Throy (4 page)
As a child, Wayness had been indifferent to the disputes; the doctrine of Conservancy was after all a basic fact of life; was this not the planet Cadwal, totally subject to the regulation of the Great Charter? Egon Tamm, her father, was a staunch if soft-spoken Conservationist; he disliked polemics and kept well clear of the fist-pounding disputes which had started to trouble the atmosphere of Stroma and turn friend against friend. When the time came to appoint a new Conservator, Egon Tamm who was modest and reasonable and showed no signs of activism was the compromise choice.
When Wayness was fifteen the family moved to Riverview House near Araminta Station, and the dark green house on the second level at Stroma was relinquished to an elderly aunt and uncle.
The house would now be empty; the aunt and uncle were traveling off-world. Wayness climbed two steps to the porch, pushed the door open; it was unlocked, like most doors of Stroma. She entered an octagonal foyer, paneled with slabs cut from baulks of driftwood. High shelves displayed a collection of ancient Pewter plates and a set of six grotesque masks, representing whom or what no one had ever known.
Nothing had changed. To the left an archway opened upon the dining room; at the back spiral stairs and a lift provided access to the upper floors. To the right another archway opened upon the parlor. She looked into the dining room, and saw the same round table of polished wood around which she had sat so many times with her family. And now, Milo was gone. Her eyes misted, she blinked. Too much sentimentality was not wise.
Wayness turned away. She crossed the foyer and went into the parlor, moving on soft feet so as not to disturb the ghosts which everyone believed haunted each of the old houses. The ghosts at this house had always been cool indifferent beings, showing no interest in the lives of the occupants and Wayness had never feared them.
Nothing had changed; all was as she remembered it, but smaller, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. At the front, three bay windows overlooked air, sky, and two miles to the south, the sheer face of the opposite cliff. By standing close to the window and looking down, the water of the fjord below could be glimpsed. The sun Syrene hung low over the cliff and sent dark yellow rays slanting through the windows. The second sun Sing, rubicund and portly, along with its glistening white companion Lorca, had already settled from sight.
Wayness shivered; the room was cold. She kindled a fire in the fireplace, piling up a careful mound of sea-coal and driftwood. Wayness looked about the room. After the expansiveness of Riverview House, it seemed cramped, though the high ceiling compensated somewhat for the constriction elsewhere. Odd! thought Wayness. She had never noticed this effect before. She wondered whether an entire life spent in such conditions might affect the quality of a person’s thinking. Probably not, she decided; more likely the brain simply ignored the whole situation and did as it saw best. She turned to stand with her back to the fire. To her right a stand supported an Earth-globe; to her left, a similar stand held a globe of Cadwal. During her childhood she had studied these globes for hours on end. When she and Glawen were married, they must have a pair of such globes in their home – perhaps these same two. She coveted none of the other furniture. The pieces, upholstered in dark red and mottled green, were stolid and conventional, each stationed immutably in its ordained place; where it must remain until the end of time, since at Stroma nothing ever changed.
Wayness corrected herself. Changes had already come to Stroma; others, even more decisive, were on the way. Wayness sighed, saddened by what was about to happen.
Looking from the window she noticed the approach of her friends along the narrow cliff-hugging way. There were four girls and two young men, all close to Wayness’ own age. She opened the door; they trooped into the foyer, laughing chattering, and calling out gay greetings. All marvelled at the changes which had come over Wayness. Tradence said: “You were always so sober and absorbed in your own thoughts. I often wondered what went on in those reveries.”
“They were quite innocent,” said Wayness.
“Too much thinking is a bad habit,” said Sunje Ballinder. “It tends to make one timid.”
Everyone looked at Wayness, who said: “These are valuable insights; I must take stock of myself one of these days.”
So the talk went: gossip and reminiscences, but always the six seemed set apart from Wayness by a guarded formality, as if to emphasize that Wayness was no longer one of their own.
The entire group, Wayness included, seemed infected by an uneasy alertness, which caused all eyes to stray frequently to the wall clock. The reason was simple: in a few minutes the Conservator was to issue a statement which, so it had been hinted, would affect the lives of everyone now resident at Stroma.
Wayness served hot rum punch to her friends and fostered the fire with nodules of sea-coal. She spoke little, but was content to listen to the conversation, which had fixed upon the forthcoming announcement. The political orientation of her friends became clear. Alyx-Marie and Tancred were Chartist; Tradence, Lanice and Ivar were even more resolutely LPF, and spoke of their creed as ‘Dynamic Humanism.’ Sunje Ballinder, daughter of the redoubtable Warden Ballinder, tall, supple, coolly outrageous in her unconventional attitudes, showed no interest in the discussion. She seemed to feel that commitment in either direction was gauche, and simply too ridiculous to be taken seriously. Tradence could not comprehend Sunje’s detachment. “Have you no sense of responsibility?”
Sunje gave a languid shrug. “One muddle is more or less equivalent to another muddle. It takes a keener brain than mine to puzzle out the differences.”
Tradence said primly: “But if society organizes itself into groups like the LPF, and everyone sorts out just a small piece of the muddle, and sets it right, then when it’s all assembled, the confusion is mended, and civilization wins another victory!”
“Lovely!” said Tancred. “Except the LPF has busied itself with the wrong muddle, and when the pieces that needed fixing were distributed, the person in charge forgot to number them and so when it came time to fit things together, there was more confusion than ever, and even some pieces left over.”
“That is sheer nonsense,” sniffed Tradence, “and it has nothing to do with Sunje’s lack of dedication.”
Tancred said: “l suspect that her guiding principle is simple modesty. She will not assert her views since she knows at any instant some sudden insight might force her to change her entire philosophy. Am I correct, Sunje?”
“Absolutely. I am modest, but not dogmatically so.”
“Bravo, Sunje!”
Ivar said: “The mad poet Navarth, like Sunje, was noted for his humility. He thought himself to be one with Nature and conceived his poetry to be a natural force.”
“I feel much the same,” said Sunje.
“Navarth was very intense and passionate and - in some respects - curiously innocent. When he wished to compose a great masterpiece, he often climbed a mountain and worked his genius upon the sky, using clouds for his calligraphic medium. When the clouds flew away, Navarth would only say that the glory of his art lay in its creation, not in its durability.”
“I don’t understand this at all,” said Tradence, rather crossly. “How could such a silly old fool control the clouds?”
“That is unknown,” said Tancred, who deeply admired the mad poet, in all his phases and aspects. “Some of his best work dates from this period, so his methods are irrelevant, don’t you think?”
“I think that you are as mad as Navarth.”
Wayness said: “As I recall, he fell off a cliff while chasing a goat and barely survived.”
“Silly old thing,” said Alyx-Marie. “What would he want with a goat?”
“Who knows?” said Tancred carelessly. “It’s just another of the many Navarth mysteries.”
Ivar looked at the clock. “Still another ten minutes. Wayness knows what is going on, but she won’t tell.”
Alyx-Marie asked Wayness: “Don’t you ever get homesick for Stroma?”
“Not really. I’ve been drawn into the work of the Conservancy, and there hasn’t been much time for anything else.”
Ivar uttered a condescending laugh. “You embrace Conservancy as if it were a religion!”
“No,” said Wayness. ‘Not religion. What I feel is love. Cadwal is wild and open and beautiful, and I couldn’t bear to see it disfigured.”
“There is more to life than Conservancy,” stated Lanice, somewhat sententiously.
“I’ve never bothered to conserve anything,” said Sunje in her most indolent drawl. “And after it went I never missed it.”
“I’ll say this much,” declared Ivar grandly, “there’s nothing wrong with Cadwal that a little civilization couldn’t fix. Two or three big cities with some decent restaurants, a casino or two, and - for me personally - a twenty room mansion on Lake Eljian with hot and cold running maidens surrounded by about two thousand acres of gardens and orchards and fences to keep out the banjees and yarlaps, not to mention the tourists.”
“Ivar!” cried Alyx-Marie. “Your remarks are really repugnant!”
“I don’t see why. They’re at least candid.”
“If you say so. The truth is, I’m a staunch Conservationist, so long as the word is applied to other folk and keeping the damned vulgarians off my property.”
Wayness asked innocently: “Is that now official LPF policy?”
“Of course not,” said Tradence angrily. “Ivar is just being naughty.”
“Ha ha!” cried Tancred. “The Peefers, if they lost their fine feathers, would be just another row of plucked owls, shivering in the wind!”
“That is most unkind of you,” said Ivar. He turned to Wayness. “Tancred is a fearful cynic. He doubts the existence of Truth! And speaking of which, what is your father about to tell us? Or do you insist upon being mysterious?”
“I insist. In a few minutes you shall hear for yourself.”
“But you know?”
“Of course I know!”
“It will come to naught,” declared Ivar. “We are quick, keen and resolute; he’ll argue in vain.”
“You will hear no arguments,” said Wayness. “None whatever.”
Ivar paid no heed. “Right or left, east or west, up or down, no matter! He can’t cope with ‘Dynamic Humanism.’”
“He won’t even try until he finds out what it is.”
“Dynamic humanism is the engine which drives the LPF philosophy! It is far more democratic than Chartic Conservancy, and cannot be denied!”
Tancred cried: “Bravo, Ivar! That would be a grand speech, if it had not been sheer piffle. I must instruct you seriously, once and for all. No matter how much the Peefers yearn for manor houses beside Lake Eljian or Lake Amanthe, with beautiful Yip maidens padding here and there, some fully dressed, others serving rum punches, these wonderful dreams will never become real, and why? Because Cadwal is a Conservancy. Is the idea truly so perplexing?”
“Bah!” muttered Ivar. “That is not the humanist point of view, nor is it mine. Something must be done.”
Wayness said: “Something is - though I don’t think you will like it.” She touched the controls to the wall screen; it glowed with color and detail, to show the interior of the Council Hall.
Chapter 1, Part III
At the Spaceman’s Rest, after Wayness had departed, Egon Tamm attempted to join his comrades on the terrace, but he was waylaid by a group of earnest young intelligentsia who plied him with questions. The Conservator would only repeat his explanation that all would soon be made clear and that it seemed pointless to go over the same ground twice.
His chief inquisitor was a burly pink-faced young man wearing a medal which bore the slogan ‘
POWER TO THE YIPS!
’ He asked: “Tell us at least this: are you agreeing to a reasonable accommodation or not?”
“As to that, you will soon be in a position to judge for yourself.”
“And meanwhile we must hang by our fingernails,” grumbled the young LPFer.
“Why not release your grip?” asked a saucy young woman. She wore a shirt which displayed the image of a sad-faced cat, who was saying: “Grandpa was a Peefer until he gave up catnip.”
The burly young man told Egon Tamm: “You must realize, sir, that Cadwal cannot remain in the Stone Age forever!”
Warden Ballinder, a massive man with black hair and a black beard surrounding a round ferocious face, spoke with heavy jocularity. “If the Conservator does not have you deported for sedition and criminal foolishness, consider it good news.” He looked to the side. “Here comes another one I’d like to see pulling an oar on a slave ship.”
“Bah!” snapped Dame Clytie Vergence, who, as she advanced upon them, had overheard the remark. “That is arrant nonsense! Still, it is what we have come to expect from the notorious Warden. We can only hope that he conducts the business of his office with more decorum.”
“I do my pitiful best,” said the Warden.
Dame Clytie turned to Egon Tamm. She was almost as tall as Warden Ballinder, with large bones, meaty shoulders, strong legs and haunches. Her coarse brown hair was cut short, and straggled unflatteringly down around her square face. Beyond doubt Dame Clytie was a forceful person, though perhaps deficient in frivolity. “I too confess to curiosity. What is the emergency which brings you so dramatically to Stroma?”
Egon Tamm responded that all would soon be clarified; further, he hoped that she would find his statements interesting.
Dame Clytie gave a disdainful grunt, started to turn away, stopped short and pointed to the clock. “Are you not due at the Council Hall? The emergency would not seem to be so urgent if you are able to loiter here in the Spaceman’s Rest tippling with your cronies.”
Egon Tamm looked at the clock. “Quite right! I am grateful for the advice!” With Warden Ballinder, Bodwyn Wook, Glawen and the others, Egon Tamm repaired to the Council Hall, at the eastern end of the third level. He paused in the ante-chamber and looked into the hall, where the notables of Stroma stood in small groups, conferring with each other. All wore the garments of conventional formality: long full-skirted black jackets, tight black trousers, long pointed black shoes. He turned to Warden Ballinder. “I see no sign of Julian Bohost.”
