Araminta Station (30 page)

Milo asked: “Exactly what are you telling us?”

“A day or so ago I had reason to check into the works of the philosopher Ronsel de Roust, which are part of Bjarnstra’s
Pocket Guide to Five Hundred Notable Thinkers with Annotations of Their Thoughts
. In the foreword Bjarnstra described difficulties similar to your own, using very similar if not identical terms. A coincidence, of course, but still illuminating.”

Milo said: “I believe we have a copy of Bjarnstra over yonder on the shelf.”

Sunje, sprawled in the chair like a great rag doll, uttered a raucous hoot of laughter. “I must find a copy of this useful book!”

“No problem,” said Wayness. “It seems to be everywhere.”

Milo asked: “One puzzle remains. Why, Glawen, were you interested in Ronsel de Roust?”

“Simple enough. Namour announced his favorite philosopher to be de Roust, so from idle curiosity I looked him up in Bjarnstra. There’s no more mystery than that, except perhaps for Namour’s own interest in de Roust.”

Julian asked: “And who might be this scholarly Namour?”

“He’s labor coordinator for the Station, and in fact a Clattuc collateral.”

Wayness said: “Whenever anything extraordinary happens, you can be sure that there’s a Clattuc involved.”

A set of soft musical tones sounded through the house. Wayness jumped to her feet. “Lunch is ready. Please be orderly and use your best manners.”

Lunch was served on a verandah in the shade of four fine marquisade trees, with the lagoon spreading away beyond. Dame Cora seated the group. “Egon, you will take your usual place, of course. Then - how shall we do this? - Sunje, there, then Milo, then Clytie, if you please, and Glawen. On this side, Wayness, to the right of your father. Next Julian – I’m sure you two will find much to discuss - then Etrune, please. Algin, you shall sit here, beside me. Now, then, in the interest of sweet peace and harmony, shall we invoke a rule against politics?”

“On humanitarian grounds I vote no,” said Milo. “The effect would be to stifle Julian.”

Dame Cora said: “Now, then, Milo, please moderate your banter. Julian might not understand that you meant no offense.”

“Quite right! Julian, no matter what I say, please take no offense.”

“I would not dream of doing so,” said Julian lazily. “In fact, I intend simply to sit here and enjoy the occasion as meekly as possible.”

“Well spoken, Julian!” said his aunt, Clytie Vergence, a handsome if rather stern woman of early middle age, with a ruff of chestnut curls, sharp gray eyes, strong features and impressive physical proportions. “This is indeed a delightful occasion. The forest air is most refreshing.”

So went the lunch: from a pale soup of sea fruits gathered along the beach to a salad of greens, a brace of small roast fowl at each platter; then, bubbling in brown earthenware pots, a cassoulet of beans, sausages, herbs and black morels; and, finally, a dessert of chilled melon.

After the first flask of wine the company relaxed; conversation twittered and tinkled back and forth about the table, along with murmurs of decorous laughter and, from time to time, one of Julian’s resonant perorations - these sometimes droll, sometimes wise, but always of exquisite refinement. Glawen, on the other hand, with Dame Cora to one side and Warden Clytie Vergence to the other, was able to find few topics of mutual interest and for the most part sat quietly.

The group finished dessert and sipped green tea. Dame Cora mentioned Julian’s proposed visit to Mad Mountain Lodge. “Have the maps helped you in any way?”

“Oh, decidedly! But I won’t form any opinions until I make a personal inspection.”

Warden Ballinder turned his head sharply. “Am I supposed to know anything about this?”

“Not necessarily,” said Warden Vergence. “I have long felt that the Mad Mountain situation should somehow be modified. I want Julian to study the conditions before I make my recommendations.”

“As to what?” Warden Ballinder, massive as a bull, with burning black eyes, thick black hair, a great prognathous jaw under a skim of black beard, stared suspiciously at his colleague.

She responded in a cold voice, as if instructing an obstinate child: “Tourists flock to Mad Mountain Lodge and there are plans to add an annex. I question the desirability of this expansion. The tourists come to watch the slaughter on the plain. Since we make facilities available, we put ourselves in the position of pandering to the most disgusting of human traits.”

“That is unfortunately true,” said Warden Ballinder. “Still, the spectacles will continue willy-nilly whether we turn a profit or not, and if we refuse to take the tourists’ money they will only spend it elsewhere.”

“Quite so,” said Warden Vergence. “But perhaps we can stop these dreadful engagements altogether, which would be a most constructive and benign achievement.”

Warden Ballinder’s face became stony. “I seem to detect the rich ripe odor of Peefer ideology.”

Dame Clytie gave him a contemptuous grin. “What of it? Someone must bring a moral authority to bear upon this medieval Society. It has been sadly lacking heretofore!”

Warden Ballinder rolled up his eyes, blew out his cheeks, then declared: “Enjoy your morals, by all means! Fondle them! Adore them! Hang them around your neck! But do not inflict them upon the Conservancy!”

“Come, come, Algin! Please don’t be so pompous, and for once in your life use some amplitude in your thinking, instead of simply throwing back your head and braying. Morals are useless unless they are put to work. Across all Cadwal there is a crying need for a new moral perception, and Mad Mountain is a case in point.”

“You are one hundred and eighty degrees wrong. The activity has persisted across millions of years; it obviously fulfills a fundamental ecological purpose which I for one would not care to fiddle with. These are the basic prohibitions imposed by the Charter.”

Warden Clytie Vergence snorted. “I have arrived at a stage of life when I cannot be cowed every time you flap an old document in my face.”

Julian declared: “And there you hear the voice of progressive realism, ringing loud, bold and clear! The time is now! I too have felt the clammy dead hand of ‘then’ on my arm and I have spurned it aside! Forward, the LPF!”

Milo clapped his hands. “Splendid, Julian! You have great style! Have you considered a career in politics?”

Sunje spoke with languid amusement: “Milo, what an idiot you are! He is already in politics!”

“And a very gallant advocate of his cause!” called out Dame Cora. “Wayness, don’t you agree?”

“Of course! Julian is quite articulate! Glawen, I noticed you wincing and squirming while the Warden Vergence was speaking. Were you trying to endorse her views?”

Everyone turned to look at Glawen, who, after a thoughtful side glance at the Warden Vergence, said: “Our hostess prefers that we avoid the topic of politics, so I will keep my opinions to myself.”

Dame Cora smiled and patted Glawen’s shoulder. “How considerate of you! If only Milo could follow your example!”

Milo said: “That is why I am anxious to hear Glawen’s point of view! His meekness and abnegation suggest that he supports the Peefers. Glawen, is this true? Tell us at least this much!”

“Some other time,” said Glawen.

The Warden Vergence asked him: “I believe that you are employed by Bureau B?”

“That is true.”

“What might be the nature of your duties?”

“I still undergo training, first of all. Then I do odd jobs for the Supervisor: small tasks below the dignity of the upper officers. And of course, I fly patrols out over all the sections of Deucas.”

Julian said blandly: “The best sport, of course, is to be found over the Marmion Foreshore.”

Glawen shook his head. “Contrary to Julian’s obsessive belief, our patrols serve very serious purposes. In a word, we guard the territory of the Conservancy, and we overfly every province several times a year.”

Dame Clytie said: “Off the top of my head I can’t imagine what you’d be looking for.”

“We provide information to the scientists; we support and sometimes rescue their expeditions. We observe and report upon any number of events: natural disasters, abnormal movement of herds, out-of-season tribal migrations. Sometimes we find human intruders, from off-world or otherwise, and we take them into custody, usually without event. For a fact, when we go out on patrol we never know what to expect. We might find a krabenklotter bogged down in the swamp, which represents a good deal of dirty work and a challenge to our professional skills.”

Wayness asked: “What do you do in such a case?”

“We land, rig the proper tackle, drag the beast to safety, then run like blazes to escape the ungrateful creature.”

“You do this alone?”

“We lack manpower for anything better. Still, we do our best and usually the job gets done, if only out of vanity. The intent of Bureau B training is to make us competent under any circumstances.”

Sunje demanded: “And that’s how you regard yourself?”

Glawen grinned. “I’m just learning. I’d like to be as resourceful as my father.”

Julian asked blandly: “What happens when you find human intruders?”

“Most of these are petty bandits, hoping to loot the jewel beds.”

“I should think that they’d be dangerous folk and quick with their weapons.”

“Sometimes they are, but we have techniques to deal with them. Sensors warn us that intruders are present. Our first step is to locate and disable their vehicle, to prevent their escape. Then with our loud-hailer we warn them against violence, and instruct them to surrender. Usually that’s all there is to the matter.”

“What happens next?”

“If they surrender at once, they’ll serve three years or so on the Cape Journal Roadway. If they use weapons and resist, they are killed on the spot.”

Sunje gave an exaggerated shudder. “The Bureau B personnel seem very brisk. You allow your prisoners no representation, no legal process, no rights of appeal?”

“Our rules are widely known. The legal processes you mention are automatically raised, argued and denied, in a single brief sentence. It is something like an all-inclusive hotel bill. To bring these points again would be redundant. If the bandits find our rules unacceptable, they can go elsewhere.”

Sunje asked in a metallic voice: “Have you killed any of these bandits yourself - knowing that they might be ignorant of your rules?”

Glawen smiled a small wry smile. “When bandits try to kill us, our compassion is quickly lost. We don’t even wonder whether they might be ignorant.”

Dame Clytie said coldly: “Let me ask you this, since the subject has been broached: what of the Yips whom you capture along the Foreshore? Do you kill them with the same careless ease?”

Glawen showed a faint smile. “I cannot answer your question directly, since the Yips almost always surrender without offering violence.”

“So then: what is their fate?”

“It has changed over the years. At first, they were merely tattooed for identification and sent back to the Lutwens. This policy dissuaded no one, so for a period trespassers were sent to Cape Journal to work on the road, until we could absorb no more. We now use a new technique, which seems to work very well!”

“And how do you operate this new technique?”

“The Yips no longer serve time at Cape Journal; instead they are sent off-world, to Soumjiana or Moulton’s World, where they are indentured into suitable employment for a term of one or two years. The proceeds pay all our expenses; after the indenture is satisfied, the Yip finds himself employed and free to do as he likes, except return to Cadwal. He has in effect become an emigrant from Yipton off-world, which is our goal. Everyone is happy except, conceivably, the Oomphaw, who prefers to work out his own indentures.”

Egon Tamm looked up and down the table. “Are there any more questions? Or have we studied the work of Bureau B in sufficient detail?”

Dame Clytie said grimly: “I have learned even more than I wanted to know.”

Dame Cora glanced at the sky, “I believe that the breeze has come up, and it’s a trifle boisterous. Shall we go indoors?”

The company made its way to the parlor. Dame Cora called out for attention. “All are now free to relax as they please. Etrune and I are going to look at some of my leaf block-prints. They are truly exquisite, and as the textbook asserts they ‘seem to vibrate with the essence of vegetation.’ Clytie, would you care to join us? And Sunje?”

Sunje smilingly shook her head. Dame Clytie said: “Thank you, Cora, but I am not at all in a vegetative mood.”

“As you wish. Milo, you might show Sunje and Glawen the secret rock pool you found the other day.”

“Then it wouldn’t be secret any longer,” said Milo. “They can go seek it out themselves, if they want to. Meanwhile I’ll show Julian our new encyclopedia of combat devices.”

“In the name of precious Gaea herself,” gasped Dame Clytie, “whatever for?”

Milo shrugged. “Sometimes it’s more convenient to kill opponents than to argue with them, especially if you happen to be late for an appointment.”

Dame Cora compressed her lips. “Milo, your humor approaches the bizarre and might even be considered tasteless.”

Milo bowed. “I accept your judgment and retract everything! Come, Julian, I’ll show you the rock pool.”

“Not quite so soon after lunch,” said Julian. “I am a trifle enervated.”

“You must do as you like,” said Dame Cora graciously.

“Etrune, shall we look over the blocks?”

The two ladies departed. Others of the group disposed themselves around the room. Glawen reflected that now might be as good a time as any to take leave of the party. Wayness sensed his half-formed intent; with a mere twitch of the fingers and a meaningful glance she indicated that she did not want him to go.

Glawen seated himself at the end of the couch as before. Dame Clytie paced the length of the room, then seated herself opposite Julian.

Milo and Wayness busied themselves at the sideboard, and served cups of sweetened brandy along with sticks of dense dark pastry. Wayness told Glawen: “This is how we while away the long winter evenings at Stroma. You must dip the end of the hard-cake into the brandy, then gnaw away the part that has become soft. The process will seem pointless at first, but you’ll find that you don’t want to stop.”