New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (26 page)

10

T
HE HUMAN ANIMAL’S MOST DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTIC
is his need to manipulate objects. He has to do it. He can’t help himself.

Given this need, men react to it in three ways:

Some justify their tinkering with the notion of progress. Manipulations become the rational attempt to reach the ends of
more
and
larger
,
bigger
and
better
. There are many men of this sort in the service of the Nashuite Empire. They are happy or not as they succeed or fail, and ultimately they are all unhappy.

Some others see that
more
and
larger
,
bigger
and
better
are not ends at all, but mere vague points on an infinite line to nowhere. These men are unhappy, too, because they need reasons for what their hands choose to do, and without the notion of progress, they have none.

The final group? A small one. These are the men who accept the fact that manipulation is what human beings
do
, and happily manipulate away.

Take a string about seven feet long and tie the ends together with a neat small knot. Hang the string over the thumb and little finger of each hand. Hook your right forefinger over the left hand palm string. Draw the string away, twisting it several times by rotating the index finger. With the left index finger pick up from below the string crossing the right palm at the base of the right index finger. Draw the hands apart, and allow loops to slip off the right thumb and little finger. Lo and behold, between your two hands you will have a palpable Fish Spear.

That’s an easy one. It would take you an hour to learn how to make Coral, and a day to learn Woven Door. And a wise man knows that he could spend a lifetime with a seven foot piece of string and not exhaust all its possibilities.

Strings happened not to be Villiers’ choice of object, but they might have been, as might business or elections or any of the other ready possibilities. He chose, however, in this moment to involve himself in the construction of rustic furniture and traps and stuff. Happily.

* * *

The cot was simple canvas stretched over back-racking metal bones. It was designed to give substance to the motto: “The I.S. never sleeps.” Whoever happened to catch night duty at Binkin Island Development Area was allowed to do his best to sleep, as long as he did it on the cot, and his superiors rested easy, certain in their knowledge that a good man was awake and aware.

There was a second cot, just enough less hostile that a determined man might sleep four hours in a night on it. It was presently in use. Admiral Beagle lay lumped on it, as asleep as he could manage to be.

Sitting cross-legged on the bone-breaker was the young man who had had to suffer one tirade from Admiral Beagle on the subject of transportation and another on the subject of lumpy cots. He held a ceremonial sword in his hands. With elaborate two-handed sweeps he performed the Devotional Catalog. From time to time, he curled his lip at Admiral Beagle, which only shows that religious exercises designed to calm the mind and sooth the heart are of small avail without the aid of a willing spirit.

The door opened and let the morning in.

“Careful there, Jackson,” Comroe said, stepping out of the way of a precisely wild swing. “The ship from Pewamo Central is due any minute.”

“I’ll be up. I’ll be up.” Swish, swish, swish.

“Had breakfast?”

“No, I’ll take a cup of something hot.”

“Who’s that?” A nod at the second cot.

“Admiral Walter Beagle. He said he didn’t have any other place to stay. He wasn’t happy with the cot, though.”

“You should have given him yours.”

“Believe me, I was tempted.” Swish, swish.

“I have a message for him.” Comroe smiled. “I just picked it up at the Com Center. I didn’t know he was here, though.”

“Yes, he’s here. What are you smiling about?”

“The message for Beagle says that he has been relieved of his job as Tanner Trust Arts Council Chairman.”

The sword slowly arced to the floor. “You don’t mean it. They fired him? Hey, let me give him the message.”

“If you want.”

Jackson bounced off the cot, laid the sword down, and began making repairs in his toilet. If you are going to deliver bad news to an admiral, it’s best to look and act beyond reproach. He whistled a happy tuneless little whistle.

“Ah, yes.”

“Ship’s here.”

“Message first, ship later.” Jackson took the message, read it for confirmation, smiled broadly, and then took himself in hand. Grave, brisk, I’m doing my job and I ask no questions. Ho, ho.

He seized Admiral Beagle by the shoulder and shook him awake.

“What is the meaning of this?” Admiral Beagle asked blearily.

“Message for you, Admiral.”

Admiral Beagle roused himself enough to get his feet on the floor. He was not a quick riser. He stared at the floor as though reading portents in the pattern of the wood, and then shook his head and reached a hand up for the message. Jackson placed it within the hand with happy exactness, and then stepped back.

“My God, look at this,” Comroe said. He was standing by the window looking out at the landing field.

Jackson went to join him. “ ‘My God’ is right,” he said. “Where did they all come from? I haven’t seen so many strangers in five years.”

“Come on,” said Comroe, and the two went outside.

Admiral Beagle looked at the message in his hand for some minutes before its full import became apparent to him. He had been relieved of his job. And in this hour when peace and stability were being threatened by aliens and evil twisted men and nephews. In this hour of trial they were pulling him off the firing line. He didn’t understand. What could the Administrator be thinking of? What was happening to the world?

He crossed slowly to the window to give his mind distance. What he saw horrified him. He was a man easily horrified.

He saw his nephew and his two companions standing by the landing field gate. On the field was the shuttle from Pewamo Central. Debarking from it was a ragtail crew of students and yagoots. Ralph’s damned revolution. Ralph waved to the crowd and the crowd waved back. There must have been thirty of them.

Admiral Beagle knew all about faith and duty and the need to keep your head when all about you are a-losin’ theirs and a-blamin’ it on you. He looked about him and saw Jackson’s ceremonial sword still lying on the bed.

When Comroe and Jackson returned to the headquarters building, Admiral Beagle and the sword were gone.

* * *

Unskilled hands went to work with a will. Few of the workmen at Green Mountain had ever done construction of this sort, and many had never done work of any kind before, but all were agreed in regarding this as a niggling detail. The work was sanctioned by the fact that all were willing to do it, just as Binkin Island gained respectability as a place to be by the simple fact that they were there.

Ralph Weinsider took them in charge when they landed. It was only when he saw thirty friends and strangers stepping off the shuttle ship that he realized that if he and John and Fillmore wanted to remain in control of the situation, one of them was going to have to step forward and define the rules of the game for the newcomers. He did want to remain in control. After all, it was their idea.

He looked at Fillmore. Fillmore couldn’t.

He looked at John. John wouldn’t, much as he might like to.

So he stepped forward. He knew nothing of organization, so he was surprised to find that his improvisations were effective.

He gathered them all around and told them they were the Green Mountain Gang. He told them what they had to face, including his uncle. He told them what they stood to accomplish. He gave them a good rich bit of
Henry the Fifth
: “ ‘And gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’ ” And finally he led them up the road—singing—to Green Mountain.

Ralph was both delighted and frightened by his discovery that he was a demagogue, which is to say, a People Mover. It is a lot to assume responsibility for your own conduct, and many humans never manage that much. It is much much more to assume responsibility for a herd.

Smetana reviewed the abilities of his new work force while Ralph and Daisy worked out sleeping, eating, and working arrangements up on the porch.

“All right, next,” he said. “Step up, choose your tool. Saw a board. Hit a nail. All right, you, stop. I can tell. I can tell.”

“But I’m willing,” the boy said.

Smetana designated the five most accomplished his subordinates, and with their aid gave a basic lesson in the use of hand tools. He gave assignments to each of his assistants and allowed them to choose up sides.

“Speed only is not good. Take care with the work,” he admonished as the crews charged into action.

He retired to the porch where Daisy and Ralph were working more quietly.

“The whole building seems to be shaking,” Daisy said.

“Enthusiasm. I tell you, with this noise we don’t see a plonk in the evening for a while.”

But the group was the Green Mountain Gang and determined to show it. Ralph had briefly considered teaching them, “One, two, three, four, who are we for? Green Mountain, Green Mountain, rah, rah, rah,” to increase solidarity, and then discarded the notion as unnecessary.

Ralph handed Smetana the schedule. “This is what we’ve worked out,” he said. “All you have to do is fill in the names.” Then he went to the rail and called, “John! Hey, John.”

John came up to the veranda with a hammer and a sulky expression. “They’ve got me working for your friend, Pyatt Blevko.”

“Well, let’s face it, John. You’re not very good with a hammer. Don’t worry, though. When I hammer, I’ll do it under the direction of somebody like Pyatt, too.”

John reversed the hammer and offered it to Ralph.

“Well, no,” said Ralph. “Not right now. I’m going down to Mr. Villiers’ camp.”

“Why?” John demanded.

“I’m going to ask him about putting on a show tonight down there. We can take everybody down and play the way we did the other night. And then when we’re done, we can bring out Torve by himself. This will really show everybody what we have in mind.”

“That’s a good idea,” John said. “That’s a great idea.”

Somewhat tentatively, Smetana said, “You put on a show tonight at the camp of your friend, Mr. Villiers?”

“Well, we sort of plan to.”

“Do you think we would be welcome, Daisy and me?”

Daisy looked long and sharply at her husband. She made no comment. On Shiawassee it would have been because it wasn’t done. With Daisy it was simply that she didn’t do it.

“Of course,” said Ralph. “Of course, you would be welcome. We’ll see you get the best seats.” He turned to John. “John, while I’m gone, you’re in charge.”

“Of what?”

Ralph gestured toward the blister-developing horde.

“Oh,” said John. “Oh. Oh, yes.” He smiled.

Ralph set off for Villiers’ camp, reminding himself to use the road and the path. He thought well in general of Villiers, but found certain bizarre aspects of his nature—like the need to build behemoth traps—baffling and eccentric.

Smetana looked at Daisy, and smiled ruefully. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “It’s best to go. It’s best to get it over. Then I don’t worry anymore.”

John strode up and down the veranda for some minutes, arms folded, feeling very much the master of the situation. There they were, and here he was. He looked down on them, except for the few who were higher on the building than he was.

He spent a few minutes entertaining himself in this manner, but finally he stopped. He hefted the hammer in his hand, and sighed. Then he came down off the veranda and went back to work under Pyatt Blevko. Because he chose to.

* * *

Fred led the way up the mountainside, following a blazed trail. Gillian followed behind him. They were both carrying packs.

Gillian was sunk in silence. As some women offer a variety of conversation, she had silences for every occasion. Some frightened. Some inquiring. Some intelligent. Some warm and comfortable—but you haven’t seen one of those yet, not a really good one. This one was gray and narrow, a silence of consideration.

Fred took no notice of her solemn mood. Unless you know what signs to read, silence from the outside looks like silence. He talked of what they were seeing and how it was balanced. He’d turn and point, or he’d stop and kneel. He’d talk of what would be an intrusion for men to do here, and what would not.

They passed through three forests. He showed where one ended and the next began, not in clear lines of demarcation, but in gradual zones of transition. High above others of its kind, a little grove of temperate forest in a secure pocket under the mountain shoulder.

In spite of his failure to recognize what is, after all, extremely difficult to recognize, that is, the tenor of Gillian’s thought, Fred was behaving precisely as he should. In spite of his failure to recognize what is, at least usually, extremely easy to recognize, that is, the fact of Gillian’s femaleness, he still wasn’t doing badly.

He paid attention to business, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly. He regarded it as his business to hoot down a hollow, just for the fun of it. He regarded it as his business to notice a difference in flower from one meadow to the next. He regarded it as his business to share birds floating like silver leaves in an azure bowl.

If you treat a dog with consistency, give it attention and affection and security, you will learn just how much of a dog you have. The same recipe works even better with people. That Fred treated Gillian in this manner from nature rather than out of principle should not be held against him.

They stopped for lunch. No weed grew here to toast. Fred commented as much.

Gillian opened her pack then and produced cuttings she had made that morning. Salt. Honey. A proper Big Beaver plans ahead. Fred congratulated her.

So they toasted and salted and dipped. When they went on, Gillian was feeling almost secure enough to speak. But you can’t just say it. You have to work your way into it.