Lurulu (21 page)

7

The next morning Myron crossed to the office of the port director. He found Rico Yail as before, lounging behind his massive desk.

Yail gave Myron a casual nod and indicated a chair. “Seat yourself. What do you have?”

Myron settled into the chair and slid his charts across the desk. Yail sat forward and studied the itinerary with interest.

At last he looked up to Myron. “So far as I can tell, without a calculator, the routing seems as efficient as it can be. What are these red marks here, by Glame on Sussea, and at Croy, on New Hope?”

“The explanation is a bit complicated,” said Myron. “After leaving First Camp on Welters, we travel to Glame, with the next halt at Croy. But if you refer to your chart you will notice that Fluter is not too far off the route. At Coro-Coro a band of pilgrims is awaiting transit to Impy’s Landing on Kyril. It would be convenient for us to detour to Fluter, pick up the pilgrims, then continue to Croy — especially if you could find us a parcel of cargo for Fluter.”

“That can be done easily enough.”

“After Kyril we proceed to Ocean City on Lavendry, which is the last stop on the list. After Lavendry, we veer off toward Naharius, where we have some small private business.”

“Naharius?” Yail became pensive. “I have heard rumors regarding Naharius — not necessarily credible, but certainly provocative.”

Myron smiled sadly. “My aunt went to Naharius to learn the secrets of beauty. I wonder what she found.”

Yail looked off through the window with a musing half-smile. “Rumors flit along the spaceways like fireflies in the Dark Forest. Sometimes they are fascinating. No doubt quiet tales are told even of Blenkinsop, the five cities, the Shimerati, even the outcasts of the Dark Forest.”

He squared himself to his desk. “Now then, as for the rugs, you can expect a profitable transaction. I have put quiet inquiries to five important magazines in the four outer cities; the response was immediate. I received offers ranging from four hundred sols per rug, to four hundred and twenty-five, subject to inspection, which I tentatively accepted. The inspector will be arriving shortly, along with a dray, subject to your approval.”

“I approve. It seems a good price.”

“I think so myself. As soon as the rugs are discharged, my warehousemen will begin to load cargo. You should be buttoned up before midnight, and ready for departure in the morning.”

“We will be on hand one more day,” said Myron. “Moncrief and his troupe play the Trevanian tomorrow evening. We will leave the morning after next.”

The telephone at Yail’s elbow chimed; he picked up the unit. “Director Yail here; how can I help you?”

The response prompted Yail to change his manner to an even, impersonal formality. “No, sir; that is not the way of it. What you suggest was far from our intent.” Yail paused, listened, then said: “I am acting as an informal adviser in the case. The principal is a young off-worlder, of good character, but unaccustomed to Blenk trade practices. He is quite willing to deal with Monomarche, all else being equal.” After listening, Yail responded: “There are forty-six rugs, of prime export quality, direct from Star Home. The asking price is five hundred sols per rug. So far, our high offer has been four hundred and twenty-five.”

Again Yail listened and replied: “I will submit your offer to the principal, who is now here in my office. A moment, if you please.” He turned to Myron. “Monomarche offers four hundred and thirty-five sols per rug, subject to inspection. Shall I accept?”

“By all means!” said Myron.

Yail followed Myron’s instructions, and put down the handpiece. He told Myron: “The deed is done. There will be no delay; the dray and the inspector will be here within the hour.”

“They will bring the money?”

“Of course! Money is the life-blood of commerce!” Yail calculated. “After my commission, you will net 18,768 sols. Does that accord with your figures?”

“Exactly.”

“It has been a profitable transaction,” said Yail. “I wish for many more of such happy occurrences.”

“I as well!”

“One detail remains,” said Yail. “I refer to the tentative arrangement initiated with Overman Garloc of the Parre magazine, which must now be terminated.” Yail spoke into the telephone with Overman Garloc and made his apologies, which Garloc received with formal decorum. Yail put the telephone aside with relief.

Myron said: “As soon as the rugs are discharged, the warehousemen may start loading the cargo. With appropriate bills of lading, the
Glicca
will be ready for departure.”

Chapter VIII

At the end of the day, close upon dusk, Schwatzendale unshipped the flitter from its bay and flew the Mouse-riders, along with Captain Maloof, Wingo and Myron, to the landing plat which had been built into the northern wall of the Trevanian.

The group entered the hall. The Mouse-riders went to the dressing rooms to prepare for the first scene, while the crew of the
Glicca
found seats with an unobstructed view of the stage.

The hall began to fill with early arrivals hoping to secure favorite seats. Some had stopped at stalls along the main corridor for bags of delicacies — fried clams, sweet sausages, tripe-sticks and the like — to fortify them during the performance. Others had made purchases of another sort: dead fish, packets of carrion, rotting fruit, buckets of slime and ordure which were used to rebuke an inept performer. Behind the stalls, stairs led to a warehouse where such commodities were stored in quantity.

Time passed. Lights flickered and dimmed; from high speakers issued a music of brass horns, gongs and drums, in march-time cadence. A heavy gong sounded three clangorous tones, and the music ended. A voice spoke. “The Trevanian tonight presents a program of unusual excellence! First, the Silurians undertake a remarkable exercise which they call ‘Sinuosities’, and which you will call ‘incredible’!” From the audience came a spatter of applause.

“Then, Pooder Boy explains how he copes with his conniving mother. Po-po’s wits are taxed to the utmost. Is his conduct proper?” From the audience came enthusiastic applause.

“Next we present an off-world troupe of wide reputation: Master Moncrief and the Mouse-riders. They will bring us three sequences from their vast repertory.” The applause was perfunctory and punctuated by a few dispirited yelps.

The announcer went on to list the remaining events, then added: “Owing to administrative technicalities, the Futin Putos will not appear on tonight’s program.” Hoots and yelps greeted the announcement, but the voice continued unheeding: “And now, the Silurians and the astonishing ‘Sinuosities’!”

The curtains drew aside revealing a scaffold constructed of a dozen eight-foot poles standing six feet apart in a double row. The tops of the poles were joined by bars and cross-bars. From the left six round gray bundles rolled out on the stage, each halting beside a pole. Each of the bundles unrolled to become a long shape sheathed head to foot in gray fabric. At some signal, imperceptible to the audience, the six shapes reached for the poles and slid up to the cross-bars. They formed themselves into a pattern which persisted for ten heart-beats then broke apart, and the first phase of the ‘Sinuosities’ began. The gray shapes moved back and forth; over and under, veering and twisting, creating patterns past comprehension, finally returning to the original stasis. For a moment they held the stasis, separated, and began the second phase. They moved at a ponderous tempo with fateful decision, as if imparting an awesome secret. Quietly the shapes returned to stasis; for twenty seconds they remained still, then broke into the third phase. Again the permutations were deliberate, and baffling to the onlookers; sometimes only four undulated across the bars, sometimes there seemed to be eight. Over time the patterns evolved and collapsed through unlikely resolutions, conveying emotions without name. Finally, the shapes quietly slid down the poles and rolled off the stage.

The curtains closed. For a time, the audience sat blinking, then gradually rendered a tentative applause, as if not sure what they might be applauding. The lights brightened, permitting the audience to recover its aplomb, and time for those wishing refreshment to visit the stalls.

The lights once more were extinguished, leaving the hall in darkness. From the high speakers came the announcer’s voice. “The Silurians are gone, leaving us with our eyes pointed different directions. But no matter: somewhere nearby is Po-po the Pooder Boy, who always has his tragic woe, and an occasional triumph, as when he was asked to bring a gift of pooders to his dying grandfather. More often, his tales are tragic. Pooder is near at hand; listen!”

The hall became silent, straining for the first inkling of Po-po the Pooder Boy, but not so much as a whisper could be heard. The hall remained in darkness, except for an area of soft illumination at the center of the stage. Something appeared through the crack where the curtains came together: a nubbin so small that it escaped notice. The object thrust further out over the stage, and now a faint rasping noise, like a rat gnawing at the wainscoting, could be heard growing louder: “Crunch, crunch, crunch!” The audience at last identified the protruding object as a nose, and gasped in delighted recognition. The curtain twitched; through the gap peered a moony face, with pink cheeks, lank snuff-brown hair, and a snub button of a nose. He was gnawing on something he held to his mouth. He swallowed the last morsel, then, with a sly smirk for the audience, he drew back and the curtain swung shut.

“Po-po! Po-po! Po-po!” cried the audience, stamping their feet, and someone shouted: “Pooders by the score! Come for your pooders!” The curtain parted and out upon the stage capered Po-po, wearing a loose brown blouse and russet pantaloons, flaring below the knees. He was notably plump and an inch or two shorter than ordinary. A saucy red cap constrained his hair; his eyes were round and set wide of his nose. For a moment he performed an odd little jig, then, halting, began to chant in a reedy sing-song voice: “Oh I am the pooder boy! I eat them where I find them. They try to rob me of my precious pooders, but I sniff them out and have a feast! My pooders were in a pot, but when I lifted the lid, a rat looked up, the last of my pooders in his whiskers. My mother thought to make her feast, but I took the pooders and put the boiled rat on her plate, and I ate my private feast.”

Po-po took a small pooder from his pocket, tossed it high into the air, then ran below and caught it in his mouth. “Yesterday a black dog committed an offense; he stole my choice pooder! I tracked him through the bushes, then I seized my cudgel and beat him with proper zest. At this time another black dog walked past, holding my choice pooder in his jaws; I had been beating the wrong dog! No matter; the mistake was soon mended, and once more I owned my choice pooder.” Po-po performed a few steps of his eccentric jig. “Oh I am the pooder boy; I spy them out; I sniff them down from their aroma; I steal them from my avaricious mother! I spank the baby and take his pooder! Oh I am the pooder boy!”

Po-po continued the saga of his woes and triumphs, singing praises of the sublime tuber, interspersing his chant with capers and jigs. He attempted a somersault which he failed to execute, so that for a time, he struggled with his broad bottom in the air, pooders tumbling from his pockets. At last he completed the revolution and began a frantic search for the truant pooders. With pooders retrieved and to full applause, he disappeared through the curtains. The applause continued; Po-po returned to the stage, cut a caper, eliciting whistling, stamping, yelping approval, and once again he was gone.

The lights came on, permitting patronage of the stalls, then returned to darkness. From the high speakers came the announcer’s voice: “Po-po has left us for a time; he is anxious for his supper, which I suspect will be a fine dish of pooders, possibly furnished by his mother. No doubt Po-po will return before too long, with the latest news.

“But at this moment, Master Moncrief and the remarkable Mouse-riders are on hand. They bring us a program of three exotic adventures in a wonderful land of magic and beauty! I now introduce Master Moncrief, for your approval.”

The audience, after Po-po’s homely foolishness, had no ready welcome for off-world interlopers, and accorded the introduction only minimal enthusiasm.

Moncrief stepped out upon the stage, and his suave appearance did nothing to excite the sympathy of the audience. He wore an elegant suit of black velvet and a gray cape embroidered at the hem with a tracery of hermetic signs. Several whinnies and yelps greeted him as he smilingly surveyed the audience. Still smiling, Moncrief inclined his head to left and right by way of a polite salute, then spoke, and his amplified voice sounded from the high speakers.

“Denizens of the city Cax, with its noble heights and hinterlands; I have little to tell you, except that it is a privilege to play the Trevanian — surely one of the premier theaters of the Gaean Reach!

“I suggest that you are about to discover a unique experience, which is to say, a presentation by the remarkable Mouse-riders — Nothing more! I will detain you no longer.” Moncrief performed another stately salute, and left the stage. The audience, a trifle mollified, gave him a spatter of applause and sat back to judge the marvels at which Moncrief had hinted.

The curtains parted to reveal a tropical jungle, with a range of purple mountains, created by holographic projection, looming across the background.

The sequence was played out, to its macabre last moments, and the curtains closed upon the stage. The audience sat silent for a space, evidently uncertain as to how it felt about so strange a production, but finally reacted with cautious applause. The crew of the
Glicca
, watching from the off-stage parlor, once again were moved by emotion close to awe for the silken competence of the troupe.

The curtains parted again, now upon an arcadian landscape. The sequence developed from dancing nymphs in short white kirtles along its fateful progression to the final pathos.

The curtains closed upon the desolate meadow. The applause was moderate, as if the audience were puzzled as to what should be the proper response to these strange sequences.