Lurulu (24 page)

A tall gray-haired waiter of stately demeanor wearing formal garments of impeccable cut approached the table. He bowed slightly as if to acknowledge their status as off-worlders, and so entitled to sympathetic understanding. He spoke in a nicely modulated voice: “Gentlemen, may I enquire your wishes?”

“You may indeed,” said Maloof. “We have worked up a thirst! You may bring us your premium bitter ale, in large tankards.”

The waiter smilingly shook his head. “We offer no libation of this sort, sir.”

“Oh?” demanded Maloof. “What are the gentlemen yonder drinking with such gusto?”

The waiter politely turned to look. “Of course! They are enjoying our premium Mark Twelve Special, which, for a fact, is my own favorite.”

“In that case,” said Maloof, “you may bring me a tankard of the Mark Twelve Special.”

The others gave the same instruction, and the waiter departed to fill the orders. He presently returned with four tankards which he deftly served around the table, and then withdrew.

Maloof took up his tankard. “For want of a better toast, I salute the ten thousand generations of brewmasters who, through their unflagging genius, have, in effect, made this moment possible!”

“A noble toast,” cried Wingo. “Allow me to add an epilogue. At the last moments of the universe, with eternal darkness converging from all sides, surely someone will arise and cry out: ‘Hold back the end for a final moment, while I pay tribute to the gallant brewmasters who have provided us a pathway of golden glory down the fading corridors of time!’ And then, is it not possible that a bright gap will appear in the dark, through which the brewmasters are allowed to proceed, to build a finer universe?”

“It is as reasonable as any other conjecture,” said Schwatzendale. “But now!” The four saluted each other, tilted their tankards, and drank deep draughts.

At this instant, Maloof felt that bewildering shock of surprise which would never vanish from his memory. He slowly raised his head and stared at the waiter, who came inquiringly forward. “Sir?”

In a low passionless voice, Maloof asked: “What is this liquid you have served us, when we called for beer?”

The waiter spoke feelingly: “Sirs, you were served our best barley-water!”

“Barley-water!” cried Maloof huskily.

“Exactly so, I did you a kindness! Alcohol is highly toxic; its use is interdicted on Archimbal.”

Schwatzendale asked in a hushed voice: “There is neither beer, nor ale to be had in Organon?”

“None at all.”

The spacemen glumly paid the score and returned to the spaceport. An hour later the
Glicca
departed Organon, and set off for the next port of call.

5

The
Glicca
continued along its eccentric course, finally returning to Coro-Coro on Fluter. Immediately upon arrival, the pilgrims whose passage to Kyril had been interrupted converged upon the
Glicca
. Maloof met with the Perrumpter Kalash, and Cooner, who had become coadjutor; he assured them that the previous commitments remained valid, and that the next port of call would be Impy’s Landing. Kalash and Cooner expressed satisfaction, then citing their religious affiliation, argued for a discount from the fares previously quoted. Maloof explained that religion was known to be prevalent on certain over-populated worlds, but was conspicuously absent in space; and for this reason, among others, no discounts would be allowed. Grumbling and disgruntled, the pilgrims boarded the
Glicca
, along with their chests of sanctified soil. And so the
Glicca
, departing Coro-Coro, set off for Impy’s Landing on Kyril.

During the voyage Wingo became acquainted with a certain Efraim Cuireg, a peripatetic savant associated with the Institute of Transcendental Metaphysics at Bantry’s Bog on the world Montroy. Cuireg was a gentleman of obvious distinction. His stature was moderate, or a trifle less; his physique was trim, and his habits were fastidious. Under a cap of white hair his features were crisp, his gaze cool, his expression austere and somewhat ironic; he carried himself with the erect posture of a patrician. He travelled independently, and avoided other tourists.

The pilgrims thought him condescending and supercilious. Nevertheless, the Perrumpter tried to include him into the company, and invited him to join the morning colloquies; but Cuireg declined participation.

The ineffable Cooner had evolved an abstruse theory postulating an infinite regression of ever more complex godheads, each subservient to the entity looming behind, with the Gaean race abjectly at the forefront. He deployed his theory before Cuireg, only to encounter a stare so blank and incurious that the confident smile froze on his plump pink cheeks, and he recalled urgent business elsewhere.

Wingo found Cuireg’s presence an enigma which gnawed at his curiosity. One day he invited Cuireg to a mid-afternoon collation of tea, scones and fancy pastries. Cuireg, a dedicated epicure, readily accepted the invitation and appeared precisely upon the appointed hour. He surveyed the delicacies gracing the table with approval and seated himself at Wingo’s direction.

For a time the conversation was general, then Wingo, at what seemed an appropriate moment, put a casual question. “In all candor, I cannot understand why a scholar of your credentials should be travelling to Kyril like one of the pilgrims, and presumably planning to join the march around the continent. Can you explain?”

“Naturally,” said Cuireg with a cool smile. “However, I do not propose to do so, since you would surely find the ideas abstract and probably beyond your comprehension.”

Wingo raised his eyebrows, somewhat taken aback. A singular remark, indeed, and not one calculated to elevate his self-esteem. He sought for a suitable response, and finally said: “Naturally, you have a right to your assumptions, although, from my point of view, they are far too pessimistic.”

Cuireg showed little interest in Wingo’s opinion. “Indeed?” He selected a lemon tart from the platter and ingested half of it with a quick snap of small white teeth. “Ah well, no great matter.”

“Except that, as we sit here, apparently at our ease, communication has been disrupted.”

“Oh?” Cuireg’s attention was caught. “You have left me behind.”

“Just so!” said Wingo. “If folk want to exchange information, clarity is essential. If they want to confuse each other, various methods exist. They can use glossolalia, or a primitive language of clicks and grunts, or, as a last resort, the esoteric jargon of the Institute.”

Cuireg was only mildly interested. “A pungent analysis! To what is it relevant?”

Wingo leaned back in his chair. “In regard to your visit to Kyril, you felt that your remarks would only confuse me. I suspect, however, that if you spoke in the ordinary Gaean idiom, using standard syntax, I should be able to capture the gist of your remarks.”

Cuireg was sardonically amused. “Take care, Wingo! The epistemological jungle is dark and deep! There are pitfalls and strange byways and monsters lurk in the shadows! An intrepid traveller such as yourself, however, should manage to discover at least the basic dogma, which is starkly simple and germane to our discussion. It asserts that between individuals exact communication is never possible.” He inspected Wingo. “You doubt the proposition? You need only refer to the physical laws of uncertainty, ignoring, of course, the mischievous corollary which states that the laws themselves are laughably uncertain. The lemon tarts, incidentally, are excellent.”

Wingo pondered a moment, then shrugged. “This is all very well, but rather remote. It would seem that you do not concede the reality of ‘Truth’, at any level whatever.”

“‘Truth’?” Cuireg made an indolent gesture. “‘Truth’ is a refuge for weak minds. Why concern yourself? It is a non-functional notion, like the square root of negative infinity, or, if you prefer, a mare’s nest. The good Baron Bodissey issued a definitive dictum: ‘Truth is a barnacle on the arse of progress.’” He took the last lemon tart from the platter.

Wingo sighed, rose to his feet, replenished the platter and resumed his place at the table. “I suggest that you try the rainberry creamcakes. The frosted éclairs are also quite good.”

“Thank you,” said Cuireg. “I shall do so at once. Is there still tea in the pot?”

Wingo refilled Cuireg’s cup, then his own. “Now,” said Cuireg, “if you are still interested, I will tell you why I am travelling to Kyril.”

“Just as you like,” said Wingo rather stiffly. “I do not care to intrude even slightly upon your privacy. My curiosity, such as it is, is only casual.”

“In that case, I can satisfy this concern in five seconds or less.” Cuireg took a rainberry creamcake from the platter. “I am visiting Kyril to verify the recollections of my first visit.”

Wingo stared in surprise. Cuireg went on pensively. “All this happened a long time ago, during the romantic phase of my life. The visit to Kyril seemed a gallant adventure, and so it was.” His voice fell, and he seemed to reflect. He said presently: “There are too many memories. They come in a welter: images, voices, colors, faces, landscapes, thousands of episodes; large tragedies, small triumphs.” He watched silently as Wingo refilled his teacup, then went on. “Kyril is not a kindly world. The way leads across arid wastes, dunes, bogs and moors, rolling savannahs where nothing grows but thorn trees and canker bush. The weather is unpredictable; there are morning mists and afternoon thunder-storms. At night three dim moons drift across the sky.

“There are occasional inns and shelters along the wayside, where one may sit and watch the pilgrims pass by in never-ending diversity: young and old, men and women, often children. Sometimes they sing as they march past; sometimes they chant mantras. At times a madman rushes past, dancing and leaping, cursing the sky; his cries fade into the distance and all is as before.

“In the far west is the Holy Mountain, a dying volcano with a crater at the summit where red-hot lava bubbles and seethes. The way up the mountain is hard and steep. Where it crosses beds of scree, the sharp flints cut boots and lacerate feet; some of the pilgrims are forced to crawl until their knees are bloody bones.”

Wingo, who suffered from delicate feet, was perturbed to hear of such shocking hardships. “What happens to these poor unfortunates?”

Cuireg shrugged, not over-interested in the topic. “They drag themselves up to the rim, where they rest and mend themselves. Eventually they join the others on the way around the lip of the crater.

“This, in effect, is the focus of the pilgrimage. Halfway around, a look-out platform projects over the void, providing a spectacular view of the crater and the glowing magma below. Most of the pilgrims avoid the platform for fear of vertigo. However, at times someone succumbs to an attack of religious frenzy; he runs out on the platform and throws himself into space and plunges down to disappear into the lava. Occasionally, he seizes up his child, or someone else’s child, for that matter, and hurls it out into the void. Most often, he is restrained by other pilgrims. The child is dragged back to safety, often followed by the father, who has decided not to jump, after all.”

Wingo shook his head in wonder. “The pilgrimage is intense and dramatic beyond all expectations. I begin to understand the motive which urges you back to Kyril.” Cuireg, ignoring Wingo’s comment, tested a frosted éclair. “In any case the pilgrims finally return to Impy’s Landing. They set off to the west, they return from the east; it is a moment of supreme exaltation! They laugh, they cry, they drop to their knees and kiss the ground; never have they known triumph so intense! The memory of this instant will be with them always!”

“All this is clear, and dramatic,” said Wingo. “To complete the pilgrimage is an act of personal vindication. But why do they come to Kyril in the first place?”

“The answer is simplicity,” said Cuireg. “There are as many reasons as there are pilgrims. Some want to appease their divinity; others want to mollify an ancestral ghost. Many are hermetics who want to mortify their flesh. Some hope to atone for forbidden acts; others want to evade an irascible spouse.”

Wingo asked, half-facetiously: “And where on this list is your motive for undertaking the pilgrimage?” Cuireg responded to the question without rancor. “There is no simple answer. Originally, the pilgrimage was a challenge which my self-esteem felt obliged to meet. Then, after three or four days along the way my attitude insensibly began to change. The challenge lost its thrust, and faded from my mind. I found myself watching and listening and feeling with ever more intensity. I felt ever more aware of details and textures and nuances. One morning knowledge came to me in a burst of insight. I saw a black lump of rock thrusting up between bushes at the side of the road. I stopped short and said: ‘Rock, I see you well enough, but you cannot see me. Why? Because I am sentient, but you are not! Why should this be? Simple enough! I am animate, and you are an inert lump.’”

“Remarkable,” said Wingo. “There are inspirational elements here — although it seems rather pointless to taunt the rock.”

“It did no great harm.” Cuireg rose to his feet. “Thank you for the pleasant occasion. The pastries were beyond reproach.” He nodded courteously and left the galley. Wingo remained at the table, drinking tea and brooding upon what he had learned.

6

The voyage proceeded without untoward incident. The pilgrims occupied themselves with study, doctrinal discussions and a few low-key games of Cagliostro, from which Schwatzendale was excluded, his past successes still rankling among the defeated players. Cuireg remained as aloof as ever, avoiding the morning colloquies and rebuffing all of Cooner’s attempts to engage him in sectarian discourse.

The crew of the
Glicca
performed their usual duties, although Wingo now spent much time thinking over what he had learned of Kyril and the march around the great continent. By degrees he began to comprehend Cuireg’s perception of the pilgrimage as a metaphor for an event of far larger significance. All very well, thought Wingo, but what of the pilgrims themselves? What compulsion induced them to undertake the hardships of the great march? The motives which Cuireg had facetiously suggested could not be taken seriously; what then? After deep reflection, Wingo thought to comprehend the impulse which prompted the pilgrims to undertake their great adventure — an urge superficially like that which sent the lemmings of Old Earth swarming out to sea. This, of course, was not so; the essential reason, thought Wingo, was real, if perhaps subconscious — at the basis, an assertion of vitality and a rather desperate test of personal fortitude, physical and spiritual alike.