The Celestial Blueprint and Others Stories (3 page)

“Look, Lusine,” he said, “there are only three places where a Man may take off his Skin. One is in his own home, when he may hang it upon the halltree. Two is when he is, like us, in jail and therefore may not harm anybody. The third is when a man is King. Now, you and I have been without our Skins for a week. We have gone longer without them I han anybody, except the King. Tell me true, don’t you feel free for the first time in your life?

“Don’t you feel as if you belong to nobody but yourself, (hat you are accountable to no one but yourself, and that you love that feeling? And don’t you dread the day we will be let out of prison and made to wear our Skins again? That day which, curiously enough, will be the very day that we will lose our freedom.”

Lusine looked as if she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You’ll see what I mean when we are freed and the Skins are put back upon us,” he said. Immediately after, he was embarrassed. He remembered that she would go to the Chalice where one of the heavy and powerful Skins used for unnaturals would be fastened to her shoulders.

Lusine did not notice. She was considering the last but most telling point in her argument. “You cannot win against us,” she said, watching him narrowly for the effect of her words. “We have a weapon that is irresistible. We have immortality.”

His face did not lose its imperturbability.

She continued, “And what is more, we can give immortality to anyone who casts off his Skin and adopts ours. Don’t think that your people don’t know this. For instance, during the last year more than two thousand Humans living along the beaches deserted and went over to us, the Am-phibs.”

He was a little shocked to hear this, but he did not doubt her. He remembered the mysterious case of the schooner
he Pauvre Pierre
which had been found drifting and crew-less, and he remembered a conversation he had had with a fisherman in his home port of Marrec.

He put his hands behind his back and began pacing. Lusine continued staring at him through the bars. Despite the fact that her face was in the shadows, he could see—or feel—her smile. He had humiliated her, but she had won in the end.

Rastignac quit his limited roving and called up to the guard.

“Shoo Vfootyay, kal u ay teeP"

The guard leaned over the grille. His large hat with its tall wings sticking from the peak was green in the daytime. But now, illuminated only by a far off torchlight and by a glowworm coiled around the band, it was black.

“Ah, shoo Zhaw-Zhawk W’stenyek,”
he said, loudly. “What time is it? What do you care what time it is?” And he concluded with the stock phrase of the jailer, unchanged through mil-lenia and over light-years. “You’re not going any place, are you?”

Rastignac threw his head back to howl at the guard but stopped to wince at the sudden pain in his neck. After uttering,
“Sek Ploo!”
and
“S’pweestee!”
both of which were close enough to the old Terran French so that a language specialist might have recognized them, he said, more calmly, “If you would let me out on the ground,
monsier le foutriquet,
and give me a good 6p6e. I would show you where I am going. Or, at least, where my sword is going. I am thinking of a nice sheath for it.”

Tonight, he had a special reason for keeping the attention of the King’s mucketeer directed towards himself. So, when the guard grew tired of returning insults—mainly because his limited imagination could invent no new ones—Rastignac began telling jokes aimed at the mucketeer’s narrow intellect.

“Then,” said Rastignac, “there was the itinerant salesman whose
s’fel
threw a shoe. He knocked on the door of the hut of the nearest peasant and said . . What was said by the salesman was never known.

A strangled gasp had come from above.

IV

Rastignac saw
something enormous blot out the smaller shadow of the guard. Then, both figures disappeared. A moment later, a silhouette cut across the lines of the grille. Unoiled hinges screeched; the bars lifted. A rope uncoiled from above to fall at Rastignac’s feet. He seized it and felt himself being drawn powerfully upwards.

When he came over the edge of the well, he saw that his rescuer was a giant Ssassaror. The light from the glowworm on the guard’s hat lit up feebly his face, which was orth-agnathous and had quite humanoid eyes and lips. Large canine teeth stuck out from the mouth, and its huge ears were tipped with feathery tufts. The forehead down to the eyebrows looked as if it needed a shave, but Rastignac knew that more light would show the blue-black shade came from many small feathers, not stubbled hair.

“Mapfarity!” Rastignac said. “It’s good to see you after all these years!”

The Ssassaror giant put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Clenched, it was almost as big as Rastignac’s head. He spoke with a voice like a lion coughing at the bottom of a deep well.

“It is good to see you again, my friend.”

“What are you doing here?” said Rastignac, tears running down his face as he stroked the great fingers on his shoulder.

Mapfarity’s huge ears quivered like the wings of a bat tied to a rock and unable to fly off. The tufts of feathers at their ends grew stiff and suddenly crackled with tiny sparks.

The electrical display was his equivalent of the human’s weeping. Both creatures discharged emotion; their bodies chose different avenues and manifestations. Nevertheless, the sight of the other’s joy affected each deeply.

“I have come to rescue you,” said Mapfarity. “I caught Archambaud here,”—he indicated the other man—"stealing eggs from my golden goose. And . .

Raoul Archambaud—pronounced Wawl Shebvo—interrupted excitedly, “I showed him my license to steal eggs from Giants who were raising counterfeit geese, but he was going to lock me up anyway. He was going to take my Skin off and feed me on meat . .

“Meat!” said Rastignac, astonished and revolted despite himself. “Mapfarity, what have you been doing in that castle of yours?”

Mapfarity lowered his voice to match the distant roar of a cataract. “I haven’t been very active these last few years,” he said, “because I am so big that it hurts my feet if I walk very much. So I’ve had much time to think. And I, being logical, decided that the next step after eating fish was eating meat. It couldn’t make me any larger. So, I ate meat. And while doing so, I came to the same conclusion that you, apparently, have done independently. That is, the Philosophy of . .

“Of Violence,” interrupted Archambaud. “Ah, Jean-Jacques, there must be some mystic bond that brings two Humans of such different backgrounds as yours and the Ssassaror together, giving you both the same philosophy. When I explained what you had been doing and that you were in jail because you had advocated getting rid of the Skins, Mapfarity petitioned . .

“The King to make an official jail-break,” said Mapfarity with an impatient glance at the rolypoly egg-stealer. “And ...”

“The King agreed,” broke in Archambaud, “provided Mapfarity would turn in his counterfeit goose and provided you would agree to say no more about abandoning Skins, but . . .”

The Giant’s basso profundo-redundo pushed the egg-stealer’s high pitch aside. “If this squeaker will quit interrupting, perhaps we can get on with the rescue. We’ll talk later, if you don’t mind.”

At that moment, Lusine’s voice floated up from the bottom of her cell. “Jean-Jacques, my love, my brave, my own, would you abandon me to the Chalice? Please take me with you! You will need somebody to hide you when the Minister of Ill-Will sends his mucketeers after you. I can hide you where no one will ever find you.” Her voice was mocking, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety to it.

Mapfarity muttered, “She will hide us, yes, at the bottom of a sea-cave where we will eat strange food and suffer a change. Never . . .”

“Trust an Amphib,” finished Archambaud for him.

Mapfarity forgot to whisper. “
Bey-t’cul
,
vu nu fez vey! Fe’m sa!”
he roared.

A shocked hush covered the courtyard. Only Mapfarity’s wrathful breathing could be heard. Then, disembodied, Lu-sine’s voice floated from the well.

“Jean-Jacques, do not forget that I am the foster-daughter of the King of the Amphibians! If you were to take me with you, I could assure you of safety and a warm welcome in the halls of the Sea-King’s Palacel”

“Pah!” said Mapfarity. “That web-footed witch!”

Rastignac did not reply to her. He took the broad silk belt and the sheathed epee from Archambaud and buckled them around his waist. Mapfarity handed him a mucketeer’s hat; he clapped that on firmly. Last of all, he took the Skin that the fat egg-stealer had been holding out to him.

For the first time, he hesitated. It was his Skin, the one he had been wearing since he was six. It had grown with him, fed off his blood for twenty-two years, clung to him as clothing, censor, and castigator, and parted from him only when he was inside the walls of his own house, went swimming, or, as during the last seven days, when he lay in jail.

A week ago, after they had removed his second Skin, he had felt naked and helpless and cut off from his fellow creatures. But that was a week ago. Since then, as he had remarked to Lusine, he had experienced the birth of a strange feeling. It was, at first, frightening. It made him cling to the bars as if they were the only stable thing in the center of a whirling universe.

Later, when that first giddiness had passed, it was succeeded by another intoxication—the joy of being an individual, the knowledge that he was separate, not a part of a multitude. Without the Skin, he could think as he pleased. He did not have a censor.

Now, he was on level ground again, out of the cell. But as soon as he had put that prison-shaft behind him, he was faced with the old second Skin.

Archambaud held it out like a cloak in his hands. It looked much like a ragged garment. It was pale and limp and roughly rectangular with four extensions at each comer. When Rastignac put it on his back, it would sink four tiny hollow teeth into his veins and the suckers on the inner surface of its flat body would cling to him. Its long upper extensions would wrap themselves around his shoulders and over his chest; the lower, around his loins and thighs. Soon it would lose its paleness and flaccidity, become pink and slightly convex, pulsing with Rastignac’s blood.

V

Rastignac hesitated
for a few seconds. Then, he allowed l he habit of a lifetime to take over. Sighing, he turned his back. In a moment, he felt the cold flesh descend over his shoulders and the little bite of the four teeth as they attached the Skin to his shoulders. Then, as his blood poured into the creature he felt it grow warm and strong. It spread out and followed the passages it had long ago been conditioned to follow, wrapped him warmly and lovingly and comfortably. And he knew, though he couldn’t feel it, that it was pushing nerves into the grooves along the teeth. Nerves to connect with his.

A minute later, he experienced the first of the expected
rapport.
It was nothing that you could put a mental finger on. It was just a diffused tingling and then the sudden consciousness of how the others around him
felt.

They were ghosts in the background of his mind. Yet, pale and ectoplasmic as they were, they were easily identifiable. Mapfarity loomed above the others, a transparent Colossus radiating streamers of confidence in his clumsy strength. A meat-eater, uncertain about the future, with a hope and trust in Rastignac to show him the right way. And with a strong current of anger against the conqueror who had inflicted the Skin upon him.

Archambaud was a shorter phantom, rolypoly even in his psychic manifestations, emitting bursts of impatience because other people did not talk fast enough to suit him, his mind leaping on ahead of their tongues, his fingers wriggling to wrap themselves around something valuable—preferably the eggs of the golden goose—and a general eagerness to be up and about and onwards. He was one round fidget on two legs yet a good man for any project requiring action.

Faintly, Rastignac detected the slumbering guard as if he were the tendrils of some plant at the sea-bottom, floating in the green twilight, at peace and unconscious.

And, even more faintly, he felt Lusine’s presence, shielded by the walls of the shaft. Hers was a pale and light hand, one whose fingers tapped a barely heard code of impotent rage and voiceless screaming fear. But beneath that anguish was a base of confidence and mockery at others. She might be temporarily upset, but when the chance came for her to do something, she would seize it with every ability at her command.

Another radiation dipped into the general picture and out. A wild glowworm had swooped over them and disturbed the smooth reflection built up by the Skins.

This was the way the Skins worked. They penetrated into you and found out what you were feeling and emoting, and then they broadcast it to other closeby Skins, which then projected their hosts’ psychosomatic responses. The whole was then integrated so that each Skin-wearer could detect the group-feeling and at the same time, though in a much duller manner, the feeling of the individuals of the
gestalt.

That wasn’t the only function of the Skin. The parasite, created in the bio-factories, had several other social and biological uses.

Rastignac almost fell into a reverie at that point. It was nothing unusual. The effect of the Skins was a slowing-down one. The wearer thought more slowly, acted more leisurely, and was much more contented.

But now, by a deliberate wrenching of himself from the feeling-pattem, Rastignac woke up. There were things to do, and standing around and eating the lotus of the group-rapport was not one of them.

He gestured at the prostrate form of the mucketeer. “You didn’t hurt him?”

The Ssassaror rumbled, “No. I scratched him with a little venom of the dream-snake. He will sleep for an hour or so. Besides, I would not be allowed to hurt him. You forget that all this is carefully staged by the King’s Official Jail-breaker.” “
Me’dt!”
swore Rastignac.