The Cache (24 page)

Yet, he had to admit Lusine was beautiful. If she had not been a blood-drinker . . .

Though he lacked his receptive Skin, Mapfarity seemed to sense Rastignac’s emotions. He said, “You must not blame her too much, Jean-Jacques. Sea-changelings are conditioned from babyhood to love blood. And for a very definite purpose, too, unnatural though it is. When the time comes for hordes of Changelings to sweep out of the sea and overwhelm the Landfolk, they will have no compunctions about cutting the throats of their fellow-creatures.”

Lusine laughed. The rest of them shifted uneasily but did not comment. Rastignac changed the subject.

“How did you find out about the Earthman, Mapfarity?” he said.

The Ssassaror smiled. Two long yellow canines shone wetly; the nose, which had nostrils set in the sides, gaped open; blue sparks shot out from it; at the same time, the feathered ears stiffened and crackled with red-and-blue sparks.

“I have been doing something besides breeding geese to lay golden eggs,” he said. “I have set traps for Waterfolk, and I have caught two. These I caged in a dungeon in my castle, and I experimented with them. I removed their Skins and put them on me, and I found out many interesting facts.”

He leered at Lusine, who was no longer laughing, and he said, “For instance, I discovered that the Sea-king can locate, talk to, and punish any of his subjects anywhere in the sea or along the coast. He has booster Skins planted all over his realm so that any message he sends will reach the receiver, no matter how far away he is. Moreover, he has conditioned each and every Skin so that, by uttering a certain codeword to which only one particular Skin will respond, he may stimulate it to shock or even to kill its carrier.”

Mapfarity continued, “I analyzed those two Skins in my lab and then, using them as models, made a number of duplicates in my fleshforge. They lacked only the nerves that would enable the Sea-King to shock us.”

Rastignac smiled his appreciation of this coup. Mapfarity’s ears crackled blue sparks of joy, his equivalent of blushing.

“Ah, then you have doubtless listened in to many broadcasts. And you know where the Earthman is located?”

“Yes,” said the Giant. “He is in the palace of the Amphib King, upon the island of Kataproimnoin. That is only thirty miles out to the sea.

Rastignac did not know what he would do, but he had two advantages in the Amphibs’ Skins and in Lusine. And he burned to get off this doomed planet, this land of men too sunk in false happiness, sloth, and stupidity to see that soon death would come from the water.

He had two possible avenues of escape. One was to use the newly arrived Earthman’s knowledge so that the fuels necessary to propel the ferry-rockets could be manufactured. The rockets themselves still stood in a museum. Rastignac had not planned to use them because neither he nor any one else on this planet knew how to make fuel for them. Such secrets had long ago been forgotten.

But now that science was available through the newcomer from Earth, the rockets could be equipped and taken up to one of the Six Flying Stars. The Earthman could study the rocket, determine what was needed in the way of supplies, then it could be outfitted for the long voyage.

An alternative was the Terran’s vessel. Perhaps he might invite him to come along in it. . .

The huge gateway to Mapfarity’s castle interrupted his thoughts.

VIII

He halted the Renault, told Archambaud to find the Giant’s servant and have him feed their vehicle, rub its legs down with liniment, and examine the hooves for defective shoes.

Archambaud was glad to look up Mapfabvisheen, the Giant’s servant, because he had not seen him for a long time. The little Ssassaror had been an active member of the Egg-stealer’s Guild until the night three years ago when he had tried to creep into Mapfarity’s strongroom. The crafty guilds-man had avoided the Giant’s traps and there found the two geese squatting upon their bed of minerals.

These fabulous geese made no sound when he picked them up with lead-lined gloves and put them in his bag, also lined with lead-leaf. They were not even aware of him. Laboratory-bred, retort-shaped, their protoplasm a blend of silicon-carbon, unconscious even that they lived, they munched upon lead and other elements, ruminated, gastrated, transmuted, and every month, regular as the clockwork march of stars or whirl of electrons, each laid an octagonal egg of pure gold.

Mapfabvisheen had trodden softly from the strongroom and thought himself safe. And then, amazingly, frighteningly, and totally unethically, from his viewpoint, the geese had begun honking loudly!

He had run but not fast enough. The Giant had come stumbling from his bed in response to the wild clamor and had caught him. And, according to the contract drawn up between the Guild of Egg-stealers and the League of Giants, a guildsman seized within the precincts of a castle must serve the goose’s owner for two years. Mapfabvisheen had been greedy; he had tried to take both geese. Therefore, he must wait upon the Giant for a double term.

Afterwards, he found out how he’d been trapped. The egg-layers themselves hadn’t been honking. Mouthless, they were utterly incapable of that. Mapfarity had fastened a so-called “goose-tracker” to the strongroom’s doorway. This device clicked loudly whenever a goose was nearby. It could smell out one even through a lead-leaf-lined bag. When Mapfabvisheen passed underneath it, its clicks woke up a small Skin beside it. The Skin, mostly lung-sac and voice organs, honked its warning. And the dwarf, Mapfabvisheen, began his servitude to the Giant, Mapfarity.

Rastignac knew the story. He also knew that Mapfarity had infected the fellow with the philosophy of Violence and that he was now a good member of his Underground. He was eager to tell him his servitor days were over, that he could now take his place in their band as an equal. Subject, of course, to Rastignac’s order.

Mapfabvisheen was stretched out upon the floor and snoring a sour breath. A grey-haired man was slumped on a nearby table. His head, turned to one side, exhibited the same slack-jawed look that the Ssassaror’s had, and he flung the ill-smelling gauntlet of his breath at the visitors. He held an empty bottle in one loose hand. Two other bottles lay on the stone floor, one shattered.

Besides the bottles lay the men’s Skins. Rastignac wondered why they had not crawled to the halltree and hung themselves up.

“What ails them? What is that smell?” said Mapfarity.

“I don’t know,” replied Archambaud, “but I know the visitor. He is Father Jules, priest of the Guild of Egg-stealers.”

Rastignac raised his bracket-shaped eyebrows, picked up a bottle in which there remained a slight residue, and drank.

“Mon Dieu, it is the sacrament wine!” he cried.

Mapfarity said, “Why would they be drinking that?”

“I don’t know. Wake Mapfabvisheen up, but let the good father sleep. He seems tired after his spiritual labors and doubtless deserves a rest.”

Doused with a bucket of cold water the little Ssassaror staggered to his feet. Seeing Archambaud, he embraced him. “Ah, Archambaud, old baby-abductor, my sweet goose-bagger, my ears tingle to see you again!”

They did. Red and blue sparks flew off his ear-feathers.

“What is the meaning of this?” sternly interrupted Mapfarity. He pointed at the dirt swept into the corners.

Mapfabvisheen drew himself up to his full dignity, which wasn’t much. “Good Father Jules was making his circuits,” he said. “You know he travels around the country and hears confession and sings Mass for us poor egg-stealers who have been unlucky enough to fall into the clutches of some rich and greedy and anti-social Giant who is too stingy to hire servants, but captures them instead, and who won’t allow us to leave the premises until our servitude is over . . .”

“Cut it!” thundered Mapfarity. “I can’t stand around all day, listening to the likes of you. My feet hurt too much. Anyway, you know I’ve allowed you to go into town every week-end. Why don’t you see a priest then?”

Mapfabvisheen said, “You know very well the closest town is ten kilometers away and it’s full of Pantheists. There’s not a priest to be found there.”

Rastignac groaned inwardly. Always,-it was thus. You could never hurry these people or get them to regard anything seriously:

Take the case they were wasting their breath on now. Everybody knew the Church had been outlawed a long time ago because it opposed the use of the Skins and certain other practices that went along with it. So, no sooner had that been done than the Ssassarors, anxious to establish their check-and-balance system, had made arrangements through the Minister of Ill-Will to give the Church unofficial legal recognizance.

Then, though the aborigines had belonged to that pantheistical organization known as the Sons of Good And Old Mother Nature, they had all joined the Church of the Terrans. They operated under the theory that the best way to make an institution innocuous was for everybody to sign up for it. Never persecute. That makes it thrive.

Much to the Church’s chagrin, the theory worked. How can you fight an enemy who insists on joining you and who will also agree to everything you teach him and then still worship at the other service? Supposedly driven underground, the Church counted almost every Landsman among its supporters from the Kings down.

Every now and then a priest would forget to wear his Skin out-of-doors and be arrested, then released later in an official jail-break. Those who refused to cooperate were forcibly kidnapped, taken to another town and there let loose. Nor did it do the priest any good to proclaim boldly who he was. Everybody pretended not to know he was a fugitive from justice. They insisted on calling him by his official pseudonym.

However, few priests were such martyrs. Generations of Skin-wearing had sapped the ecclesiastical vigor.

The thing that puzzled Rastignac about Father Jules was the sacrament wine. Neither he nor anybody else in L’Bawpfey, as far as he knew, had ever tasted the liquid outside of the ceremony. Indeed, except for certain of the priests, nobody even knew how to make wine.

He shook the priest awake, said, “What’s the matter, Father?”

Father Jules burst into tears. “Ah, my boy, you have caught me in my sin. I am a drunkard.”

Everybody looked blank. “What does that word
drunkard
mean?”

“It means a man who’s damned enough to fill his Skin with alcohol, my boy, fill it until he’s no longer a man but a beast.”

“Alcohol? What is that?”

“The stuff that’s in the wine, my boy. You don’t know what I’m talking about because the knowledge was long ago forbidden except to us of the cloth. Cloth, he says! Bah! We go around like everybody, naked except for these extra-dermal monstrosities which reveal rather than conceal, which not only serve us as clothing but as mentors, parents, censors, interpreters, and, yes, even as priests. Where’s a bottle that’s not empty? I’m thirsty.”

Rastignac stuck to the subject. “Why was the making of this alcohol forbidden?”

“How should I know?” said Father Jules. “I’m old, but not so ancient that I came with the Six Flying Stars . . . Where is that bottle?”

Rastignac was not offended by his crossness. Priests were notorious for being the most ill-tempered, obstreperous, and unstable of men. They were not at all like the clerics of Earth, whom everybody knew from legend had been sweet-tempered, meek, humble, and obedient to authority. But on L’Bawpfey these men of the Church had reason to be out of sorts. Everybody attended Mass, paid their tithes, went to confession, and did not fall asleep during sermons. Everybody believed what the priests told them and were as good as it was possible for human beings to be. So, the priests had no real incentive to work, no evil to fight.

Then why the prohibition against alcohol?

“Sacre Bleu!”
groaned Father Jules. “Drink as much as I did last night, and you’ll find out. Never again, I say. Ah, there’s another bottle, hidden by a providential fate under my traveling robe. Where’s the corkscrew?”

Father Jules swallowed half of the bottle, smacked his lips, picked up his Skin from the floor, brushed off the dirt and said, “I must be going, my sons. I’ve a noon appointment with the bishop, and I’ve a good twelve kilometers to travel. Perhaps, one of you gentlemen has a car?”

Rastignac shook his head and said he was sorry, but their car was tired and had, besides, thrown a shoe. Father Jules shrugged philosophically, put on his Skin and reached out again for the bottle.

Rastignac said, “Sorry, Father. I’m keeping this bottle.”

“For what?” asked Father Jules.

“Never mind. Say I’m keeping you from temptation.”

“Bless you, my son, and may you have a big enough hangover to show you the wickedness of your ways.”

Smiling, Rastignac watched the Father walk out. He was not disappointed. The priest had no sooner reached the huge door than his Skin fell off and lay motionless upon the stone.

“Ah,” breathed Rastignac. “The same thing happened to Mapfabvisheen when he put his on. There must be something about the wine that deadens the Skins, makes them fall off.”

After the padre had left, Rastignac handed the bottle to Mapfarity. “We’re dedicated to breaking the law most illegally, brother. So I’m asking you to analyze this wine and find out how to make it.”

“Why not ask Father Jules?”

“Because priests are pledged never to reveal the secret. That was one of the original agreements whereby the Church was allowed to remain on L’Bawpfey. Or, at least that’s what my parish priest told me. He said it was a good thing, as it removed an evil from man’s temptation. He never did say why it was so evil. Maybe he didn’t know.

“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the Church has inadvertently given us a weapon whereby we may free Man from his bondage to the Skins and it has also given itself once again a chance to be really persecuted and to flourish on the blood of its martyrs.”

“Blood?” said Lusine, licking her lips. “The Churchmen drink blood?”

Rastignac did not explain. He could be wrong. If so, he’d feel less like a fool if they didn’t know what he thought.