New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (34 page)

5

M
ONISM PROMISES ONLY ONE THING:
to make you very very happy. There is a catch, of course. To be happy as a Monist, you must accept Monist definitions of happiness. If you can—and many do—you have a blissful life before you. Congratulations.

The Monists—in the single person of a Meditation Leader named Coppersmith—came to Delbalso in 1430. He rented a small building, began to talk to people, and let the general observe his sunny personality. If anyone asked, he credited Monism. After a year, he had converted his landlord, Stanley Joralemon, to the Monist Way, the landlord had turned all his considerable worldly possessions over to the commonality, and Joralemon House was a-building.

When Gideon Coppersmith left Delbalso five years later to carry the blessings of Monism to yet another world—his fourth—there were two active, thriving Houses in the Delbalso Monist Association. Less than thirty years later, there were four: Joralemon, Schermerhorn, Montague, and Pierrepont. Joralemon and Pierrepont were talking of sponsoring another House—Joralemon’s third daughter, Pierrepont’s first. It would be located somewhere outside the town. Sentiment favored the name “Coppersmith House.”

You may ask those who live in Joralemon, Schermerhorn, Montague and Pierrepont, and they will all tell you that they are very happy. And they are, of course, because they believe they have every reason to be. It’s built into the system.

Still, for an illusion . . .

It is indisputable that Monist children are bigger, stronger, and healthier than the Delbalso average. And they smile more. There is a study from the Petenji Institute that says they do.

Monist business enterprises prosper. Monist art is counted an ornament. A Monist is I-go champion of Delbalso.

Perhaps the Monists aren’t really happy. Still, it is a fact that in less than thirty-five years, “happy as a Monist” has replaced “merry as a grig” in Delbalso popular idiom, so someone thinks Monists are happy.

* * *

Slyne prowled. Through his mind curled fancies of himself as Nemesis, a dark and midnight destroyer. His body bent low. His amplifiers were open to the full. Since he lacked formal introduction to the Trog, he had to follow intuitive patterns, gross assumptions, and problematic possibilities through the night streets. It was all very uncertain. McBe trailed behind on faith alone.

In time, Slyne’s amplified possibilities and McBe’s faith brought them both to a great enclosing wall. There were gates in the wall, but Slyne passed them by. Then the wall connected to a building, and there were doors. Slyne stopped in front of one of the doors. A banner with a blue motif hung above it.

“What is this building?” McBe asked. “Is it a university?” By making a special effort, he had retained the information that the Trog they sought was a scholar and hence might be found in company with knowledge.

“No,” said Slyne. “It’s a House of the Delbalso Monist Association.”

McBe blanched and gasped. “A Monist House?” He rolled his eyes.

“Come, come,” said Slyne. “No fits and starts, McBe.”

“We’re not going to go in there, are we?”

Slyne said, “Brace yourself, McBe.”

Reluctantly, McBe went into a brace. “Sir.”

“What is your primary sense?”

“Sir?”

“Which of your senses do you customarily rely on?”

“Eyesight, I suppose, sir, in the light.”

“By all means, then, McBe, look about you. Very slowly.”

McBe slowly looked about him. The street was a gentle curve, faintly lit. There were lights at various places in the great building, and lights above the doors. There was a dark sway of foliage in the breeze.

“Do you see anything that can harm you?”

“No, sir. But it’s dark.”

“What’s your next best sense?”

“Smell, I suppose.”

He spoke doubtfully, and well he might. As a self-protective device, all his senses were filtered so that he shouldn’t be swamped by more data than he could safely handle. His hearing was miserable. Almost anything could be said in his presence, short of his name, and pass unheard. For him to hear music, it had to be loud enough to annoy. He would turn it on for a time, let it irritate him and his neighbors, and then turn it off again, convinced that it must have purgative value, since he could detect none other. He had a regular time marked on his schedule.

Most people, asked their second sense, would say hearing. McBe’s hearing was impugned every day. His sense of smell was no better, but no one had had occasion to challenge it.

No matter—he pleased Slyne. Slyne wanted to come close and whuffle, but he restrained himself.

He said, “Take a good deep breath. Taste the air. Sample it carefully.” He took his own advice and caught the faintest intoxicating whiff of McBe.

McBe took a shocking lungful of air. He held it in and then he let it dribble out. Anxious to justify his own estimate, he sampled the Night.

“Well,” said Slyne, “anything harmful?”

“No,” said McBe. “But it tastes wild.” He suppressed a shudder.

“What sense next?”

“Hearing?” asked McBe.

“All right. Listen. What do you hear?”

McBe listened. He not only listened, he continued to see and smell. He heard only the sound of the wind. He saw nothing. He smelled vague wild promise. It gave him the sense that there were things lurking just beyond the limit of his ability to detect them.

“I don’t hear anything, sir.”

“Of course not. Now expand yourself. There’s nothing out here you can’t dominate. Feel your size. Feel your strength. Take power from your uniform.”

But McBe took no sense of power from his uniform. He hadn’t gotten past expanding his senses, and the accumulation of strange dark impressions was too much for him.

Between tightly clenched teeth, he said, “I believe you may be right, sir. I think we could go inside now, if you like.”

“Very good,” said Slyne, inhaling. “I thought all you needed was a little encouragement. Very soon you’ll be out here planetside all the time, eh, McBe?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” McBe said, watching him sound the door of the Monist Association. Imagine—to be feeling relief to be allowed within a Monist Association. But then those big walls can fence out the wild world as well as guard secrets.

As they waited for the door to open, McBe said, “Do you think they’ll let me use their sanitary facilities?” He was delicate about the things he said.

“Is it that time again?” Slyne asked.

McBe nodded. That was easier than an explanation. This foray into the darkness had thrown him completely off schedule and he had the feeling that almost anything was possible. Anyway, he knew he had to use a toilet, schedule or no.

A Warder answered the door. He little more than blinked at the Empire uniforms or at Slyne, who was not usual. “Yes?” he said.

McBe said, “May I use your bathroom?” And he looked over his shoulder at the Night.

“Well, I suppose you may,” the Warder said. “Come on inside. Around there to the right, second door.”

He pointed McBe on his way. The floor was parquetry. The walls were paneled in wood.

Slyne said, “We have reason to believe that a Trog came to this House tonight. To this very door.” His nose twitched as he sought to know the Warder better.

“Not as far as I know,” the Warder said.

“We wish to examine its papers.”

“Is that your job, examining papers?”

“For the most part.”

“Then I can understand your wanting to examine the papers of a Trog. I’m sure they must be special and exciting. Fully as gaudy as your own.”

“Less.”

“Is that so? But why do you search here, in a Monist Association, and, in particular, why, when your authority does not stretch beyond the door to the Rock?”

“You are right, of course, Reverend Sir. I have no . . . particular authority. Particular authority . . .” He mulled the phrase and found it good. “But this is not an official investigation.”

“You’re wearing your uniform,” the Warder pointed out quite reasonably.

“An accident,” said the Orthodoxou. “I forgot to change before venturing out.”

“And your friend?”

“He neglected to change as well. But it is of no moment. We simply wish to know whether a Trog has been here tonight.”

The Warder considered. “All right. I’ll check, though I don’t know why I should.” He rang the House Plexus. “Walt, has a Trog been in the House tonight?” He nodded. “Oh. Yes. No, two I.S.ers from the Rock. That’s what I said. Oh—Badrian.”

McBe entered, looking over his shoulder with an air of puzzlement, as the Warder turned back. McBe looked up just in time to avoid a collision. McBe bobbed politely.

“Thank you,” he said, and rubbed his fingers publicly to show that they were clean and dry.

The Warder nodded. To Slyne, he said, “Your Trog was here but he left some time ago.”

“Why was he here?” Slyne asked sharply.

The Warder looked reproachful. “But, Sir, this isn’t an investigation. Do you fail to recall?”

Slyne nodded reluctantly. “I do recall.” he said.

“I may tell you that he left by Gate Three.”

“Will you show us the way?” Slyne asked.

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t,” said the Warder. “I can’t leave my post and there is no one else to show you. You’ll have to find your own way around the outside. It’s about the same distance either way.”

“Very well,” said Slyne. “Come along, McBe.”

“Already?” said McBe.

“Pull yourself together, McBe. Good night, Sir.”

“Good night,” said McBe.

“Good night,” said the Warder. “Oh, one thing. The Xochitl Sodality is playing Wonders and Marvels tonight. You had better be careful. They may take you for a Marvel.” And he closed the door.

McBe didn’t hear, of course. Slyne heard, but didn’t know what the Warder meant. He didn’t ask McBe.

McBe shot a look at the Night and then lowered his sight to his feet and the street. He inclined his head. “You should see what they do in there,” he said. His tone was a mixture of awe and puzzlement. He told what they did in there.

Slyne found it strange, but no stranger than the ordinary run of human behavior. He found it less strange than McBe did, and be found it less strange than he found McBe.

But McBe was puzzled and expected an answer. When you are surrounded by a strange and hostile world, you need answers.

“I take it to be essentially religious,” said Slyne, considering this to be a safe answer.

“Religious,” said McBe. “But that would make it all right, then.” McBe had respect for religion.

“If it’s religious, then it’s all right?” Slyne asked, perking behind his amplifiers.

“Why, yes. I suppose,” said McBe.

“Very interesting,” said Slyne. His damp little nose behind its lattice touched McBe’s ear. Slyne whuffled deeply. He tried to make it last, but like all good holy experiences, this one, too, was ephemeral. A holy experience, infinitely extended, becomes trivial. Understanding this, Slyne exhaled and set off around the palisade for Gate Three. And McBe trailed behind, swiping at his ear.

* * *

“I have a special responsibility for young Badrian,” said the man. His name was Ossian Chimmeroon. He was newly come to white-mantled maturity and still settling into his new set of relationships, but enjoying the feeling of being a sage. The blue trimming on his white robes indicated Joralemon House. “Not only am I his Guide Leader, but he bought up my place in the Xochitl Sodality. Besides, I should be able to guide you as well as anyone you care to name. If anyone can tell you where Xochitl will run, it’s me.”

He walked the quiet winding curve of street. Beside him padded Torve the Trog. Chimmeroon had offered to take Torve to Badrian Beaufils since it was Xochitl Sodality Night and Badrian was out playing in the streets.

The town was a bowl, with a green and gardens in the cup curve and the quarters of the town laid out on the slopes above. People were settled in for the night. Houses were dark. The streets were private. From time to time as they walked, there were vantages from which could be seen the crystal sprawl of the city. There was a breeze that toyed lightly with sound and temperature, rustling and flicking. It was a pleasant evening for a walk.

“Is a nice planet you have here,” said Torve the Trog.

“Thank you. We like it,” said Chimmeroon. Of course, since he had never been off the planet, he had nothing to compare it with. Nonetheless, it is a fact that he liked Delbalso.

Now is the opportunity to observe the difference between a genuine Trog and a gross impostor. Even in dim light, even in darkness, Torve’s eyes shone a genuine divine lumined blue. Otherwise there wasn’t a great deal of obvious difference.

Above them, cracking and flashing white lightnings, a ship descended slowly toward the Rock. There were beacons on the rim of the Rock that marked its dark, flatulent bulk against the sky. Chimmeroon and Torve the Trog turned to watch until lightnings and beacons merged in flaring white and flashing red. Then the crackle and flash ended. The beacons continued to wink imperturbably, and yellow afterimages danced on the eyes.

Torve continued to stare at the Rock.

“Imagine that’s the nightboat from Duden,” said Chimmeroon.

Torve squatted. “I have feeling of imminent conjugation,” he said. “Pardon. I must steep myself.” He closed his eyes and went away. He concentrated with the solemn gravity of an old man examining his excreta for portents. After a silent minute or more, he made his throbbing noise, “
Thurb
.” He made it again, a number of times.

This was art, an aid to his concentration. And there, of course, is your essential difference—not the gross duplicable exterior, but the Troggish heart. That cannot be chunked out by a machine.

Torve’s art continued for its own sake after its utile function was complete. Torve paused for a brief moment to savor the event. Then he rose.

“Yes,” he said. “No mistake. Imminent conjugation.”

It is this sort of concept that is in part responsible for the restriction of Trogs. What can be fruitfully exchanged, after all, with people who believe that events ripen themselves, bide their time, wait for the proper interactive moment to occur? At a moment of conjugation, as Torve would have it, a cluster of events burgeon to their mutual satisfaction. And through the morass of events, things—Trogs and humans and dogs and bricks and sticks—must take their own chances. Events will use them as they will, and the best one can do is swim with the tide.