The night passed by, and Dwan rose pale as a frozen tear
into the sky. The day ran its course. Jantiff remained at the suite in the
Travelers Inn. For a time he paced the parlor back and forth, trying to define
his qualms, but the thoughts fled past before he could analyze them. He seated himself
with paper and stylus and found no better success; his mind persisted in
wandering. He thought of the early days at Old Pink, his dismal romance with
Kedidah, the bonterfest, his subsequent flight to Balad… The flow of his
thoughts suddenly became viscous and slowed to a halt. For a moment Jantiff
thought of nothing whatever; then, with great caution, as if opening a door
from behind which something awful might leap, he reconsidered his flight across
the Weirdlands, and his association with Swarkop.
Jantiff presently relaxed, indecisively, into the settee.
Swarkop’s conversation had been suggestive but no more. He would mention the
matter and Shermatz could make of it what he chose.
During the afternoon, bored and uneasy, he walked across the
mudflats to Disjerferact, and as he had promised himself, made a pilgrimage to
his old lair behind the privy, and for old time’s sake bought a spill of fried
kelp, which he ate dutifully but without enthusiasm. There had once been a
time, he reflected sadly, when he could not get enough of this rather insipid
delicacy.
At sundown Jantiff returned to the Travelers Inn. Ryl
Shermatz had not returned. Jantiff ate, a pensive supper, then went to his
rooms.
In the morning he awoke to find that Ryl Shermatz had come
and gone, leaving a note on the parlor table.
For the notice of Jantiff Ravensroke:
A good morning to you, Jantiff! Today we resolve all mysteries and
bring our drama to its climax and then its close. Details press upon me; I have
gone off unavoidably early to brief the cursar, and so will be unable to take
breakfast with you. Please allow me to issue instructions in regard to the
Grand Rally. I have our two tickets and will meet you to the right of Hanwalter
Gate, where the Fourteenth Lateral terminates, at half-morning, or as close
thereafter as possible. This is not as early as I had hoped; still we shall no
doubt find positions of advantage. Take breakfast with a good appetite! I will
see you at half-morning.
Shermatz
Jantiff frowned and put the note aside. He went to the window
where he could see people already arriving upon the Field of Voices, hastening
to take up places as close as possible to the Pedestal. Turning away, he went
to the buffet, served himself breakfast, which he ate without appetite.
The time was still early; nevertheless he threw a cape over
his shoulders and departed the inn. He walked to Uncibal River, rode a
half-mile, diverted upon the Fourteenth Lateral, which discharged him directly
before Hanwalter Gate: a three-wicket passage through a tall fence of supple louvres.
Half-morning was yet an hour off; Jantiff was not surprised to find Shermatz
nowhere on the scene. He stationed himself at the stipulated place to the right
of the gate, and stood watching the arrival of the “notables” who had been
invited to the Field to hear the Whispers and the Connatic at first hand, and
to partake of the festive banquet. An odd assortment of “notables,” thought
Jantiff. They were persons of all ages and types. Presently he noticed a man
whom he thought to recognize; their eyes met and the man halted to exchange
greetings: “Aren’t you Jantiff Ravensroke from Old Pink? With Skorlet?”
“Precisely right. And you are Olin, Esteban’s friend. I forget
your block exactly: wasn’t it Fodswollow?”
Olin made a wry grimace. “Not for months. I transferred to Winkler’s
Hovel out along Lateral 560, and I must say I’m pleased with the change. Why
don’t you move out from Old Pink? We could use someone like you, clever with
his hands!”
Jantiff said in a noncommittal voice: “I’ll have to call on
you one of these days.”
“By all means! It’s often been remarked how a block stamps
its nature on those who live there. Old Pink, for instance, seems so intense,
always seething with intrigue. At the Hovel we’re a raffish hell-for-leather
crew, I assure you! The garden simply vibrates! I’ve never seen such a flow of
swill! It’s a miracle that we survive starvation, with the wump all going into
jugs.”
“Old Pink is somber in comparison,” said Jantiff. “And,
as you say, the intrigues are extraordinary. Speaking of intrigues, have you
seen Esteban lately?”
“Not for a month or more. He’s involved in some scheme or
other that takes up all his time. An energetic fellow, Esteban! He never fails
the game.”
“Yes, he’s quite a chap!” Jantiff agreed. “But how is it
that you’re invited to the Field? Are you a notable?”
“Hardly! You know me better than that! The invitation came as quite a surprise! Not an unpleasant one, of course, if there’s a banquet of
bonter at the other end of it. Still, I can’t help but wonder whose invitation
I’ve been tendered by mistake. But what of you? Surely you’re not a notable?”
“No more than you. We both know Esteban; that’s the only
notable thing about us.”
Olin laughed. “If that’s what brings us bonter, all glory to
Esteban! I’ll be going on in; I want to place myself as close to the
tables as possible. Are you coming?”
“I must wait for a friend.”
“A pleasure seeing you again! Come visit Winkler’s Hovel!”
“Yes indeed,” said Jantiff in a pensive voice. “As soon as
possible.”
Olin presented his ticket and was admitted to the field. In
Jantiff’s mind the pieces of the puzzle had dropped together to form a unit, of
startling proportions. Surely a flaw marred the pattern? But where? Jantiff
thought first one way, then another. The concept stood unchallenged, noble in
its simplicity and grandeur.
Half-morning approached: where was Ryl Shermatz? The “notables”
poured onto the field by the hundreds! Jantiff scanned their faces with furious
intensity. Would Shermatz never arrive?
The time became half-morning. Jantiff glared into the oncoming
faces, trying to evoke the presence of Shermatz by sheer force of will.
To no avail. Jantiff began to feel listless. Peering over
his shoulder through the louvres, he saw that the Field had become crowded:
there were “notables” from everywhere in Arrabus. “Notables” and persons like
Olin! But no one from Old Pink! The idea froze his thoughts; they began again
only sluggishly. Was this the flaw in the pattern? Perhaps. Again, perhaps not.
A fanfare sounded across the field, then the Arrabus anthem.
The ceremonies had begun. A few hurrying late-comers jumped off the lateral to
push through the gates. Still no Shermatz!
The field megaphones broadcast a great voice: “Notables of
Arrabus! Egalists across all our nation! The Whispers give you greetings! They
will shortly arrive on the Pedestal to communicate their remarkable plans,
despite furious efforts by the forces of reaction! Hear this, folk of Arrabus,
and remember! The Whispers are disputed by enemies to egalism, and events will
demonstrate the evil scope of the opposition! But be of brave heart! Our path
leads to—”
Jantiff ran forward, as Shermatz stepped from the man-way.
Shermatz called out: “My apologies, Jantiff! I could not avoid the delay. But we
are still in time. Come along; here is your ticket.”
Jantiff’s tongue felt numb; he could only stammer disconnected
phrases. “No, no! Come back! No time remains!” He took Shermatz’s arm to halt
his motion toward the gate. Shermatz turned on him a look of surprise. Jantiff
blurted: “We can’t stay here; there’s nothing we can do now. Come, we’ve got to
leave!”
Shermatz hesitated only an instant. “Very well; where do you
want to go?”
“Your space-car is yonder, by the depot. Take us up, away
from Uncibal.”
“Just as you say, but can’t you explain?”
“Yes, as we go!” Jantiff set off at a run, throwing bits of
sentences over his shoulder. Shermatz, jogging alongside became grim. “Yes;
logical… Even probable… We can’t take the chance that you’re wrong…”
They boarded the space-car; Uncibal fell away below: row
after row of many-colored blocks receding into the haze. To the side spread the
Field, dark with the “notables” of Arrabus. Shermatz touched the telescreen controls;
the voice spoke “—delay of only a few minutes; the Whispers are on their way.
They will tell you how bitterly our enemies resent the success of egalism! They
will name names and cite facts!… The Whispers are still delayed; they should
be on the Pedestal now. Patience for another minute or two!”
“If the Whispers appear on the Pedestal I am wrong,” said Jantiff.
“Intuitively I accept your conclusion,” said Shermatz. “But
I am still confused by your facts. You mentioned a certain Swarkop and his
cargoes, and also a person named Olin. How do they interrelate? Where do you
start your chain of logic?”
“With an idea we have discussed before. The authentic
Whispers were known to many folk; the new Whispers as well. There is a strong
similarity between the two groups, but not an identity. The new Whispers must
minimize the risk of recognition and exposure.
“Olin came to the Field; someone sent him a ticket. Who? He is a friend of Esteban, but hardly a notable. There are legitimate notables
present: the Delegates, for instance. They are well acquainted with the old
Whispers. I imagine that all Esteban’s acquaintances are at the Field, and all
those of Skorlet and of Sarp: all received tickets, and all wondered why they
were considered “notable.” I saw no one from Old Pink, but they would arrive by
a different lateral. Again, six tickets were sent to Alastor Agency. Assume
that the Connatic was visiting Arrabus. His curiosity might well be piqued by
the placards. He certainly would not have joined the Whispers on the Pedestal,
but he very likely would have used one of the tickets.”
Shermatz gave a curt nod. “I am happily able to assure you
that the Connatic definitely did not use one of these tickets. So now, what of
Swarkop?”
“He is a barge operator who carried six cargoes of
frack…” Jantiff had the odd sensation that his words triggered the event.
Below them the landscape erupted. The Field became an instant seethe of white
flame, then disappeared under a roiling cloud of gray dust. Other blurts of
white flame with subsequent billows of dust appeared elsewhere across Uncibal. The
craters they left behind marked the sites of Old Pink and six other blocks, the
Travelers Inn and Alastor Centrality. In the cities Waunisse, Serce and
Propunce thirteen other blocks, each with its full complement of occupants, in
like fashion became columns of dust and hot vapor. “I was right,” said Jantiff.
“Very much too right.”
Shermatz slowly reached out and touched a button. “Corchione.”
“Here, sir.”
“The program is canceled. Call down hospital ships.”
“Very well, sir.”
Jantiff spoke in a dreary voice: “I should have understood
the facts sooner.”
“You understood in time to save my life,” said Shermatz. “I am
pleased on this account.” He looked down across Uncibal, where the dust was
drifting slowly south. “The plan now becomes clear. Three classes of people
were to be eliminated: persons who knew the old Whispers, persons who knew the
new Whispers, and a rather smaller group, consisting either of the Connatic or
the Connatic’s representative, should either be on hand. But you survived and I
survived and the plan has failed.
“The Whispers will not know of the failure. They will consider
themselves secure, and they will be preparing the next stage of their plan. Can
you guess how this will be implemented?”
Jantiff made a weary gesture. “No. I am numb.”
“Scapegoats are needed: the enemies of egalism. Who on Wyst
is still acquainted with one of the Whispers?”
“The Contractors. They know Shubart.”
“Exactly. Within hours all contractors will be arrested. The
Whispers will announce that the criminals have made abject confessions, and
that justice has been done. All future contracting will be managed by a new
egalistic organization, at improved efficiency; and the Whispers will share the
wealth of Arrabus between them. Any moment now we can expect their first
indignant outcries.” Shermatz fell silent; the two sat looking across battered
Uncibal. A chime sounded. On the screen appeared the four Whispers: Skorlet,
Sarp, Esteban and Shubert, their images blurred as if seen through wavering
water.
“They still are afraid to exhibit themselves in all clarity,”
Shermatz observed. “Not too many people survive who might recognize them but
there are probably a few. In the next week or so they would no doubt disappear.
Quietly, mysteriously: who would trouble or wonder why?”
Esteban stepped forward a half-pace and spoke, his voice
ringing with dull passion: “Folk of Arrabus! By the chance of a few minutes
delay, your Whispers have survived the cataclysm. The Connatic hopefully has
also escaped; he never arrived to the stipulated place of rendezvous, and we as
yet have no sure knowledge. Unless he went incognito out upon the Field, he escaped,
and the assassins failed in double measure! We are not yet able to make a
coherent statement; all of us are grief-stricken by the loss of so many
cherished comrades. Be assured, however, the demons who planned this frightful
deed will never survive—”
Shermatz touched a button. “Corchione.”
“Here, sir.”
“Trace the source of the message.”
“I am so doing, sir.”
“—a day of sorrow and shock! The Delegates are gone, all
gone; by the caprice of Fate we ourselves escaped, but by sheerest accident!
Our enemies will not be pleased: be sure that we will hunt them down! That is
all for now; we must attend to acts of mercy.” The screen went dead.
“Corchione?”
“The transmission originated from Uncibal Central. We could
not fix upon the feed-in.”