The January Dancer (14 page)

The Fudir grunted and turned to the door. “Don’t get in any fights with Tirasi. January may have sensed something. Try to be a bit more invisible. That was your specialty wasn’t it? Didn’t they call you the Ghost?”

“I know disguises.”

But Hugh’s response was ambiguous and the two parted company, and each considered what the other had revealed.

Electric Avenue lay along the geodesics, and so was straight as a rule. It was the rule that was warped and twisted. In the groove, everything was always dead ahead. O’Toole checked the ship’s centering at intervals, but the only exciting moment came a week and a half out, when Cerenkov turbulence signaled the bow wave of a vessel sliding down the road in the opposite direction.

Since a ship on the Avenue was, in a certain sense, nowhere in the universe, no two ships could ever occupy the same place. There was thus no danger of superluminal collisions, only a slight buffeting by ships passing in the light. Now and then, O’Toole corrected for the slight deviations these caused. “But this time,” he swore, “it musta been a fookin’
fleet
.” The wake had slewed the ship to the side of the channel, close to the subluminal mud.

Nothing he couldn’t handle, however. O’Toole dismissed the turbulence off handedly, although Little Hugh found him afterward in the wardroom with a strong drink in his hand and a disinclination to conversation. Even January appeared almost concerned, his perpetual smile flattened nearly to horizontal, and something long and extremely angry had been entered in the ship’s log.

“They ain’t supposed to enter the Avenue so close together,” Maggie B. explained when Ringbao had asked her. “Creates a passel of problems for the oncoming traffic.” But when he pressed her on how close things had gotten, she only smiled and told him not to worry. That worried him.

“Why?” the Fudir asked when O’Carroll brought the matter up. “‘A miss is as good as a mile.’ Always a lot of traffic on the Grand Trunk and sometimes it just bunches up. No point worrying over it. January will file a squawk with STC New Eireann.”

But when they exited the slipstream and yanked themselves into Newtonian space, they found STC New Eireann off-line, and the magbeam cushions failed to catch them.

Hogan swore mighty oaths and shifted the alfvens into reverse, braking the ship by snatching at the strings of space as they fell inbound from the exit ramp. The whine rose to a teeth-rattling pitch that filled the ship and put everyone on edge. Despite the refit at Gladiola, waste heat made the power room nearly unbearable and Hogan and Malone could take only an hour inside before emerging, sweat-soaked, to pant in the corridor outside and worry whether the containment field would take the strain.

“How bad is it?” Ringbao asked Maggie B. as she headed for the control deck to relieve January.

“Not now, Ringbao,” she answered him.

New Angeles
had braked without magbeams before, but this time they hadn’t been expecting it and hadn’t been prepared for it and could ye get out o’ th’ fookin’ way, Ringbao!

It was hours before the tension eased, a little; and days before anyone relaxed. By then, Kalim had harvested enough off the radio to understand what had happened to the world they were approaching. A fleet of rievers had overwhelmed Jumdar’s planetary police, pillaged New Down Town, and looted everything they could break open.

“Aye, that’s bad cases, that,” January said, but his mind was on the difficulties of shedding velocity without the magbeam cushions. Lacking the ephemeris from New Eireann STC, Maggie B. and Bill Tirasi and Kalim extrapolated from the ship’s previous visit to identify the markers on which to take their bearings. They cursed the rievers for their troubles. Several days passed in this manner, during which time a few magbeam platforms did come back online. But the world toward which they fell was too busy binding up its wounds to worry much over an inbound tramp. Passing below the orbit of the Dagda,
New Angeles
secured her first long-distance visuals and they could see orbital factories tumbling like children’s toys broken and flung aside.

O’Toole fretted, for he had been “bread-and-buttered” in the Vale, and though he had gone and flown, the places in his memory did not lie quiet. “There was a girl there,” he said to Ringbao over a brooding bowl of uiscebaugh. “In Fermoy, it was, and I fancied her some; and I wud av married her but that she didn’t ’prove me dhrinkin’ av the creature. Ah, ’tis the wimmin an’ not the alfvens what drive a man to space. An’ now Kalim sez Fermoy’s been…” He did not finish the thought, but took a drink while Little Hugh O’Carroll fought to stay within the shell of Ringbao della Costa. He laid a hand on the pilot’s forearm.

“Maybe girlfriend okay,” he forced his persona to say, his words wrung out of any hint of how deeply he himself felt about the world he had once helped manage.

O’Toole shook his head. “That was years ago…She’s long forgotten me. I thought I’d long forgotten her.”

The harper frowns in dissatisfaction. “And what is the point of that tale? That to journey hopefully is better than to arrive? I hadn’t thought you capable of such banality.”

It is difficult to know when the scarred man smiles. His lips hang down the curve of his chin like an old sock thrown across a chair-back. “Why do you think anyone has arrived, or that they have journeyed with any hope?” He laughs. “But let them have their moment.”

The harper says nothing, but her mouth hardens. “Your humor is too cruel,” she says at last. “I think it has poisoned the story.” She stands to go, but the scarred man’s words, projected somehow by the geometry of the alcove, seem to whisper by her very ear.

“Where can you go to get the story, poisoned or not? Those who were in it are scattered, gone, or dead. It’s our version you’ll hear, or none at all.”

She picks up her harp case and slings it across her back. “Don’t be so sure, old man. I did not come here unschooled. Your lips are not the only ones that tell this tale.”

The scarred man lifts a clawed hand, as if begging. “Don’t go,” he says. It might have been a plea had it been said with more feeling; but there is little of feeling left in him and so it sounds more like a command. “Stay a while longer, for our loneliness.”

The harper shifts the burden on her back and half turns. But there are things she wants to know, questions she still needs to ask, and so with ill grace, she relents. “I will stay awhile longer—for your madness,” she tells him, and resumes her seat.

“Play me the journey through the creases,” the scarred man says. “I want to see what you make of it.”

The harper remains silent for a time. Then she bends over and retrieves the harp from its case. “The slide down Electric Avenue has been played before,” she says, “but perhaps there is one more variation on that theme.” Her fingers dance and notes swirl with almost superluminous speed. “I’ve always liked the image of the alfvens plucking at the strings of space,” she says over the glissando. “Space travel is rather like playing the harp.”

“Perhaps,” says the scarred man, “but the alfvens
move
the ship and…” He pauses, then smiles. “Ah.”

The harper shows her teeth and the arpeggio rushes into a desperate decelerando, slowing into a steady orbital rhythm whose measure is the “long line” of an ancient island poetry, and finally settles into a
Lament for the Vale of Eireann
so broad as to blanket a world. A drinker nearby cries out, “Oh, God!” and turns himself weeping aside. Others there are who hang down their heads or brush away tears at their cheeks.

The Bartender leaves his post and crosses the room to confront them. He says, “People come here to forget their sorrows, and not to have new ones added.” He gives the scarred man a sour look. “How long will you sit there? People think you’re part of the staff—or part of the furniture.”

“I’m waiting for someone,” the scarred man says.

“Oh, you are? Who?”

A shrug. “Don’t know yet.”

The Bartender purses his lips, but the amount of disapproval he can muster is as nothing to that normal to the scarred man’s countenance. “Another round,” the harper says, and the Bartender turns his gaze on her. “Try to play something more cheerful,” he tells her.

“I’d think that music that moves a man to drink would be more welcome here.”

“You’d think wrong.” And he turns away and returns to his post with large strides. Shortly after, a serving wench arrives with fresh bowls of uiscebaugh.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown you out long ago,” the harper tells the scarred man. She sips from her bowl, then frowns and regards the bowl with disbelief. “Either he is serving better whiskey now or I’ve lost the tongue for the difference.”

“He serves the worse drinks first, hoping to discourage the drinking. But most who come here can’t tell the difference anyway. Ol’ Praisegod won’t throw us out. I’m one of the afflicted he’s supposed to comfort.” His laugh is rough and broken, like shale sliding down a high mountain slope. He raises his bowl in salute to the Bartender, who affects not to notice. “Ah, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if we weren’t here every day. I’m his freakin’ touchstone, I am. The one constant in his life. We’re—”

The scarred man falls suddenly silent and his eyes widen. “No. You can’t,” he says between clenched teeth. He grips the table edge, first with one hand, then the other, and seems to vibrate like a plucked string of the harp. The harper watches with alarm and turns in her seat to see if the Bartender has noticed.

The harper’s sudden movement has drawn his attention. He looks at her; then past her to the scarred man; until, with a mirthless smile, he shakes his head and returns to his business.

He has seen this before.
Ill-comforted by that thought, the harper turns once more to her companion.

And he is preternaturally calm. “Ready for the rest of the tale, darlin’? I warn you, there are parts of it that can’t be spoken of, even yet. But those are the parts I like best telling.”

The harper frowns. There is something strange about the withered old man. Something odd in his voice, as if he has just remembered something important. Or forgotten it.

“The thing to remember about a pursuit,” he says easily, “is that it always takes longer when you’re chasing. ‘A stern chase is a long chase.’”

The harper grunts without amusement and plays a few lines from a courtship dance on Die Bold. Surprisingly, the scarred man recognizes the tune and recites a few words.

“‘The labyrinth of my mind,’” he repeats more slowly. “Aye, maybe
courting
is the answer.” He looks at the harper and his smile is this time almost human. “It wasn’t always a courting song, you know. It’s from an old poem from ancient Earth.”

“You were speaking of a chase,” the harper says a little abruptly.

The scarred man appraises her, as if wondering what
she
is chasing down the labyrinth of his mind. Then, “A chase. Yes. Though no one quite knew it.” He slouches in his chair and waves an arm. “Come then, harper, attend my tale.”

“The Corner of Jehovah is a bad place to be,” the scarred man says.

…since one must find his way in and find his way out, and neither is an easy thing to do; although more do manage the first than the second. Without the aid of the Terrans, it is close to impossible. But help need not be voluntary, nor even witting, and to each rule there is an exception.

The exception stepped into the bubbling activities of the Tarako Sarai, that broad open market space where Menstrit curves off shamefacedly toward the reputable parts of town (shedding its name in the process and becoming born again as Glory Road). The monorail, three streets, four winding alleys, and twelve decidedly twisted pedestrian walkways converge there. To the west, Port Jehovah stretches nearly to the horizon, and tall, graceful ships gleam ruddy in the early-morning sun as if wrapped in goldbeater’s foil. In every other direction, the topsy dwellings of the Terran Corner teeter over the edges of the market.

Cubical stalls made of dull composite disguised with bright pastels line three sides of the sarai. Each stall abuts its neighbors, save where walkways from the Corner squeeze between them. The west side facing Menstrit and the Port is open, and there are situated the monorail station and a carpark for ground vehicles. Before the sun has even angled into this plaza, the duk
ndar-merchants have, in a rattle of chains and counterweights, heaved up steel stall-front doors, calling to one another and wishing good luck or ill as their competitions dictate. The stalls are open-front, with chairs and benches and racks within arranged as required for the best display of their wares.

Overnight, lighters and bumboats from Port Jehovah off-load the orbiting ships and bear groundside exotic arts and jewels and foodstuffs from far-off worlds. Much of this cornucopia makes its way to the Tarako Sarai, some of it legally; there, to be snatched up by eager, early-rising Jehovans, anxious for a taste of the foreign. Eager enough indeed to dare the very edge of the Corner to get it.

Later, ferry boats drop and off-load the travelers—the sliders, the world-hoppers, the touristas—gawking and pointing and capturing images and pawing through the merchandise for bargains and native handicrafts. They dress wrongly—for the climate, for the world, for the time of day—and their bodies throb off-synch to the tock of shipboard time and not to Jehovah’s sun. As they enter the sarai, the bustle increases, and with it the markup on the goods. Isn’t this
cute,
couples and triples ask each other. Those booths look like storage sheds or little garages. Is that a
magician
? How does he do that with the
snake
? Oh, I didn’t know the human body could
bend
like that! Is that a legtrikittar they’re playing over there? How strange! How strange!

The market speaks to them. Ah, yes, sahb, this is the True Coriander, known no-but else place! Seven ducat only, and that is that my children go hungry. See, here, come into my stall, when you see ever so fine ’shwari, look good-good on memsahb. Oho,
not
memsahb? Then, here you find special double-throw silk, made only on J’ovah, think how this feel on her skin…! Hutt! Hutt! No mind his silks. See here my drizzle-jewels, how they sparkle so? Genuine from Arrat Mountains.

In the center of the market, push-carts peddle, performers sing and juggle, and food vendors hawk their smoking barbecues and searing tan-doors. Is hot day, you like kulfi-kone, eye-said krim, most excellent! Pull-pork! Koofta kabob! Hoddawgs! Winnershnizzle! Pukka Terran food, you find him nowhere else!

But
you,
sahb, I make it five ducat fifty.

A wink, a lowered voice, a proffered discount, and Gladiola Bills and Shanghai ducats waft magically from purse to poke. And if the promise “Product of Jehovah” is no more genuine than the discount, little harm is done. Even in the ricochet ruckus of the starport sarai, some things are never said. Some of the “Jehovan” wares that leave with the tourists on the upbound ferries had arrived but a short while before on the down-bound lighters. Why pay duty for so short a stay?

“Mango kulfi-kone,” one of the thinning horde asked of the sweets vendor, who heaped a waffle-cone with two scoops of the rich iced-milk, holding it out and saying, “Half ducat, sahb.”

“For two such paltry balls? A quarter ducat would be too much.”

The vendor’s eyes lit.
This
sahb was no “slider” but, by his long, fringed kurta brocaded with yellow and red flowered borders and with the amber prayer beads wrapped round his wrist, a Jehovan merchant from the City. No Terran, to be sure, but he knew his manners. “It grieves me that I cannot offer it for less than forty-three. The fruit alone costs such much, and I must pay the women who cut it.”

“Thou pay’st them too much. See how small they have diced the pieces! Thirty might be generous for such slovenly knife-work.”

“Bakvas, shree merchant! The smaller the pieces, as all men know, the greater the flavor. Forty.” Their voices had risen, as if in argument, and some of the sliders looked at them askance and edged away.
You never can tell about
those
people
.

“Thirty-five!”

“Done!” the vendor cried in vehement agreement. He extended the cone with one hand and offered the other.

“There can be no handclasp with only one hand,” his customer recited, and offered the firm grip of a Jehovan, rather than the limper Terran grip. A few coins changed possession, neither man so boorish as to visibly count them. As God is One, a man who cannot count his money by the heft and feel of it should seek another work!

The vendor watched the merchant reenter the crowd, pause at the kabob-maker’s stall, and—and another customer asked for a kulfi-kone, and paid the half ducat without banter—aye, as if the vendor were but a
bisti
worker—and when the vendor looked again, the Jehovan merchant had vanished.

Each market day, after the sliders have gone and the duk
ndars have twice tallied their accounts—once for themselves, and once for the men of the Jehovan Purse—and the shutters have rattled into place and lock-bars dropped home, the collectors of the Terran Brotherhood drift into the market. A man watching could not say at any moment, “They have come,” but suddenly they were there. Men and women, plainly dressed, mingled with the vendors and whispered a few words here and there, and a portion of the ducats and bills and Jehovan shekels were transferred to the coffers of the Terran Welfare and Benevolent Fund. The food vendors donated also such of their goods as remained at the end of the day; and these were carried off immediately to shelters and kitchens in the Corner. What happens to the hard currency no one has ever asked.

One such collector was named Yash. He had entered the market first, using a crack in the back wall of the vacant handi duk
n through which a lithe man could slip. Old Nancy Verwalter had made the finest hand-phones in the Corner, but she had died two years before and the back wall of her duk
n had been opened with picks and pry bars.

A few loafers squatted about the plaza, and these Yash studied with grave interest. It was not unknown for agents of the Jehovan Purse to audit the market in the hope of squeezing one more shekel from the duk
ndars. Their grooming and clothing usually marked them out, but some were more clever and knew how to blend in.

A few men, disinclined to visit the charity kitchens, had begged cuts of meat or a few samosas or a sandwich from the vendors sealing their coolers and boxes and extinguishing their fires. One such man lounged against the wall of the shoe-duk
n, where he nibbled on a pita. His kurta was a plain, dingy white, lacking any brocade or fringe. Satisfied that the market was unwatched, Yash spoke a few words over his handi and soon his runners emerged from a variety of waypoints to circulate among the merchants of the Tarako Sarai.