Norstrilia - Illustrated

by Cordwainer Smith

  C’mell was watching him as clinically as a surgeon, but he could tell from her expression that she was not trying to peep his mind.

  He found himself speaking almost as wearily as had A’gentur, who was also called something like “Yeekasoose,” and who had strange powers for a little monkey:

  “I don’t suppose I want anything much, C’mell, except that I should like to spiek and hier correctly, like other people on my native world.”

  She looked at him, her expression showing intense sympathy and the effort to make a decision.

  A’gentur interrupted with his high clear monkey voice, “Say that to me, Sir and Master.”

  Rod repeated: “I don’t really want anything. I would like to spiek and hier because other people are fussing at me about it. And I would like to get a Cape of Good Hope twopenny triangular blue stamp while I am still on Earth. But that’s about all. I guess there’s nothing I really want.”

  The monkey closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep again; Rod suspected it was some kind of telepathic trance.

  C’mell hooked A’gentur on an old rod which protruded from the surface of the shaft. Since he weighed only a few grams, there was no noticeable pull on the belt. She seized Rod’s shoulder and pulled him over to her.

  “Rod, listen! Do you want to know who you are?”

  “I don’t know,” said he. “I might be miserable.”

  “Not if you know who you are!” she insisted.

  “I might not like me,” said Rod. “Other people don’t and my parents died together when their ship went milky out in space. I’m not normal.”

  “For God’s sake, Rod!” she cried.

  “Who?” said he.

  “Forgive me, father,” said she, speaking to no one in sight.

  “I’ve heard that name, before, somewhere,” said Rod. “But let’s get going. I want to get to this mysterious place you are taking me and then I want to find out about Eleanor.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My servant. She’s disguised as me, taking risks for me, along with eight robots. It’s up to me to do what I can for her. Always.”

  “But she’s your servant,” said C’mell. “She serves you. Almost like being an underperson, like me.”

  “She’s a person,” said Rod, stubbornly. “We have no underpeople in Norstrilia, except for a few in government jobs. But she’s my friend.”

  “Do you want to marry her?”

  “Great sick sheep, girl! Are you barmy? No!”

  “Do you want to marry anybody?”

  “At sixteen?” he cried. “Anyhow, my family will arrange it.” The thought of plain honest devoted Lavinia crossed his mind, and he could not help comparing her to this wild voluptuous creature who floated beside him in the tunnel as the traffic passed them going up and down. With near weightlessness, C’mell’s hair floated like a magic flower around her head. She had been brushing it out of her eyes from time to time. He snorted, “Not Eleanor.”

  When he said this, another idea crossed the mind of the beautiful cat-girl.

  “You know what I am, Rod,” said she, very seriously.

  “A cat-girl from the planet Earth. You’re supposed to be my wife.”

  “That’s right,” she said, with an odd intonation in her voice. “Be it, then!”

  “What?” said Rod.

  “My husband,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “Be my husband, if it will help you to find you.”

  She stole a quick glance up and down the shaft. There was nobody near.

  “Look, Rod, look!” She spread the opening of her dress down and aside. Even with the poor light, to which his eyes had become accustomed, he could see the fine tracery of veins in her delicate chest and her young, pear-shaped breasts. The aureoles around the nipples were a clear, sweet, innocent pink; the nipples themselves were as pretty as two pieces of candy. For a moment there was pleasure and then a terrible embarrassment came over him. He turned his face away and felt horribly self-conscious. What she had done was interesting but it wasn’t nice.

  When he dared to glance at her, she was still studying his face.

  “I’m a girlygirl, Rod. This is my business. And you’re a cat, with all the rights of a tomcat. Nobody can tell the difference, here in this tunnel. Rod, do you want to do anything?”

  Rod gulped and said nothing.

  She swept her clothing back into place. The strange urgency left her voice. “I guess,” she said, “that that left me a little breathless. I find you pretty attractive, Rod. I find myself thinking, ‘What a pity he is not a cat.’ I’m over it now.”

  Rod said nothing.

  A bubble of laughter came into her voice, along with something mothering and tender, which tugged at his heartstrings. “Best of all, Rod, I didn’t mean it. Or maybe I did. I had to give you a chance before I felt that I really knew you. Rod, I’m one of the most beautiful girls on Old Earth itself. The Instrumentality uses me for that very reason. We’ve turned you into a cat and offered you me, and you won’t have me. Doesn’t that suggest that you don’t know who you are?”

  “Are you back on that?” said Rod. “I guess I just don’t understand girls.”

  “You’d better, before you’re through with Earth,” she said. “Your agents have bought a million of them for you, out of all that stroon money.”

  “People or underpeople?”

  “Both!”

  “Let them bug sheep!” he cried. “I had no part in ordering them. Come on, girl. This is no place for a boudoir conversation!”

  “Where on Earth did you learn that word?” she laughed.

  “I read books. Lots of books. I may look like a peasant to you Earth people, but I know a lot of things.”

  “Do you trust me, Rod?”

  He thought of her immodesty, which still left him a little breathless. The Old North Australian humor reasserted itself in him, as a cultural characteristic and not just as an individual one: “I’ve seen a lot of you, C’mell,” said he with a grin. “I suppose you don’t have many surprises left. All right, I trust you. Then what?”

  She studied him closely.

  “I’ll tell you what E’ikasus and I were discussing.”

  “Who?”

  “Him,” She nodded at the little monkey.

  “I thought his name was A’gentur.”

  “Like yours is C’rod!” she said.

  “He’s not a monkey?” asked Rod.

  She looked around and lowered her voice. “He’s a bird,” she said solemnly, “and he’s the second most important bird on Earth.”

  “So what?” said Rod.

  “He’s in charge of your destiny, Rod. Your life or your death. Right now.”

  “I thought,” he whispered back, “that that was up to the Lord Redlady and somebody named Jestocost on Earth.”

  “You’re dealing with other powers, Rod—powers which keep themselves secret. They want to be friends with you. And I think,” she added in a complete non sequitur, “that we’d better take the risk and go.”

  He looked blank and she added,

  “To the Catmaster.”

  “They’ll do something to me there.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her face was calm, friendly, and even. “You will die, maybe—but not much chance. Or you might go mad—there’s always the possibility. Or you will find all the things you want—that’s the likeliest of all. I have been there, Rod. I myself have been there. Don’t you think that I look like a happy, busy girl, when you consider that I’m really just an animal with a rather low-down job?”

  Rod studied her. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty next year,” she said, inflexibly.

  “For the first time?”

  “For us animal-people there is no second time, Rod. I thought you knew that.”

  He returned her gaze. “If you can take it,” said he, “I can too. Let’s go.”

  She lifted A’gentur or E’ikasus, depending on which he really was, off the wall,
where he had been sleeping like a marionette between plays. He opened his exhausted little eyes and blinked at her.

  “You have given us our orders,” said C’mell. “We are going to the Department Store.”

  “I have,” he said, crossly, coming much more awake, “I don’t remember it!”

  She laughed, “Just through me, E’ikasus!”

  “That name!” he hissed. “Don’t get foolhardy. Not in a public shaft.”

  “All right, A’gentur,” she responded, “but do you approve?”

  “Of the decision?”

  She nodded.

  The little monkey looked at both of them. He spoke to Rod, “If she gambles her life and yours, not to mention mine—if she takes chances to make you much, much happier, are you willing to come along?”

  Rod nodded in silent agreement.

  “Let’s go, then,” said the monkey-surgeon.

  “Where are we going?” asked Rod.

  “Down into Earthport City. Among all the people. Swarms and swarms of them,” said C’mell, “and you will get to see the everyday life of Earth, just the way that you asked at the top of the tower, an hour ago.”

  “A year ago, you mean,” said Rod. “So much has happened!” He thought of her young naked breasts and the impulse which had made her show them to him, but the thought did not make him excited or guilty; he felt friendly, because he sensed in their whole relationship a friendliness much more fervent than sex itself.

  “We are going to a store,” said the sleepy monkey.

  “A commissary. For things? What for?”

  “It has a nice name,” said C’mell, “and it is run by a wonderful person. The Catmaster himself. Five hundred some years old, and still allowed to live by virtue of the legacy of the Lady Goroke.”

  “Never heard of her,” said Rod. “What’s the name?”

  “The Department Store of Hearts’ Desires,” said C’mell and E’ikasus simultaneously.

  The trip was a vivid, quick dream. They had only a few hundred meters to fall before they reached ground level.

  They came out on the people-street. A robot-policeman watched them from a corner.

  Human beings in the costumes of a hundred historical periods were walking around in the warm, wet air of Earth. Rod could not smell as much salt in the air as he had smelled at the top of the tower, but down here in the city it smelled of more people than he had ever even imagined in one place. Thousands of individuals, hundreds and thousands of different kinds of foods, the odors of robots, of underpeople and of other things which seemed to be unmodified animals.

  “This is the most interesting-smelling place I have ever been,” said he to C’mell.

  She glanced at him idly. “That’s nice. You can smell like a dog-man. Most of the real people I have known couldn’t smell their own feet. Come on though, C’roderick—remember who you are! If we’re not tagged and licensed for the surface, we’ll get stopped by that policeman in one minute or less.”

  She carried E’ikasus and steered Rod with a pressure on his elbow. They came to a ramp which led to an underground passage, well illuminated. Machines, robots and underpeople were hurrying back and forth along it, busy with the commerce of Earth.

  Rod would have been completely lost if he had been without C’mell. Though his miraculous broad-band hiering, which had so often surprised him at home, had not returned during his few hours on Old Earth, his other senses gave him a suffocating awareness of the huge number of people around him and above him. (He never realized that there were times, long gone, when the cities of Earth had populations which reached the tens of millions; to him, several hundred thousand people, and a comparable number of underpeople, was a crowd almost beyond all measure.) The sounds and smells of underpeople were subtly different from those of people; some of the machines of Earth were bigger and older than anything which he had previously imagined; and above all, the circulation of water in immense volumes, millions upon millions of gallons, for the multiple purposes of Earthport—sanitation, cooling, drinking, industrial purposes—made him feel that he was not among a few buildings, which he would have called a city in Old North Australia, but that he himself had become a blood-cell thrusting through the circulatory system of some enormous composite animal, the nature of which he imperfectly understood. This city was alive with a sticky, wet, complicated aliveness which he had hitherto not even imagined to be possible. Movement characterized it. He suspected that the movement went on by night and day, that there was no real cessation to it, that the great pumps thrust water through feeder pipes and drains whether people were awake or not, that the brains of this organization could be no one place, but had to comprise many sub-brains, each committed and responsible for its particular tasks. No wonder underpeople were needed! It would be boredom and pain, even with perfected automation, to have enough human supervisors to reconnect the various systems if they had breakdowns inside themselves or at their interconnections. Old North Australia had vitality, but it was the vitality of open fields, few people, immense wealth, and perpetual military danger; this was the vitality of the cesspool, of the compost heap, but the rotting, blooming, growing components were not waste material but human beings and near-human beings. No wonder that his forefathers had fled the cities as they had been. They must have been solid plague to free men. And even Old Original Australia, somewhere here on Earth, had lost its openness and freedom in order to become the single giant city-complex of Aojou Nanbien. It must, Rod thought with horror, have been a thousand times the size of this city of Earthport. (He was wrong, because it was one hundred fifty thousand times the size of Earthport before it died. Earthport had only about two hundred thousand permanent residents when Rod visited it, with an additional number walking in from the nearer suburbs, the outer suburbs still being ruined and abandoned, but Australia—under the name of Aojou Nanbien—had reached a population of thirty billion before it died, and before the Wild Ones and the Menschenjäger had set to work killing off the survivors.)

  Rod was bewildered, but C’mell was not.

  She had put A’gentur down, over his whined monkey-like protest. He trotted unwillingly beside them.

  With the impudent knowledgeability of a true city girl, she had led them to a cross-walk from which a continuous whistling roar came forth. By writing, by picture, and by loudspeaker, the warning system repeated: KEEP OFF. FREIGHT ONLY. DANGER. KEEP OFF. She had snatched up A’gentur-E’ikasus, grabbed Rod by the arm, and jumped with them onto a series of rapidly moving airborne platforms. Rod, startled by the suddenness with which they had found the trackway, shouted to ask what it was:

  “Freight? What’s that?”

  “Things. Boxes. Foods. This is the Central Trackway. No sense in walking six kilometers when we can get this. Be ready to jump off with me when I give you the sign!”

  “It feels dangerous,” he said.

  “It isn’t,” said she, “not if you’re a cat.”

  With this somewhat equivocal reassurance, she let them ride. A’gentur could not care less. He cuddled his head against her shoulder, wrapped his long, gibbon-like arms around her upper arm, and went soundly to sleep.

  C’mell nodded at Rod.

  “Soon now!” she called, judging their distance by landmarks which he found meaningless. The landing points had flat, concrete-lined areas where the individual flat cars, rushing along on their river of air, could be shunted suddenly to the side for loading or unloading. Each of these loading areas had a number, but Rod had not even noticed at what point they had gotten on. The smells of the underground city changed so much as they moved from one district to another that he was more interested in odors than in the numbers on the platforms.

  She pinched his upper arm very sharply as a sign that he should get ready.

  They jumped.

  He staggered across the platform until he caught himself up against a large vertical crate marked Algonquin Paper Works—Credit Slips, Miniature—2mm. C’mell landed as gracefully
as if she had been acting a rehearsed piece of acrobatics. The little monkey on her shoulder stared with wide bright eyes.

  “This,” said the monkey A’gentur-E’ikasus firmly and contemptuously, “is where all the people play at working. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and my body sugar is low.” He curled himself tight against C’mell’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

  “He has a point,” said Rod. “Could we eat?”

  C’mell started to nod and then caught herself short—“You’re a cat.”

  He nodded. Then he grinned. “I’m hungry, anyhow. And I need a sandbox.”

  “Sandbox?” she asked, puzzled.

  “An awef,” he said very clearly, using the Old North Australian term.

  “Awef?”

  It was his turn to get embarrassed. He said it in full: “An animal waste evacuation facility.”

  “You mean a johnny,” she cried. She thought a minute and then said, “Fooey.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Each kind of underpeople has to use its own. It’s death if you don’t use one and it’s death if you use the wrong one. The cat one is four stations back on this underground trackway. Or we can walk back on the surface. It would only be a half hour.”

  He said something rude to Earth. She wrinkled her brow.

  “All I said was, ‘Earth is a large healthy sheep.’ That’s not so dirty.” Her good humor returned.

  Before she could ask him another question he held up a firm hand. “I am not going to waste a half hour. You wait here.” He had seen the universal sign for “men’s room” at the upper level of the platform. Before she could stop him he had gone into it. She caught her hand up to her mouth, knowing that the robot police would kill him on sight if they found him in the wrong place. It would be such a ghastly joke if the man who owned the Earth were to die in the wrong toilet.