The Brave Free Men (15 page)

Etzwane and Finnerack immediately set about exploring the cupboards and shelves. They examined the roster and puzzled over the cryptic marks which Aun Sharah had posted beside many of the names. They found large-scale maps for each canton of Shant and for the cities of Garwiy, Maschein, Brassei, Ilwiy, Carbado, Whearn, Ferghez, and Oswiy. A set of indexes listed important men of each canton, with references to a master file and more of Aun Sharah's symbols; there were likewise detailed studies of the Aesthetes of Garwiy, again with a variety of cryptic references.

"No great matter," said Etzwane. "Aun Sharah's notes will be obsolete in a year. They relate to Old Shant; we have no interest in secrets and scandals. In any event I want to reorganize the Discriminators."

"How so?"

"They are now civil and cantonal police; they also gather information elsewhere in Shant. I want to detach this last function and establish a new Shant-wide agency to provide the Anome detailed intelligence regarding all of Shant."

"It is an interesting idea. I would be glad to control such an agency."

Etzwane laughed to himself with a straight face. Finnerack was sometimes wonderfully transparent. "Our first problem is the identity of the men who followed us yesterday evening. I would like you to organize this matter, at least. Acquaint yourself with the Discriminators; call a meeting of the personnel. Stress that Aun Sharah is no longer Chief Discriminator; that all orders must now derive from me. As soon as possible I want to look over all the operatives, all the trackers official and unofficial. If I see the man, I will recognize him."

Finnerack hesitated. "All very well, but how should I proceed?" Etzwane considered a moment. To the side of Aun Sharah's desk was a bank of buttons. Etzwane pressed the top button. At once a clerk entered the room, a man plump and anxious, no older than Etzwane himself.

Etzwane said: "The former Chief Discriminator is no longer in authority, by order of the Anome. Henceforth you will take orders only from me and from Jerd Finnerack, here beside me; do you understand?"

"I do."

"What is your name?"

"I am Thiruble Archenway, with the status of Clerk Lieutenant."

"This top button summons yourself. What of these other buttons?"

Archenway explained the function of each button, while Etzwane took notes. "I have several tasks to be accomplished at once," said Etzwane. "First, I want you to introduce Jerd Finnetack throughout the office. He will be making certain arrangements. I want you then to summon three men to me here, by authority of the Anome, as quickly as is convenient. First: Ferulfio the Master Electrician. Second: the technist Doneis. Third: Mialambre Octagon, Arbiter of Wale."

"As quickly as possible." Thiruble Archenway bowed to Finnerack. "Sir, please step this way. . .."

"One moment," said Etzwane.

Archenway swung about. "Yes?"

"What are your ordinary duties?"

"Errands much like those you have just put to me. I customarily adjust the Chief Discriminator's calendar, arrange appointments, screen mail, deliver messages."

"I remind you that Aun Sharah is no longer associated with the Discriminators. I want absolutely no leakage of information, gossip, hints, or implications from this office, through you or anyone else. Perhaps you had better circulate a bulletin to this effect."

"I will do as you require."

Ferulfio the Master Electrician was a man thin and pale, with quicksilver eyes. "Ferulfio," said Etzwane, "by repute you are a man as silent as a fanshank and twice as discreet."

"That I am."

"You and I will now go to Sershan Palace; I will admit you to a room housing the former Anome's radio system. You will transfer the equipment to this office and arrange it along yonder wall."

"As you say."

Etzwane, disliking Aun Sharah's desk, ordered it removed. He brought in two green leather divans, two chairs of purple-stained woadwood, upholstered in plum-colored leather, and a long table, upon which a pert and pretty girl file clerk, watching Etzwane sidelong, placed a bouquet of irutiane and amaryls.

Archenway came into the room. He looked this way and that. "Very pleasant; a nice change. You also need a new rug. Let me think. . .." He paced back and forth. "A floral, perhaps the Fourth Legend, in violet and coral? Somewhat too definite, too limiting; after all, you wish to establish your own moods. Better one of the Aubry Concentrics; which are frequently delightful. The connoisseurs think them ill-proportioned, but I find this very distortion quaint and amusing. . . . Perhaps after all a Burazhesq would be best, in dark gray, thracide
^[14]
, umber."

"I am agreeable," said Etzwane. "Order in such a rug. We all should work in pleasant surroundings."

"My precise philosophy!" declared Archenway, "I am sorry to say that my own office leaves something to be desired. I could work more efficiently in a situation on the front elevation, somewhat larger and lighter than my present cubbyhole."

"Are any such offices vacant?"

"Not at the moment," admitted Archenway, "I can readily recommend changes. In fact, if you will allow me, I will at this instant prepare a schedule of long overdue adjustments."

"In due course," said Etzwane. "We can't do everything at once."

"I trust that you will keep the matter in mind," said Archenway. "I am now half-stifled in gloom; the door strikes my leg every time someone opens it, and the colors, in spite of my best efforts, are stupid and depressing. . . . Meanwhile, the technist Doneis awaits your convenience."

Etzwane swung around in astonishment. "You keep Doneis waiting while you chatter of rugs and your inclinations in offices? You'll be lucky to end up tonight with any office whatever."

In consternation Archenway hurried from the room, to return with the tall, bone-thin Doneis. Etzwane ushered the technist to a divan and seated himself opposite. "You have submitted no report," said Etzwane. "I am anxious to learn what has been accomplished."

Doneis refused to relax; he sat bolt upright on the divan. "I have submitted no report because we have achieved no reportable results. You need not remind me of the need for haste; I understand this from high to low. We do the best we can."

"Do you have nothing whatever to tell me?" demanded Etzwane. "What are your problems? Do you need money? Additional personnel? Are their problems of morale? Do you lack authority?"

Doneis raised his sparse eyebrows.' "We need neither money nor further personnel, unless you can supply five dozen intensively trained persons of superlative intelligence. Problems of discipline arose at first; we are not accustomed to working together. Matters are now somewhat better. We pursue what may be a promising line of inquiry. Are you interested in the details?"

"Of course!"

"There is a long-known class of materials," said Doneis, "which emerges from the retort as an extremely dense white material of waxy and somewhat fibrous texture. We call these materials the halcoids. They show a most curious propensity. When a surge of electricity passes through them, they alter to a translucent crystalline solid, with an appreciable increment in size. In the case of Halcoid Four, this increment is almost one-sixth. Not a great deal, one might think, but the change occurs instantly, and with irresistible force; indeed, if Halcoid Four is not altered under pressure, it accelerates its surface to such an extent that in effect it explodes. One of our number has recently produced Halcoid Four with its fibers parallel, and this we call Halcoid Four-One. Upon an electrical impulse Four-One expands longitudinally only, the terminal surfaces moving at remarkable speed, which at midpoint we reckon to be about one-quarter the velocity of light. It has been proposed that projectiles be formed of Halcoid Four-One. We are now performing tests, but I cannot announce even presumptive results."

Etzwane was impressed by the exposition. "What other lines do you pursue?"

"We produce arrows with dexax heads, exploded by contact; these are complicated and uncertain. We are striving to perfect this weapon, as it would prove effective at middle ranges. I can give you little more news; we have essentially only settled ourselves to our work. The ancients projected light strong enough to burn away vision, but these skills are lost; our power-pods, while durable, provide only small surges."

Etzwane displayed the energy pistol which he had obtained from I mess. "Here is a weapon from

Earth. Can you learn anything useful from it?"

Doneis scrutinized the weapon. "The workmanship is beyond our capabilities. I doubt if we could learn more than the fact of our own deterioration. Of course, we have no metals of rare and various kinds, though we do fine work with our glasses and crystals." He somewhat reluctantly returned the pistol to Etzwane. "As to another matter: military communication. Here there is no lack of capability; we are skilled in the controlled pulsing of electrical currents; we manufacture coded torcs by the thousands. But the problems are still critical. To manufacture military equipment we must commandeer the facilities and skilled workmen currently manufacturing torcs. If we simply skim the torc factories of their best, then we risk producing faulty torcs, with possibly tragic consequence."

"Is there sufficiency of torcs on storage?" "Never; this is impractical. We use the codes of recent fatalities in the new torcs to minimize the complexity of the code. If we did not do this, the codes might extend to nine, ten, or even eleven colors: a great and obvious nuisance."

Etzwane puzzled over the problem. "Is there no other less urgent industry from which workers might be diverted?" "None whatever."

"We have a single recourse," said Etzwane. "Torcs are of no value to dead people. Produce the radios. The young people must wait for their torcs until the Roguskhoi are destroyed."

"This is my own reading of the matter," agreed Doneis.

"One last matter," said Etzwane. "Aun Sharah has become Director of Material Procurement for all Shant. Whatever your needs, you must now consult him."

Doneis had departed. Etzwane leaned back on the divan to think. Suppose the war lasted ten years; suppose for ten years pubescent children were denied their torcs. They would then be almost his own age before they encountered adult responsibilities. Would they willingly give over their unbridled freedom? Or would a whole generation of hooligans be loosed upon the complicated structure of Shant? . . . Etzwane pressed the button to summon Thiruble Archenway. . . . He pressed again. Into the room came the girl who had prepared the bouquet. "Where is Archenway?"

"He has stepped out for his afternoon wine. He will shortly return. Incidentally," she added in a demure voice, "a distinguished gentleman sits in the hall, and it might be that he has come to speak to the Chief Discriminator. Archenway left no instructions."

"Be good enough to show him in. Your name is what?"

"I am Dashan of the house of Szandales, a clerk in Archenway's office."

"How long have you worked in this capacity?"

"Only three months."

"Hereafter when I press the bell, you will answer. Thiruble Archenway is insufficiently alert."

"I will do my best to help your Lordship in every possible way.

As she left the room she turned a quick backward glance over her shoulder, from which much or little might be assumed, depending upon the mood of the person who looked.

Dashan of Szandales tapped at the door, then looked demurely through. "The gentleman Mialambre Octagon, High Arbiter of Wale."

Etzwane jumped to his feet; into the room came Mialambre: a man short and sturdy, if somewhat narrow-chested, in an austere gown of gray and white. His lordly head supported a stiff brush of white hair; his gaze was intense and somewhat minatory; he did not seem a man of easy congeniality.

Dashan of Szandales waited expectantly in the doorway. Etzwane said, "Bring us refreshment, if you please." To
 
Mialambre Octagon he said, "Please sit down; I did not expect you so soon; I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"You are the Chief Discriminator?" Mialambre's voice was low and harsh; his gaze probed every aspect of Etzwane's appearance.

"At the moment there is no Chief Discriminator. I am Gastel Etzwane, executive assistant to the Anome. When you talk to me, you are, in effect, face to face with the Anome."

Mialambre's gaze, if anything, became more intense. Perhaps from juridical habit, he made no effort to ease the conversation, but silently awaited Etzwane's remarks.