Norstrilia

by Cordwainer Smith

The old man stood there, blinking, as though he were taking it in. “Yeekasoose? With the letter E?”

  “Transformed,” said C’mell inexorably, “for a trip all the way to Old North Australia and back.”

  “Is this true?” said the old man to the monkey.

  E’ikasus said calmly, “I am the son of Him of whom you think.”

  The old man dropped to his knees, but did so with dignity:

  “I salute you, E’ikasus. When you next think-with your father, give him my greetings and ask from him his blessing. I am C’william, the Catmaster.”

  “You are famous,” said E’ikasus tranquilly.

  “But you are still in danger, merely being here. I have no license for underpeople!”

  C’mell produced her trump. “Catmaster, your next guest. This is no c’man. He is a true man, an offworlder, and he has just bought most of the planet Earth.”

  C’william looked at Rod with more than ordinary shrewdness. There was a touch of kindness in his attitude. He was tall for a cat-man; few animal features were left to him, because old age, which reduces racial and sexual contrasts to mere memories, had wrinkled him into a uniform beige. His hair was not white, but beige too; his few cat-whiskers looked old and worn. He was garbed in a fantastic costume which—Rod later learned—consisted of the court robes of one of the Original Emperors, a dynasty which had prevailed for many centuries among the further stars. Age was upon him, but wisdom was too; the habits of life, in his case, had been cleverness and kindness, themselves unusual in combination. Now very old, he was reaping the harvest of his years. He had done well with the thousands upon thousands of days behind him, with the result that age had brought a curious joy into his manner, as though each experience meant one more treat before the long bleak dark closed in. Rod felt himself attracted to this strange creature, who looked at him with such penetrating and very personal curiosity, and who managed to do so without giving offense.

  The Catmaster spoke in very passable Norstrilian: “I know what you are thinking, Mister and Owner McBan.”

  “You can hier me?” cried Rod.

  “Not your thoughts. Your face. It reads easily. I am sure that I can help you.”

  “What makes you think I need help?”

  “All things need help,” said the old c’man briskly, “but we must get rid of our other guests first. Where do you want to go, excellent one? And you, cat-madame?”

  “Home,” said E’ikasus. He was tired and cross again. After speaking brusquely, he felt the need to make his tone more civil. “This body suits me badly, Catmaster.”

  “Are you good at falling?” said the Catmaster. “Free fall?”

  The monkey grinned. “With this body? Of course. Excellent. I’m tired of it.”

  “Fine,” said the Catmaster. “You can drop down my waste chute. It falls next to the forgotten palace where the great wings beat against time.”

  The Catmaster stepped to one side of the room. With only a nod at C’mell and Rod, followed by a brief “See you later,” the monkey watched as the Catmaster opened a manhole cover, leaped trustingly into the complete black depth which appeared, and was gone. The Catmaster replaced the cover carefully.

  He turned to C’mell.

  She faced him truculently, the defiance of her posture oddly at variance with the innocent voluptuousness of her young female body. “I’m going nowhere.”

  “You’ll die,” said the Catmaster. “Can’t you hear their weapons buzzing just outside the door? You know what they do to us underpeople. Especially to us cats. They use us, but do they trust us?”

  “I know one who does …” she said. “The Lord Jestocost could protect me, even here, just as he protects you, far beyond your limit of years.”

  “Don’t argue it. You will make trouble for him with the other real people. Here, girl, I will give you a tray to carry with a dummy package on it. Go back to the underground and rest in the commissary of the bear-man. I will send Rod to you when we are through.”

  “Yes,” she said hotly, “but will you send him alive or dead?”

  The Catmaster rolled his yellow eyes over Rod. “Alive,” he said. “This one—alive. I have predicted. Did you ever know me to be wrong? Come on, girl, out the door with you.”

  C’mell let herself be handed a tray and a package, taken seemingly at random. As she left Rod thought of her with quick desperate affection. She was his closest link with Earth. He thought of her excitement and of how she had bared her young breasts to him, but now the memory, instead of exciting him, filled him with tender fondness instead. He blurted out, “C’mell, will you be all right?”

  She turned around at the door itself, looking all woman and all cat. Her red wild hair gleamed like a hearth-fire against the open light from the doorway. She stood erect, as though she were a citizen of Earth and not a mere underperson or girlygirl. She held out her right hand clearly and commandingly while balancing the tray on her left hand. When he shook hands with her, Rod realized that her hand felt utterly human but very strong. With scarcely a break in her voice she said,

  “Rod, goodbye. I’m taking a chance with you, but it’s the best chance I’ve ever taken. You can trust the Catmaster, here in the Department Store of Hearts’ Desires. He does strange things, Rod, but they’re good strange things.”

  He released her hand and she left. C’william closed the door behind her. The room became hushed.

  “Sit down for a minute while I get things ready. Or look around the room if you prefer.”

  “Sir Catmaster—” said Rod.

  “No title, please. I am an underperson, made out of cats. You may call me C’william.”

  “C’william, please tell me first. I miss C’mell. I’m worried about her. Am I falling in love with her? Is that what falling in love means?”

  “She’s your wife,” said the Catmaster. “Just temporarily and just in pretense, but she’s still your wife. It’s Earthlike to worry about one’s mate. She’s all right.”

  The old c’man disappeared behind a door which had an odd sign on it: HATE HALL.

  Rod looked around.

  The first thing, the very first thing, which he saw was a display cabinet full of postage stamps. It was made of glass, but he could see the soft blues and the inimitable warm brick reds of his Cape of Good Hope triangular postage stamps. He had come to Earth and there they were! He peered through the glass at them. They were even better than the illustrations which he had seen back on Norstrilia. They had the temper of great age upon them and yet, somehow, they seemed to freight with them the love which men, living men now dead, had given them for thousands and thousands of years. He looked around, and saw that the whole room was full of odd riches. There were ancient toys of all periods, flying toys, copies of machines, things which he suspected were trains. There was a two-story closet of clothing, shimmering with embroidery and gleaming with gold. There was a bin of weapons, clean and tidy—models so ancient that he could not possibly guess what they had been used for, or by whom. Everywhere, there were buckets of coins, usually gold ones. He picked up a handful. They had languages he could not even guess at and they showed the proud imperious faces of the ancient dead. Another cabinet was one which he glanced at and then turned away from, shocked and yet inquisitive: it was filled with indecent souvenirs and pictures from a hundred periods of men’s history, images, sketches, photographs, dolls and models, all of them portraying grisly, comical, sweet, friendly, impressive or horrible versions of the many acts of love. The next section made him pause utterly. Who would have ever wanted these things? Whips, knives, hoods, leather corsets. He passed on, very puzzled.

  The next section stopped him breathless. It was full of old books, genuine old books. There were a few framed poems, written very ornately. One had a scrap of paper attached to it, reading simply, “My favorite.” Rod looked down to see if he could make it out. It was ancient Inglish and the odd name was “E. Z. C. Judson, Ancient American, A.D. 1823-1866.” Rod understood
the words of the poem but he did not think that he really got the sense of it. As he read it, he had the impression that a very old man, like the Catmaster, must find in it a poignancy which a younger person would miss:

  Drifting in the ebbing tide,

  Slow but sure I onward glide—

  Dim the vista seen before,

  Useless now to look behind—

  Drifting on before the wind

  Toward the unknown shore.

  Counting time by ticking clock,

  Waiting for the final shock—

  Waiting for the dark forever—

  Oh, how slow the moments go!

  None but I, meseems, can know

  How close the tideless river!

  Rod shook his head as if to get away from the cobwebs of an irrecoverable tragedy. “Maybe,” he thought to himself, “that’s the way people felt about death when they did not die on schedule, the way most worlds have it, or if they do not meet death a few times ahead of time, the way we do in Norstrilia. They must have felt pretty sticky and uncertain.” Another thought crossed his mind and he gasped at the utter cruelty of it. “They did not even have Unselfing Grounds that far back! Not that we need them any more, but imagine just sliding into death, helpless, useless, hopeless. Thank the Queen we don’t do that!”

  He thought of the Queen, who might have been dead for more than fifteen thousand years, or who might be lost in space, the way many Old North Australians believed, and sure enough! there was her picture, with the words “Queen Elizabeth II.” It was just a bust, but she was a pretty and intelligent-looking woman, with something of a Norstrilian look to her. She looked smart enough to know what to do if one of her sheep caught fire or if her own child came, blank and giggling, out of the traveling vans of the Garden of Death, as he himself would have done had he not passed the survival test.

  Next there were two glass frames, neatly wiped free of dust. They had matched poems by someone who was listed as “Anthony Bearden, Ancient American, A.D. 1913-1949.” The first one seemed very appropriate to this particular place, because it was all about the ancient desires which people had in those days. It read:

  TELL ME, LOVE!

  Time is burning and the world on fire.

  Tell me, love, what you most desire.

  Tell me what your heart has hidden.

  Is it open or—forbidden?

  If forbidden, think of days

  Racing past in a roaring haze,

  Shocked and shaken by the blast of fire …

  Tell me, love, what you most desire.

  Tell me, love, what you most desire.

  Dainty foods and soft attire?

  Ancient books? Fantastic chess?

  Wine-lit nights? Love—more, or less?

  Now is the only now of our age.

  Tomorrow tomorrow will hold the stage.

  Tell me, love, what you most desire!

  Time is burning and the world on fire.

  The other one might almost have been written about his arrival on Earth, his not knowing what could happen or what should happen to him now.

  NIGHT, AND THE SKY UNFAMILIAR

  The stars of experience have led me astray.

  A pattern of purpose was lost on my way.

  Where was I going? How can I say?

  The stars of experience have led me astray.

  There was a slight sound.

  Rod turned around to face the Catmaster.

  The old man was unchanged. He still wore the lunatic robes of grandeur, but his dignity survived even this outré effect.

  “You like my poems? You like my things? I like them myself. Many men come in here to take things from me, but they find that title is vested in the Lord Jestocost, and they must do strange things to obtain my trifles.”

  “Are all these things genuine?” asked Rod, thinking that even Old North Australia could not buy out this shop if they were.

  “Certainly not,” said the old man. “Most of them are forgeries—wonderful forgeries. The Instrumentality lets me go to the robot-pits where insane or worn-out robots are destroyed. I can have my pick of them if they are not dangerous. I put them to work making copies of anything which I find in the museums.”

  “Those Cape triangles?” said Rod. “Are they real?”

  “Cape triangles? You mean the letter stickers. They are genuine, all right, but they are not mine. Those are on loan from the Earth Museum until I can get them copied.”

  “I will buy them,” said Rod.

  “You will not,” said the Catmaster. “They are not for sale.”

  “Then I will buy Earth and you and them too,” said Rod.

  “Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan to the one hundred and fifty-first, you will not.”

  “Who are you to tell me?”

  “I have looked at one person and I have talked to two others.”

  “All right,” said Rod. “Who?”

  “I looked at the other Rod McBan, your workwoman Eleanor. She is a little mixed up about having a young man’s body, because she is very drunk in the home of the Lord William Not-from-here and a beautiful young woman named Ruth Not-from-here is trying to make Eleanor marry her. She has no idea that she is dealing with another woman and Eleanor, in her copy of your proper body, is finding the experience exciting but terribly confusing. No harm will come of it, and your Eleanor is perfectly safe. Half the rascals of Earth have converged on the Lord William’s house, but he has a whole battalion from the Defense Fleet on loan around the place, so nothing is going to happen, except that Eleanor will have a headache and Ruth will have a disappointment.”

  Rod smiled. “You couldn’t have told me anything better. Who else did you talk to?”

  “The Lord Jestocost and John Fisher to the hundredth.”

  “Mister and Owner Fisher? He’s here?”

  “He’s at his home. Station of the Good Fresh Joey. I asked him if you could have your heart’s desire. After a little while, he and somebody named Doctor Wentworth said that the Commonwealth of Old North Australia would approve it.”

  “How did you ever pay for such a call?” cried Rod. “Those things are frightfully expensive.”

  “I didn’t pay for it, Mister and Owner. You did. I charged it to your account, by the authority of your trustee, the Lord Jestocost. He and his forefathers have been my patrons for four hundred and twenty-six years.”

  “You’ve got your nerve,” said Rod. “Spending my money when I was right here and not even asking me!”

  “You are an adult for some purposes and a minor for other purposes. I am offering you the skills which keep me alive. Do you think any ordinary cat-man would be allowed to live as long as this?”

  “No,” said Rod. “Give me those stamps and let me go.”

  The Catmaster looked at him levelly. Once again there was the personal look on his face, which on Norstrilia would have been taken as an unpardonable affront; but along with the nosiness, there was an air of confidence and kindness which put Rod a little in awe of the man, underperson though he was. “Do you think that you could love these stamps when you get back home? Could they talk to you? Could they make you like yourself? Those pieces of paper are not your heart’s desire. Something else is.”

  “What?” said Rod, truculently.

  “In a bit, I’ll explain. First, you cannot kill me. Second, you cannot hurt me. Third, if I kill you, it will be all for your own good. Fourth, if you get out of here, you will be a very happy man.”

  “Are you barmy, Mister?” cried Rod. “I can knock you flat and walk out that door. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Try it,” said the Catmaster levelly.

  Rod looked at the tall withered old man with the bright eyes. He looked at the door, a mere seven or eight meters away. He did not want to try it.

  “All right,” he conceded, “play your pitch.”

  “I am a clinical psychologist. The only one on Earth and probably the only one on any p
lanet. I got my knowledge from some ancient books when I was a kitten, being changed into a young man. I change people just a little, little bit. You know that the Instrumentality has surgeons and brains experts and all sorts of doctors. They can do almost anything with personality—anything but the light stuff … That, I do.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Rod.

  “Would you go to a brain surgeon to get a haircut? Would you need a dermatologist to give you a bath? Of course not. I don’t do heavy work. I just change people a little bit. It makes them happy. If I can’t do anything with them, I give them souvenirs from this junkpile out here. The real work is in there. That’s where you’re going, pretty soon.” He nodded his head at the door marked HATE HALL.

  Rod cried out, “I’ve been taking orders from one stranger after another, all these long weeks since my computers and I made that money! Can’t I ever do anything myself?”

  The Catmaster looked at him with sympathy. “None of us can. We may think that we are free. Our lives are made for us by the people we happen to know, the places we happen to be, the jobs or hobbies which we happen to run across. Will I be dead a year from now? I don’t know. Will you be back in Old North Australia a year from now, still only seventeen, but rich and wise and on your way to happiness? I don’t know. You’ve had a run of good luck. Look at it that way. It’s luck. And I’m part of the luck. If you get killed here, it will not be my doing but just the over-strain of your body against the devices which the Lady Goroke approved a long time ago—devices which the Lord Jestocost reports to the Instrumentality. He keeps them legal that way. I’m the only underman in the universe who is entitled to process real people in any way whatever without having direct human supervision. All I do is to develop people, like an Ancient Man developing a photograph from a piece of paper exposed to different grades of light. I’m not a hidden judge, like your men in the Garden of Death. It’s going to be you against you, with me just helping, and when you come out you’re going to be a different you—the same you, but a little better there, a little more flexible here. As a matter of fact, that cat-type body you’re wearing is going to make your contest with yourself a little harder for me to manage. We’ll do it, Rod. Are you ready?”