Star Well

by Alexei Panshin

  And all that Alice could see now by straining was the line of people in front of her and a closed metal door painted a sickly yellow-cream. It was a far cry from pirates.

  “Behave yourself, Alice,” Mrs. Bogue said sharply, and accompanied the command with an equally sharp swat.

  Then the door swung open. The line moved forward. On the other side of the door was a square corridor temporarily bonded to the Orion. They passed quickly through that and found themselves in a large, well-lit chamber. Seated here, behind a counter, was the Empire’s representative in Star Well.

  Empire’s Representative was an old man named Phibbs. His face was smooth except for saggy pouches under each eye, but his hair was white at the roots. He lacked energy, ambition, and intelligence, and he didn’t know his rule book very well. What he did know, or thought he knew, however, he applied with gleeful zeal. He knew nothing of exception or tolerance and if he had, it would have made no difference—he found too much pleasure in the trouble he could cause people by the even-handed application of rules he had no part in formulating and hence could not be held responsible for.

  Alice’s friend Louisa, standing next to her, gave her a surreptitious poke. “Be careful, now,” she whispered. “If you get Mrs. Bogue mad, we’ll never see anything here.”

  Alice nodded. Ahead she could see the fat priest and the Trog talking to the old man in uniform behind the counter. Beyond them was a waiting room where a number of people were standing. Their own lines progressed not at all, the priest and the Trog continuing to talk to the old man. Then, at last, the priest was waved through and the Trog stepped back out of the line and just stood there waiting.

  They moved forward, then. When they reached the counter, Mrs. Bogue placed the six sets of papers in front of Phibbs and spread them out.

  “There you are,” she said. She did not enjoy suffering nonsense and prided herself on always having her affairs under proper control, even down to something like having papers ready for inspection.

  She pointed at the papers and tapped the girls on the head, one by one. “Jane, Fiona, Alice, Louisa, and Orithyia.”

  Phibbs was not feeling cooperative, however. The grim old lady was far too ready to direct his job for his liking. So he took his time over the papers, looking at them one at a time, looking up at the girls they supposedly matched, and then back down again. One set, in actual fact, was a forgery, but he would never have been able to determine which—it had passed the inspection of sharper, abler men, and would again. But he took his simple, even time about looking diem over.

  “These girls seem to be in order,” he said at last. “But what about you?”

  Angrily she stabbed at the top paper. “That That is mine.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Picture doesn’t look much like you.”

  While they were talking, the girls enjoying their keeper’s discomfiture, a gentleman separated himself from the others in the waiting room. He walked to where the Trog was standing apart and spoke with him for several minutes. The Trog had his back to the counter and Alice had a clear view of the gentleman. He was young and well-dressed, short and slightly built. His hair was brown and hung free. His features were not so regular and perfectly fashioned that he could be called handsome, but he had definite presence.

  Alice attracted Louisa’s attention with a bare nudge. Without turning her head, she whispered, “How about that one?”

  The gentleman apparently took note of their gaze. He glanced at them, glanced again, and then returned his attention to the Trog towering over him. He finished speaking and the Trog turned and walked flat-footedly away. Phibbs made no comment on his departure.

  Alice suddenly found her arm tightly clutched by Louisa, the other girl making the lightest of excited gasps.

  The young gentleman walked directly up to them. He salaamed and said, “Miss Parini, how delightful to see you. I must confess it’s something of a surprise.”

  Alice could hardly contain herself. “Miss Parini” was no one but Louisa. And Louisa was inclining gracefully.

  “Mr. Villiers,” she said.

  Mrs. Bogue, stacking her papers together again, turned and said, “What is it that you think you are doing?”

  In a barely audible whisper, Louisa said, “She’s taking us to school.”

  Villiers, who may have heard Louisa, had already turned to Mrs. Bogue and salaamed beautifully.

  “My good madam,” he said. “Your servant. I am a friend of some standing with Miss Parini’s family. May I join your company? I have been here in Star Well some few days, and I think I may know my way here well enough to save you time and extra steps.”

  “Well,” she said, “I must say that it is pleasant to meet a young man for once who has sense.”

  “Anthony Villiers,” he said, and smiled.

  Make no mistake about it, he could be charming when he cared to be. I confess I don’t understand the ins and outs of charm. Godwin introducing himself in this manner would have seemed sinister, oily and dangerous, never winning. Villiers, ordinarily reserved, won Mrs. Bogue immediately and with no apparent effort. There is no question: life is not fair. I hope you didn’t think it was.

  Phibbs said, “Sorry, these papers aren’t sufficient. I know my book and none can say I don’t. Any Restricted Sentient that comes through, I got to register ... ah, register his . . . ah, Red Card, Permit to Travel and . . . ah, record his destination and length of stay.”

  “He’s a fellow clergyman, sir,” said Srb. “Do you mean to doubt his integrity?”

  “I don’t know what I mean. Where was I? Yes, look, regulations aren’t my business. I just do my job. I pay— I mean I get paid for doing what I’m supposed to do and I know what I’m supposed to do and he can’t go through, and that’s all.”

  Torve said nothing. He just stood there on his great flat feet like a lump.

  Srb said, “He cant leave on a ship unless he checks out through you. Am I right?”

  “Yes. No! Yes! Look, go away. Your papers are all right and you’re holding up my line.” Phibbs motioned for Srb to move on. “And, uh, you stand over there out of the way for a minute.”

  Srb said, “I’ll see if I can’t get you released.”

  “Thank you, but is not necessary, I think,” Torve said. He removed himself from the line and stood where Phibbs had indicated.

  Srb picked up the bag he was carrying by hand, gathered his skirts about him and like a great red water animal out of his element betook his fatness into the waiting room. He paused, looked at the people about him one by one, and then moved on.

  Normal practice for a newly-arrived passenger who intended to spend any time in Star Well would be to go immediately to the Accommodations Desk in the waiting room. The only exceptions would be people leaving within hours and the very few who could not afford to pay nine thalers a day for an inferior room and who chose to wander as inconspicuously as they could manage from one public area to the next. Srb, of course, did not fall into either of these exceptional categories, but nonetheless he did not go to the Accommodations Desk.

  He was looking over the people in the waiting room with some exasperation for the third time. He was standing near the exit, and was about to abandon the room altogether when an urgent “Hsst” brought his attention about. Behind him, just outside the waiting room, was a tall, awkward-appearing, soberly dressed young man.

  The boy made a recognition signal in his palm. Left little finger, right palm, cross drawn bottom to top, right to left, and quadrants dotted in proper order. Srb responded with the countersign.

  “You, I take it, are Junior Lieutenant Adams.”

  “Yes, sir, General Srb.”

  Srb was not a general in any military organization nor even in any of several religious or charitable hierarchies. He was an Inspector General of the Empire, in rank equal to a commodore in the Navy, and merited the appellation of general as a title of courtesy. He was himself a Mithraist with some private interest in. the subject of co
mparative religion, but he was not a priest. He often dressed as one, however, the better to pass without undue attention in strange and suspicious sectors. A fat layman is one thing; a fat priest something else altogether. One can be questioned without embarrassment and the other cannot. Embarrassment is perhaps not the grandest and noblest way of putting others off-stride, but Srb cared little for niceties, rather more for results, and a great deal for his own safety and comfort. And he was not altogether unaware of the little privileges, portions and propitiations that a priest automatically attracts—what might be called the benefits of clergy.

  “Why didn’t you meet me in the waiting room in a normal fashion?”

  “Him,” Adams said, pointing to Villiers, who was now engaged in conversation with the Trog. “I didn’t want him to see us together.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Anthony Villiers. I think he knows something.”

  “Just what does he know?”

  “That’s the trouble, sir. I’m not sure.”

  “Perhaps we had best meet in your rooms, then. Give me your number and we’ll be certain that he doesn’t see us together.”

  Only when Srb had the number and location of Adams’ room and Adams himself had departed did Srb finally present himself at the Accommodations Desk. By then there were several people ahead of him. He took his place in line and set his bag down. As he did, Torve the Trog, having left his place by the line, came up.

  “Is all right now,” he said.

  “Is it?” said Srb. “Very good, my friend. Shall we meet for dinner as we planned?”

  The man just ahead of him in line turned at the sound of his voice. “Oh, Padre,” he said, “I hadn’t realized you were there. Please go ahead of me.”

  “Why, thank you, son. Bless you.”

  “I will see you later for dinner,” Torve said, and left the waiting room. Before Srb reached the head of the line, the man who had been pointed out to him by young Adams also left in company with Mrs. Bogue and her five young female charges.

  Now, Villiers was there to meet Torve the Trog. When Torve stepped to the side, Villiers crossed the invisible line that kept those in the waiting room separated from the arriving passengers. He took no notice of the other arrivals, but went directly up to Torve.

  “Same old thing?” he asked, although that was not the primary question in his mind.

  “Is as usual,” Torve said.

  “The day we find some proper papers to copy, things will be much simpler.”

  “Oh, I do not mind.”

  “What are the conditions?”

  “Wait here one minute.”

  “Hmm. That’s not so bad. Now the important thing. The remittance was not on Luvashe. Did you find it on Morian?”

  “No,” said Torve the Trog.

  “God help us. I’ve halved my bills here, but I spent my last royal yesterday. I’m down to pocket change.”

  “I found news,” Torve said. “Remittance was on Morian but we had left, so was urgented forward to Yuten.”

  “Well, that’s some relief. No doubt they’ll be surprised to see us turn up again so soon. In any case, this will take some thinking about.”

  “Minute is up.”

  “Good.” Villiers told Torve how to reach their quarters and how the door might be convinced to let him enter. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. I see someone I think I know.”

  “I have composition to think on. I will meditate until you arrive,” said Torve. “Thurb.”

  Villiers approached the covey of females, and Torve, his minute of waiting at an end, turned and walked away. Phibbs said nothing. He took no notice of the departure. When the line had passed him and he was closing up his counter, he may have had the feeling that he had mislaid something, but if he did, he didn’t mention it.

  5

  Man once thought fire to be the wrath of the gods unleashed. Man learned to unleash a little wrath, too. Man once thought that flying was a sport reserved for the pleasure of birds, bats and horses, but man learned how to share their pleasure. A thousand things, dimly understood, feared, thought beyond control, have been added when their time has come around to the grab-bag list of the possible. Still, some few things elude understanding, and of these one of the chiefest is the kid business.

  For a time, control was thought to be within reach. Parents could order their children to specification as they might order a home, clothing or any items of style. Happiness? Not by a damn sight. Ignorant parents found themselves saddled with children far more intelligent than themselves. Society found itself with a preponderance of females or males as the winds of fashion blew. And there simply is no way to turn a child in on a new model when the old one is found to be not quite as advertised or when one’s tastes change.

  Over five or six hundred years, all sorts of experiments were undertaken, but somehow in these modem times most babies continue to be born by the traditional method—catch-as-catch-can. The experiments never fulfilled expectations. No parent who can afford it will willingly settle for a malformed or idiot child, but neither will he order a child from a checklist.

  But ordinary kids are unsatisfactory, too. One might wish that every parent could have a child who was consistently agreeable, never disputed authority, never disobeyed a sensible dictate, and in time grew up to be something he could understand and approve of. But children, even ones ordered from checklists, simply don’t come that way.

  In a family of conformists, at least one child will turn to cropping his head bald and performing contortionist exercises in the name of sport. In a family of the bizarre, at least one child will long for the security of a billion people who will dress, think, eat, work and play as he does, and comfort him. There is no way to prevent it. If you will remember, Socrates was condemned to death for corrupting the youth of Athens. .He never did. The parents simply didn’t know what time it was and needed someone to blame things on. And by private report, the Nashuite Emperor finds his second son’s interest in Moravian Agrostology both perplexing and disturbing and has had any number of royal rows with him, during which he has tried to convince the boy to drop his study of grass in favor of more fitting pursuits. And, as might be expected, he has had no luck.

  The results of a twenty-two year study of parent-child relations begun in 914 by the Petenji Institute indicated that in those days there was an eighteen percent chance that a parent would consider that his grown child had turned out badly, and a thirty-seven percent chance that he wouldn’t understand him even if he were willing to accept him. And this says nothing about the ordinary conflicts involved in raising a child. I don’t suppose that six hundred years have changed matters appreciably.

  Poor incompatible families have a greater problem than rich ones. At best, a poor father can send his boor of a son off to work in a field six miles in an opposite direction, ignore him at meal times, and spend his evenings in a different corner. A rich father has a more effective traditional ploy known as the remittance. In essence, a young man is requested to travel—anywhere —and is provided with a reasonable amount of money as long as he stays away from home.

  This may be a happy solution—if the money arrives in the proper place at the proper time.

  When Villiers returned to his rooms, Torve the Trog was sitting on the floor making thurb, thurb, thurb noises. His anatomy and fashion of sitting were such that his knees overlapped and his brown furry feet stuck out to the side. TÎiey were broad, spatulate things, not at all his most attractive feature. In actual fact, he had little to offer in the way of attractive features. He was large and lumpy and fur-covered, and his head seemed not to be in proper proportion to his body. What he most resembled, in fact, was a six foot tall mammalian toad that by some freak of nature walked upright. The one thing that kept him from being repulsive was his bulgy blue eyes. They were not merely little circles of blue—they were glowing aqua orbs that a medieval king would have been proud to trade a minor daughter for. A minor king
might well have made that his major daughter. Even in these more enlightened times, Trog’s Eye Blue has a connotation of appealing warmth.

  The thurb, thurb, thurb noises were High Art. Villiers was not sure of the principles of the art, however, and Torve was unable or unwilling to explain them, but which of the two Villiers was also uncertain. At times he thought it was a matter of rhythm, at times modulation, at times subtle changes in amplitude. In any case, though he might not understand the art form in its own terms, nonetheless he did not find it objectionable. Think of it as the random chirping of a cricket or the wurble of the Fidelian ironworm.

  “... Thurh ..

  Villiers let the door slide shut behind him and began stripping off his clothes.

  “Catch the boot, will you, Torve,” he said.

  The Trog helped him to remove the tightly fit high-heeled boots and Villiers sighed in relief.

  “There are times when I think my feet are spreading. Or perhaps they’re still growing.”

  He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Torve returned to his composition. Even if Villiers had not been informed that Torve was inventing rather than practicing something he had put in final form, he would have known, or thought he would. It lacked a certain necessary je ne sais quoi of a polished work. Villiers lay listening for some minutes, putting his thoughts in order. Then abruptly he rose and crossed to the service corner. He left the picture off, feeling no need to honor a minor functionary with the sight of him in his underclothing. But for you, who might be interested, their color was beige, his stocks were calf-length and well-filled, his body-piece cut with some looseness, and his curdler a Grene & McKenna worn in a reverse holster on his left hip. Villiers asked to be connected with Accommodations.