant. I use an entire battery of techniques to avoid their
murderous, if well-meant, assaults?’
Fausgard gave her head a stubborn shake. The Connatic
thought Here is a woman of rock-hard conviction. Fausgard said: “Still, as
absolute master of several trillion persons, you must recognize that yours is a
position of unnatural privilege.”
The Connatic thought: She is also of a somewhat contentious
disposition. Aloud he said, “Naturally! The knowledge is never far from my
mind, and is balanced, or neutralized, only by the fact of its total irrelevance.”
“I fear that you leave me behind.”
“The idea is complex, yet simple. I am I, who by
reason of events beyond my control am Connatic. If I were someone else, I would
not be Connatic; this is indisputable. The corollary is also clear: there would
be a Connatic who was not I. He, like I, would ponder the singularity of his
condition. So, you see, I as Connatic discover no more marvelous privilege to
my life than you in your condition as Fausgard the Whisper.”
Fausgard laughed uncertainly. She started to reply only to
be preceded by the suave Lemiste. “Sir, we are here not to analyze your person,
or your status, or the chances of fate. In fact, as pragmatic egalists, we deny
the existence of Fate, as a supernormal or ineffable entity. Our mission is more
specific.’
“I shall be interested to hear it.”
“Arrabus has existed one hundred years as an egalistic nation.
We are unique in the Cluster, perhaps across the Gaean universe. In a short
time, at our Centenary festival, we celebrate a century of achievement.”
The Connatic reflected in some puzzlement: They take a tone rather different from what I had expected! Once more: take nothing, ever,
for granted! He said: “I am of course aware of, the Centenary, and I am
considering your kind invitation to be on hand.”
Lemiste continued, in a voice somewhat quick and staccato: “As
you know we have constructed an enlightened society, dedicated to full egalism
and individual fulfillment. We are naturally anxious to advertise our
achievements, both for glory and for material benefit: hence our invitation.
But let me explain. Ordinarily the Connatic’s presence at an egalistic festival
might be considered anomalous, even a compromise of principle. We hope,
however, that, should you choose to attend, you will put aside your elitist
role and for a period become one with us: residing in our blocks, riding the
man-ways, attending the public spectacle& You will thereby apprehend our
institutions on a personal basis.”
After a moment’s thoughtful silence the Connatic said: “This
is an interesting proposal. I must give it serious attention. You have
taken refreshment? I could have offered you more elaborate fare, but in view of
your principles I desisted.”
Delfin, who had restlessly restrained his tongue, at last
broke forth. “Our principles are real enough! That is why we are here: to
advance them, but yet to protect them from their own success. Everywhere in the
Cluster live jackals and interlopers, by the millions; they consider Arrabus a
charitable hospice, where they flock by the myriads to batten upon the good
things which we have earned through toil and sacrifice. It is done in the name
of immigration, which we want to stop, but always we are thwarted by the Law of
Free Movement. We have therefore certain demands that we feel—”
Fausgard quickly interrupted: “More properly: ‘requests.’”
Delfin waved his arm in the air. “Demands, requests, it all
comes out the same end! We want, first, a stop to immigration; second, Cluster
funds to feed the hordes already on hand; third, new machinery to replace the
equipment worn out nurturing the pests.”
Delfin apparently was not popular with his fellow Whispers;
each sought to suggest disassociation from Delfin’s rather vulgar manners.
Fausgard spoke in a tone of brittle facetiousness: “Well
then, Delfin; let’s not bore the Connatic with a tirade.”
Delfin slanted her a crooked grin. “Tirade, is it? When one
talks of wolves, one does not describe mice. The Connatic values plain talk, so
why sit here simpering with our fingers up our arses? Yes, yes, as you like. I’ll
hold my tongue.” He squinted toward the Connatic. “I warn you, she’ll use an
hour to repeat what I gave you in twenty seconds.”
Fausgard ignored the remark. “Sir, the Whisper Lemiste has spoken of our Centenary: this has been the primary purpose of our
deputation. But other problems, to which Whisper Delfin has alluded, also
exist, and perhaps we might also consider them at this time.”
“By all means,” said the Connatic. “It is my function to
mitigate difficulties, if effectuation is fair, feasible and countenanced by
Allastrid Basic Law.”
Fausgard said earnestly, “Our problems can be expressed in
very few words—”
Delfin could not restrain himself. “A single word is enough:
immigrants! A thousand each week! Apes and lizards, airy aesthetes, languid ne’er-do-wells
with nothing on their minds but girls and bonter. We are not allowed to halt
them! Is it not absurd?”
Lemiste said smoothly: “Whisper Delfin is exuberant in his
terms; many of the immigrants are worthy idealists. Still, many others are
little better than parasites.”
Delfin would not be denied. “Were they all saints, the flow
must be halted! Would you believe it? An immigrant excluded me from my own
apartment!”
Fausgard said wryly: “Here may be the source of Whisper Delfin’s
fervor.”
Orgold spoke for the first time, in plangent disgust: “We
sound like a gaggle of cackshaws.”