The Call of Earth: 2 (Homecoming) (2 page)

Shedemei Dol Eiadh Hushidh
and
Luet
(sisters)

HOSNI’S FAMILY

Most names have diminutive or familiar forms. Thus Gaballufix’s near kin, close friends, current mate, and former mates could call him Gab. Other nicknames are listed here. (Again, because these names are so unfamiliar, names of female characters are set off in italics):

Dhelembuvex
—Dhel

Dol—Dolya

Drotik—Dorya

Eiadh
—Edhya

Elemak—Elya

Hosni
—Hosya

Hushidh
—Shuya

Issib—Issya

Kokor
—Kyoka

Luet
—Lutya

Mebbekew—Meb

Nafai—Nyef

Rasa
—(no diminutive)

Rashgallivak—Rash

Roptat—Rop

Sevet
—Sevya

Shedemei
—Shedya

Smelost—Smelya

Volemak—Volya

Wetchik—(no diminutive; Volemak’s family title)

Zdorab—Zodya

For the purpose of reading this story, it hardly matters whether the reader pronounces the names of the characters correctly. But for those who might be interested, here is some information concerning the pronunciation of names.

The rules of vowel formation in the language of Basilica require that in most words, at least one vowel be pronounced with a leading
y
sound. With names, it can be almost any vowel, and it can legitimately be changed at the speaker’s preference. Thus the name Gaballufix could be pronounced
Gyah
-BAH-loo-fix or Gah-BAH-
lyoo
-fix; it happens that Gaballufix himself preferred to pronounce it Gah-BYAH-loo-fix, and of course most people followed that usage.

Dhelembuvex
[thel-EM-byoo-vex]

Dol
[DYOHL]

Drotik [DROHT-vik]

Eiadh
[A-yahth]

Elemak [El-yeh-mahk]

Hosni
[HYOZ-nee]

Hushidh
[HYOO-sheeth]

Issib [IS-yib]

Kokor
[KYOH-kor]

Luet
[LYOO-et]

Mebbekew [MEB-bek-kyoo]

Nafai [NYAH-fie]

Rasa
[RAHZ-yah]

Rashgallivak [rahsh-GYAH-lih-vahk]

Roptat [ROPE-tyaht]

Sevet
[SEV-yet]

Shedemei
[SHYED-eh-may]

Smelost [SMYE-lost]

Truzhnisha
[troozh-NYEE-shah]

Volemak [VOHL-yeh-mak]

Wetchik [WET-chyick]

Zdorab [ZDOR-yab]

The master computer of the planet Harmony was not designed to interfere so directly in human affairs. It was deeply disturbed by the fact that it had just provoked young Nafai to murder Gaballufix. But how could the master computer return to Earth without the Index? And how could Nafai have got the Index without killing Gaballufix? There was no otherway.

Or was there? I am old, said the master computer to itself. Forty million years old, a machine designed to last for nowhere near this long. How can I be sure that my judgment is right? And yet I caused a man to die for my judgment, and young Nafai is suffering the pangs of guilt because of what I urged him to do. All of this in order to carry fhe Index back to Zvezdakroog, so I could return to Earth.

If only I could speak to the Keeper of Earth. If
only the Keeper could tell me what to do now. Then I could act with confidence. Then I would not have to doubt my every action, to wonder if everything I do might not be the product of my own decay.

The master computer needed so badly to speak to the Keeper; yet it could not speak to the Keeper except by returning to Earth. It was so frustratingly circular. The master computer could not act wisely without the help of the Keeper; it had to act wisely in order to get to the Keeper.

What now? What now? I needed wisdom, and yet who can guide me? I have vastly more knowledge than any human can hope to master, and yet I have no minds but human minds to counsel me.

Was it possible that human minds might be enough? No computer could ever be so brilliantly dysorganized as the human brain. Humans made the most astonishing decisions based on mere fragments of data, because their brain recombined them in strange and truthful ways. It was possible, surely, that some useful wisdom might be extracted from them.

Then again, maybe not. But it was worth trying, wasn’t it?

The master computer reached out through its satellites and sent images into the minds of those humans most receptive to its transmissions. These images from the master computer began to move through their memories, forcing their minds to deal with them, to fit them together, to make sense of them. To make from them the strange and powerful stories they called dreams. Perhaps in the next few days, the next few weeks,
their dreams would bring to the surface some connection or understanding that the master computer could use to help it decide how to bring the best of them out of the planet Harmony and take them home to Earth.

All these years I have taught and guided, shaped and protected them. Now, in the end of my life, are they ready to teach and guide, shape and protect
me
? So unlikely. So unlikely. I will surely be forced to decide it all myself. And when I do, I will surely do it wrong. Perhaps I should not act at all. Perhaps I should not act at all. I should not act. Will not. Must.

Wait.

Wait.

Again, wait. . . .

General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno awoke from his dream, sweating, moaning. He opened his eyes, reached out with his hand, clutching. A hand caught his own, held it.

A man’s hand. It was General Plodorodnuy. His most trusted lieutenant. His dearest friend. His inmost heart.

“You were dreaming, Moozh.” It was the nickname that only Plod dared to use to his face.

“Yes, I was.” Vozmuzhalnoy—Moozh—shuddered at the memory. “Such a dream.”

“Was it portentous?”

“Horrifying, anyway.”

“Tell me. I have a way with dreams.”

“Yes, I know, like you have a way with women. When you’re through with them, they say whatever you want them to say!”

Plod laughed, but then he waited. Moozh did not
know why he was reluctant to tell
this
dream to Plod. He had told him so many others. “All right, then, here is my dream. I saw a man standing in a clearing, and all around him, terrible flying creatures—not birds, they had fur, but much larger than bats—they kept circling, swooping down, touching him. He stood there and did nothing. And when at last they all had touched him, they flew away, except one, who perched on his shoulder.”

“Ah,” said Plod.

“I’m not finished. Immediately there came giant rats, swarming out of burrows in the Earth. At least a meter long—half as tall as the man. And again, they kept coming until all of them had touched him—”

“With what? Their teeth? Their paws?”

“And their noses.
Touched
him, that’s all I knew. Don’t distract me.”

“Forgive me.”

“When they’d all touched him, they went away.”

“Except one.”

“Yes. It clung to his leg. You see the pattern.”

“What came next?”

Moozh shuddered. It had been the most terrible thing of all, and yet now as the words came to his lips, he couldn’t understand why. “People.”

“People? Coming to touch him?”

“To . . . to kiss him. His hands, his feet. To
worship
him. Thousands of them. Only they didn’t kiss just the man. They kissed the—flying thing, too. And the giant rat clinging to his leg. Kissed them all.”

“Ah,” said Plod. He looked worried.

“So? What is it? What does it portend?”

“Obviously the man you saw is the Imperator.”

Sometimes Plod’s interpretations sounded like truth, but this time Moozh’s heart rebelled at the idea of linking
the Imperator with the man in the dream. “Why is that obvious? He looked nothing like the Imperator.”

“Because all of nature and humankind worshipped him, of course.”

Moozh shrugged. This was not one of Plod’s most subtle interpretations. And he had never heard of animals loving the Imperator, who fancied himself a great hunter. Of course, he only hunted in one of his parks, where all the animals had been tamed to lose their fear of men, and all the predators trained to act ferocious but never strike. The Imperator got to act his part in a great show of the contest between man and beast, but he was never in danger as the animal innocently exposed itself to his quick dart, his straight javelin, his merciless blade. If this was worship, if this was nature, then yes, one could say that all of nature and humankind worshipped the Imperator. . . .

Plod, of course, knew nothing of Moozh’s thoughts in this vein; if one was so unfortunate as to have caustic thoughts about the Imperator, one took care not to burden one’s friends with the knowledge of them.

So Plod continued in his interpretation of Moozh’s dream. “What does it portend, this worship of the Imperator? Nothing in itself. But the fact that it
revolted
you, the fact that you recoiled in horror—”

“They were kissing a rat, Plod! They were kissing that disgusting flying creature . . .”

But Plod said nothing as his voice trailed off. Said nothing, and watched him.

“I am
not
horrified at the thought of people worshipping the Imperator. I have knelt at the Invisible Throne myself, and felt the awe of his presence. It wasn’t horrible, it was . . . ennobling.”

“So you say,” said Plod. “But dreams don’t lie. Perhaps you need to purge yourself of some evil in your heart.”

“Look,
you’re
the one who said my dream was about the Imperator. Why couldn’t the man have been—I don’t know—the ruler of Basilica.”

“Because the miserable city of Basilica is ruled by women.”

“Not Basilica, then. Still, I think the dream was about. . .”

“About what?”

“How should
I
know? I
will
purge myself, just in case you’re right. I’m not an interpreter of dreams.” That would mean wasting several hours today at the tent of the intercessor. It was so tedious, but it was also politically necessary to spend a certain amount of time there every month, or reports of one’s impiety soon made their way back to Gollod, where the Imperator decided from time to time who was worthy of command and who was worthy of debasement or death. Moozh was about due for a visit to the intercessor’s tabernacle anyway, but he hated it the way a boy hates a bath. “Leave me alone, Plod. You’ve made me very unhappy.”

Plod knelt before him and held Moozh’s right hand between his own. “Ah, forgive me.”

Moozh forgave him at once, of course, because they were friends. Later that morning he went out and killed the headmen of a dozen Khlami villages. All the villagers immediately swore their eternal love and devotion to the Imperator, and when General Vozmuzhalnoy Vozmozhno went that evening to purge himself in the holy tabernacle, the intercessor forgave him right readily, for he had much increased the honor and majesty of the Imperator that day.

They came to hear Kokor sing, came from all over the city of Basilica, and she loved to see how their faces
brightened when—finally—she came out onto the stage and the musicians began gently plucking their strings or letting breath pass through their instruments in the soft undercurrent of sound that was always her accompaniment. Kokor will sing to us at last, their faces said. She liked that expression on their faces better than any other she ever saw, better even than the look of a man being overwhelmed with lust in the last moments before satisfaction. For she well knew that a man cared little who gave him the pleasures of love, while the audience cared very much that it was Kokor who stood before them on the stage and opened her mouth in the high, soaring notes of her unbelievably sweet lyric voice that floated over the music like petals on a stream.

Or at least that was how she wanted it to be. How she imagined it to be, until she actually walked onstage and saw them looking at her. The audience tonight was mostly men. Men with their eyes going up and down her body. I should refuse to sing in the comedies, she told herself again. I should insist on being taken as seriously as they take my beloved sister Sevet with her mannishly low, froggishly mannered voice. Oh, they look at
her
with faces of aesthetic ecstasy. Audiences of men and women together.
They
don’t look
her
body up and down to see how it moves under the fabric. Of course, that could be partly because her body is so overfleshed that it isn’t really a pleasure to watch, it moves so much like gravel under her costume, poor thing. Of
course
they close their eyes and listen to her voice—it’s so much better than
watching
her.

What a lie. What a liar I am, even when I’m talking only to myself!

I mustn’t be so impatient. It’s only a matter of time. Sevet is older—I’m still barely eighteen.
She
had to do the comedies, too, for a time, till she was known.