Norstrilia - Illustrated

by Cordwainer Smith

  Then the woman’s voice, sweet-poisonous and worse than death, sobbing agreement with her man against her son.

  “I don’t know, Rod. I don’t know. Just don’t tell me about it.”

  He had hiered them, in one of his moments of wild penetrating hiering when everything telepathic came in with startling clarity. He had hiered them when he was a baby.

  The real Rod in the dark room let out a roar of fear, desolation, loneliness, rage, hate. This was the telepathic bomb with which he had so often startled or alarmed the neighbors, the mind-shock with which he had killed the giant spider in the tower of Earthport far above him.

  But this time, the room was closed.

  His mind roared back at itself.

  Rage, loudness, hate, raw noise poured into him from the floor, the circular wall, the high ceiling.

  He cringed beneath it and as he cringed, the sizes of the images changed. His parents sat in chairs, chairs. They were little, little. He was an almighty baby, so enormous that he could scoop them up with his right hand.

  He reached to crush the tiny loathsome parents who had said, “Let him die.”

  To crush them, but they faded first.

  Their faces turned frightened. They looked wildly around. Their chairs dissolved, the fabric falling to a floor which in turn looked like storm-eroded cloth. They turned for a last kiss and had no lips. They reached to hug each other and their arms fell off. Their spaceship had gone milky in mid-trip, dissolving into traceless nothing. And he, he, he himself had seen it!

  The rage was followed by tears, by a guilt too deep for regret, by a self-accusation so raw and wet that it lived like one more organ inside his living body.

  He wanted nothing.

  No money, no stroon, no Station of Doom. He wanted no friends, no companionship, no welcome, no house, no food. He wanted no walks, no solitary discoveries in the field, no friendly sheep, no treasures in the gap, no computer, no day, no night, no life.

  He wanted nothing, and he could not understand death.

  The enormous room lost all light, all sound, and he did not notice it. His own naked life lay before him like a freshly dissected cadaver. It lay there and it made no sense. There had been many Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBans, one hundred and fifty of them in a row, but he—151! 151! 151!—was not one of them, not a giant who had wrestled treasure from the sick Earth and hidden sunshine of the Norstrilian plains. It wasn’t his telepathic deformity, his spieklessness, his brain deafness to hiering. It was himself, the “Me-subtile” inside him, which was wrong, all wrong. He was the baby worth killing, who had killed instead. He had hated mama and papa for their pride and their hate: when he hated them, they crumpled and died out in the mystery of space, so that they did not even leave bodies to bury.

  Rod rose to his feet. His hands were wet. He touched his face and he realized that he had been weeping with his face cupped in his hands.

  Wait.

  There was something.

  There was one thing he wanted. He wanted Houghton Syme not to hate him. Houghton Syme could hier and spiek, but he was a shortie, living with the sickness of death lying between himself and every girl, every friend, every job he had met. And he, Rod, had mocked that man, calling him Old Hot and Simple. Rod might be worthless but he was not as bad off as Houghton Syme, the Hon. Sec. Houghton Syme was at least trying to be a man, to live his miserable scrap of life, and all Rod had ever done was to flaunt his wealth and near-immortality before the poor cripple who had just one hundred and sixty years to live. Rod wanted only one thing—to get back to Old North Australia in time to help Houghton Syme, to let Houghton Syme know that the guilt was his, Rod’s, and not Syme’s. The Onseck had a bit of a life and he deserved the best of it.

  Rod stood there, expecting nothing.

  He had forgiven his last enemy.

  He had forgiven himself.

  The door opened very matter-of-factly and there stood the Catmaster, a quiet wise smile upon his face,

  “You can come out now, Mister and Owner McBan; and if there is anything in this outer room which you want, you may certainly have it.”

  Rod walked out slowly. He had no idea how long he had been in HATE HALL.

  When he emerged, the door closed behind him.

  “No, thanks, cobber. It’s mighty friendly of you, but I don’t need anything much, and I’d better be getting back to my own planet.”

  “Nothing?” said the Catmaster, still smiling very attentively and very quietly.

  “I’d like to hier and spiek, but it’s not very important.”

  “This is for you,” said the Catmaster. “You put it in your ear and leave it there. If it itches or gets dirty, you take it out, wash it, and put it back in. It’s not a rare device, but apparently you don’t have them on your planet.” He held out an object no larger than the kernel of a ground-nut.

  Rod took it absently and was ready to put it into his pocket, not into his ear, when he saw that the smiling attentive face was watching, very gently but very alertly. He put the device into his ear. It felt a little cold.

  “I will now,” said the Catmaster, “take you to C’mell, who will lead you to your friends in Downdeep-downdeep. You had better take this blue two-penny Cape of Good Hope postage stamp with you. I will report to Jestocost that it was lost while I attempted to copy it. That is slightly true, isn’t it?”

  Rod started to thank him absent-mindedly and then—

  Then, with a thrill which sent gooseflesh all over his neck, back and arms, he realized that the Catmaster had not moved his lips in the slightest, had not pushed air through his throat, had not disturbed the air with the pressure of noise. The Catmaster had spieked to Rod, and Rod had hiered him.

  Thinking very carefully and very clearly, but closing his lips and making no sound whatever, Rod thought,

  “Worthy and gracious Catmaster, I thank you for the ancient treasure of the old Earth stamp. I thank you even more for the hiering-spieking device which I am now testing. Will you please extend your right hand to shake hands with me, if you can actually hier me now?”

  The Catmaster stepped forward and extended his hand.

  Man and underman, they faced each other with a kindness and gratitude which was so poignant as to be very close to grief.

  Neither of them wept. Neither.

  They shook hands without speaking or spieking.

  EVERYBODY’S FOND OF MONEY

  While Rod McBan was going through his private ordeal at the Department Store of Hearts’ Desires, other people continued to be concerned with him and his fate.

  A Crime of Public Opinion

  A middle-aged woman, with a dress which did not suit her, sat uninvited at the table of Paul, a real man once acquainted with C’mell.

  Paul paid no attention to her. Eccentricities were multiplying among people these days. Being middle-aged was a matter of taste, and many human beings, after the Rediscovery of Man, found that if they let themselves become imperfect, it was a more comfortable way to live than the old way—the old way consisting of aging minds dwelling in bodies condemned to the perpetual perfection of youth.

  “I had flu,” said the woman. “Have you ever had flu?”

  “No,” said Paul, not very much interested.

  “Are you reading a newspaper?” She looked at his newspaper, which had everything except news in it.

  Paul, with the paper in front of him, admitted that he was reading it.

  “Do you like coffee?” said the woman, looking at Paul’s cup of fresh coffee in front of him.

  “Why would I order it if I didn’t?” said Paul brusquely, wondering how the woman had ever managed to find so unattractive a material for her dress. It was yellow sunflowers on an off-red background.

  The woman was baffled, but only for a moment.

  “I’m wearing a girdle,” she said. “They just came on sale last week. They’re very, very ancient, and very authentic. Now that people can be fat if the
y want to, girdles are the rage. They have spats for men, too. Have you bought your spats yet?”

  “No,” said Paul flatly, wondering if he should leave his coffee and newspaper.

  “What are you going to do about that man?”

  “What man?” said Paul, politely and wearily.

  “The man who’s bought the Earth.”

  “Did he?” said Paul.

  “Of course,” said the woman. “Now he has more power than the Instrumentality. He could do anything he wants. He can give us anything we want. If he wanted to, he could give me a thousand-year trip around the universe.”

  “Are you an official?” said Paul sharply.

  “No,” said the woman, taken a little aback.

  “Then how do you know these things?”

  “Everybody knows them. Everybody.” She spoke firmly and pursed her mouth at the end of the sentence.

  “What are you going to do about this man? Rob him? Seduce him?” Paul was sardonic. He had had an unhappy love affair which he still remembered, a climb to the Abba-dingo over Alpha Ralpha Boulevard which he would never repeat, and very little patience with fools who had never dared and never suffered anything.

  The woman flushed with anger. “We’re all going to his hostel at twelve today. We’re going to shout and shout until he comes out. Then we’re going to form a line and make him listen to what each one of us wants.”

  Paul spoke sharply: “Who organized this?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody.”

  Paul spoke solemnly. “You’re a human being. You have been trained. What is the Twelfth Rule?”

  The woman turned a little pale but she chanted, as if by rote: “‘Any man or woman who finds that he or she forms and shares an unauthorized opinion with a large number of other people shall report immediately for therapy to the nearest subchief.’ But that doesn’t mean me…?”

  “You’ll be dead or scrubbed by tonight, madam. Now go away and let me read my paper.”

  The woman glared at him, between anger and tears. Gradually fear came over her features. “Do you really think what I was saying is unlawful?”

  “Completely,” said Paul.

  She put her pudgy hands over her face and sobbed. “Sir, sir, can you—can you please help me find a subchief? I’m afraid I do need help. But I’ve dreamed so much, I’ve hoped so much. A man from the stars. But you’re right, sir. I don’t want to die or get blanked out. Sir, please help me!”

  Moved by both impatience and compassion, Paul left his paper and his coffee. The robot waiter hurried up to remind him that he had not paid. Paul walked over to the sidewalk where there were two barrels full of money for people who wished to play the games of ancient civilization. He selected the biggest bill he could see, gave it to the waiter, waited for his change, gave the waiter a tip, received thanks, and threw the change, which was all coins, into the barrel full of metal money. The woman had waited for him patiently, her blotched face sad.

  When he offered her his arm, in the old-French manner, she took it. They walked a hundred meters, more or less, to a public visiphone. She half-cried, half-mumbled as she walked along beside him, with her uncomfortable, ancient spiked-heel feminine shoes:

  “I used to have four hundred years. I used to be slim and beautiful. I liked to make love and I didn’t think very much about things, because I wasn’t very bright. I had had a lot of husbands. Then this change came along, and I felt useless, and I decided to be what I felt like—fat, and sloppy, and middle-aged, and bored. And I have succeeded too much, just the way two of my husbands said. And that man from the stars, he has all power. He can change things.”

  Paul did not answer her, except to nod sympathetically.

  At the visiphone he stood until a robot appeared. “A subchief,” he said. “Any subchief.”

  The image blurred and the face of a very young man appeared. He stared earnestly and intently while Paul recited his number, grade, neonational assignment, quarters number and business. He had to state the business twice, “Criminal public opinion.”

  The subchief snapped, not unpleasantly, “Come on in, then, and we’ll fix you up.”

  Paul was so annoyed at the idea that he would be suspected of criminal public opinion, “any opinion shared with a large number of other people, other than material released and approved by the Instrumentality and the Earth Government,” that he began to spiek his protest into the machine.

  “Vocalize, man and citizen! These machines don’t carry telepathy.”

  When Paul got through explaining, the youngster in uniform looked at him critically but pleasantly, saying,

  “Citizen, you’ve forgotten something yourself.”

  “Me?” gasped Paul. “I’ve done nothing. This woman just sat down beside me and—”

  “Citizen,” said the subchief, “what is the last half of the Fifth Rule for All Men?”

  Paul thought a moment and then answered, “The services of every person shall be available, without delay and without charge, to any other true human being who encounters danger or distress.” Then his own eyes widened and he said, “You want me to do this myself?”

  “What do you think?” said the subchief.

  “I can,” said Paul.

  “Of course,” said the subchief. “You are normal. You remember the braingrips.”

  Paul nodded.

  The subchief waved at him and the image faded from the screen.

  The woman had seen it all. She, too, was prepared. When Paul lifted his hands for the traditional hypnotic gestures, she locked her eyes upon his hands. She made the responses as they were needed. When he had brainscrubbed her right there in the open street, she shambled off down the walkway, not knowing why tears poured down her cheeks. She did not remember Paul at all.

  For a moment of crazy whimsy, Paul thought of going across the city and having a look at the wonderful man from the stars. He stared around absently, thinking. His eye caught the high thread of Alpha Ralpha Boulevard, soaring unsupported across the heavens from faraway ground to the mid-height of Earthport: he remembered himself and his own personal troubles. He went back to his newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee, helping himself to money from the barrel, this time, before he entered the restaurant.

  On a Yacht Off Meeya Meefla

  Ruth yawned as she sat up and looked at the ocean. She had done her best with the rich young man.

  The false Rod McBan, actually a reconstructed Eleanor, said to her:

  “This is right nice.”

  Ruth smiled languidly and seductively. She did not know why Eleanor laughed out loud.

  The Lord William Not-from-here came up from below the deck. He carried two silver mugs in his hands. They were frosted.

  “I am glad,” said he unctuously, “that you young people are happy. These are mint juleps, a very ancient drink indeed.”

  He watched as Eleanor sipped hers and then smiled.

  He smiled too. “You like it?”

  Eleanor smiled right back at him. “Beats washing dishes, it does!” said “Rod McBan” enigmatically.

  The Lord William began to think that the rich young man was odd indeed.

  Antechamber of the Bell and Bank

  The Lord Crudelta commanded, “Send Jestocost here!”

  The Lord Jestocost was already entering the room.

  “What’s happened on that case of the young man?”

  “Nothing, Sir and Senior.”

  “Tush. Bosh. Nonsense. Rot.” The old man snorted. “Nothing is something that doesn’t happen at all. He has to be somewhere.”

  “The original is with the Catmaster, at the Department Store.”

  “Is that safe?” said the Lord Crudelta. “He might get to be too smart for us to manage. You’re working some scheme again, Jestocost.”

  “Nothing but what I told you, Sir and Senior.”

  The old man frowned. “That’s right. You did tell me. Proceed. But the others?”

  “Who?”


  “The decoys?”

  The Lord Jestocost laughed aloud. “Our colleague, the Lord William, has almost betrothed his daughter to Mister McBan’s workman, who is temporarily a ‘Rod McBan’ herself. All parties are having fun with no harm done. The robots, the eight survivors, are going around Earthport city. They are enjoying themselves as much as robots ever do. Crowds are gathering and asking for miracles. Pretty harmless.”

  “And the Earth economy? Is it getting out of balance?”

  “I’ve set the computers to work,” said the Lord Jestocost, “finding every tax penalty that we ever imposed on anybody. We’re several megacredits ahead.”

  “FOE money.”

  “FOE money, Sir.”

  “You’re not going to ruin him?” said Crudelta.

  “Not at all, Sir and Senior,” cried the Lord Jestocost. “I am a kind man.”

  The old man gave him a low dirty smile. “I’ve seen your kindness before, Jestocost, and I would rather have a thousand worlds for an enemy than have you be my friend! You’re devious, you’re dangerous, and you are tricky.”

  Jestocost, much flattered by this comment, said formally, “You do an honest official a great injustice, Sir and Senior.”

  The two men just smiled at each other: they knew each other well.

  Ten Kilometers Below the Surface of the Earth

  The E’telekeli stood from the lectern at which he had been praying.

  His daughter was watching him immovably from the doorway.

  He spieked to her, “What’s wrong, my girl?”

  “I saw his mind, father, I saw it for just a moment as he left the Catmaster’s place. He’s a rich young man from the stars, he’s a nice young man, he has bought Earth, but he is not the man of the Promise.”

  “You expected too much, E’lamelanie,” spieked her father.

  “I expected hope,” she spieked to him. “Is hope a crime among us underpeople? What Joan foresaw, what the Copt promised—where are they, father? Shall we never see daylight or know freedom?”