Norstrilia

by Cordwainer Smith

Rod deliberately chose anger.

  He felt fury rising in him as hot and quick and greedy as if it had been love. He felt his heart go faster, his muscles become stronger, his mind clearer. Amaral apparently had total confidence in his own poisonous and hypnotic powers, because he was staring straight forward as his skins swelled and waved in the air like wet leaves under water. The steady drizzle from the sprinkler kept everything penetratingly wet.

  Rod disregarded this. He welcomed fury.

  With his new hiering device, he focused on Amaral’s mind, and only on Amaral’s.

  Amaral saw the movement of his eyes and whipped a knife into view.

  “Man or cat, you’re dying!” said Amaral, himself hot with the excitement of hate and collision.

  Rod then spieked, in his worst scream—

  beast, filth, offal—

  spot, dirt, vileness,

  wet, nasty—

  die, die, die!

  * * *

  He was sure it was the loudest cry he had ever given. There was no echo, no effect. Amaral stared at him, the evil knife-point flickering in his hand like the flame atop a candle.

  Rod’s anger reached a new height.

  He felt pain in his mind when he walked forward, cramps in his muscles as he used them. He felt a real fear of the offworld poison which this man-creature might exude, but the thought of C’mell—cat or no cat—alone with Amaral was enough to give him the rage of a beast and the strength of a machine.

  Only at the very last moment did Amaral realize Rod had broken loose.

  Rod never could tell whether the telepathic scream had really hurt the wet-worlder or not, because he did something very simple.

  He reached with all the speed of a Norstrilian farmer, snatched the knife from Amaral’s hand, ripping folds of soft, sticky skin with it, and then slashed the other man from clavicle to clavicle.

  He jumped back in time to avoid the spurt of blood.

  The “wet black suit” collapsed as Amaral died on the floor.

  Rod took the dazed C’mell by the arm and led her out of the room. The air on the balcony was fresh, but the murder-smell of Amazonas Triste was still upon him. He knew that he would hate himself for weeks, just from the memory of that smell.

  There were whole armies of robots and police outside. The body of Wush’ had been taken away.

  There was silence as they emerged.

  Then a clear, civilized, commanding voice spoke from the plaza below,

  “Is he dead?”

  Rod nodded.

  “Forgive me for not coming closer. I am the Lord Jestocost. I know you, C’roderick, and I know who you really are. These people are all under my orders. You and the girl can wash in the rooms below. Then you can run a certain errand. Tomorrow, at the second hour, I will see you.”

  Robots came close to them—apparently robots with no sense of smell, because the fulsome stench did not bother them in the least. People stepped out of their way as they passed.

  Rod was able to murmur, “C’mell, are you all right?”

  She nodded and she gave him a wan smile. Then she forced herself to speak. “You are brave, Mister McBan. You are even braver than a cat.”

  The robots separated the two of them.

  Within moments Rod found little white medical robots taking his clothing off him gently, deftly, and quickly. A hot shower, with a smell of medication to it, was already hissing in the bath-stall. Rod was tired of wetness, tired of all this water everywhere, tired of wet things and complicated people, but he stumbled into the shower with gratitude and hope. He was still alive. He had unknown friends.

  And C’mell. C’mell was safe.

  “Is this,” thought Rod, “what people call love?”

  The clean stinging astringency of the shower drove all thoughts from his mind. Two of the little white robots had followed him in. He sat on a hot, wet wooden bench and they scrubbed him with brushes which felt as if they would remove his very skin.

  Bit by bit, the terrible odor faded.

  BIRDS, FAR UNDERGROUND

  ROD McBan was too weary to protest when the little white robots wrapped him in an enormous towel and led him into what looked like an operating room.

  A large man, with a red-brown spade beard, very uncommon on Earth at this time, said,

  “I am Doctor Vomact, the cousin of the other Doctor Vomact you met on Mars. I know that you are not a cat, Mister and Owner McBan, and it is only my business to check up on you. May I?”

  “C’mell—” began Rod.

  “She is perfectly all right. We have given her a sedative and for the time being she is being treated as though she were a human woman. Jestocost told me to suspend the rules in her case, and I did so, but I think we will both have trouble about the matter from some of our colleagues later on.”

  “Trouble?” said Rod. “I’ll pay—”

  “No, no, it’s not payment. It’s just the rule that damaged underpeople should be destroyed and not put in hospitals. Mind you, I treat them myself now and then, if I can do it on the sly. But now let’s have a look at you.”

  “Why are we talking?” spieked Rod. “Didn’t you know that I can hier now?”

  Instead of getting a physical examination, Rod had a wonderful visit with the doctor, in which they drank enormous glasses of a sweet Earth beverage called chai by the ancient Parosski ones. Rod realized that between Redlady, the other Doctor Vomact on Mars, and the Lord Jestocost on Earth, he had been watched and guarded all the way through. He found that this Doctor Vomact was a candidate for a Chiefship of the Instrumentality, and he learned something of the strange tests required for that office. He even found that the doctor knew more than he himself did about his own financial position, and that the actuarial balances of Earth were sagging with the weight of his wealth, since the increase in the price of stroon might lead to shorter lives. The doctor and he ended by discussing the underpeople; he found that the doctor had just as vivid an admiration for C’mell as he himself did. The evening ended when Rod said,

  “I’m young, Doctor and Sir, and I sleep well, but I’m never going to sleep again if you don’t get that smell away from me. I can smell it inside my nose.”

  The doctor became professional. He said,

  “Open your mouth and breathe right into my face!”

  Rod hesitated and then obeyed.

  “Great crooked stars!” said the doctor. “I can smell it too. There’s a little bit in your upper respiratory system, perhaps a little even in your lungs. Do you need your sense of smell for the next few days?”

  Rod said he did not.

  “Fine,” said the doctor. “We can numb that section of the brain and do it very gently. There’ll be no residual damage. You won’t smell anything for eight to ten days, and by that time the smell of Amaral will be gone. Incidentally, you were charged with first-degree murder, tried, and acquitted, on the matter of Tostig Amaral.”

  “How could I be?” said Rod. “I wasn’t even arrested.”

  “The Instrumentality computered it. They had the whole scene on tape, since Amaral’s room has been under steady surveillance since yesterday. When he warned you that whether cat or man, you were dying, he finished the case against himself. That was a death threat and your acquittal was for self-defense.”

  Rod hesitated and then blurted out the truth, “And the men in the shaft?”

  “The Lord Jestocost and Crudelta and I talked it over. We decided to let the matter drop. It keeps the police lively if they have a few unsolved crimes here and there. Now lie down, so I can kill off that smell.”

  Rod lay down. The doctor put his head in a clamp and called in robot assistants. The smell-killing process knocked him out, and when he awakened, it was in a different building. He sat up in bed and saw the sea itself. C’mell was standing at the edge of the water. He sniffed. He smelled no salt, no wet, no water, no Amaral. It was worth the change.

  * * *

  C’mell came to him. “My dear, my very de
ar, my Sir and Master but my very dear! You chanced your life for me last night.”

  “I’m a cat myself,” laughed Rod.

  He leaped from the bed and ran out to the water margin. The immensity of blue water was incredible. The white waves were separate, definable miracles, each one of them. He had seen the enclosed lakes of Norstrilia, but none of them did things like this.

  C’mell had the tact to stay silent till he had seen his fill.

  Then she broke the news.

  “You own Earth. You have work to do. Either you stay here and begin studying how to manage your property, or you go somewhere else. Either way something a little bit sad is going to happen. Today.”

  He looked at her seriously, his pajamas flapping in the wet wind which he could no longer smell.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “What is it?”

  “You lose me.”

  “Is that all?” he laughed.

  C’mell looked very hurt. She stretched her fingers as though she were a nervous cat looking for something to claw.

  “I thought—” said she, and stopped. She started again, “I thought—” She stopped again. She turned to look at him, staring fully, trustingly into his face. “You’re such a young man, but you can do anything. Even among men you are fierce and decided. Tell me, Sir and Master, what—what do you wish?”

  “Nothing much,” he smiled at her, “except that I am buying you and taking you home. We can’t go to Norstrilia unless the law changes, but we can go to New Mars. They don’t have any rules there, none which a few tons of stroon won’t get changed. C’mell, I’ll stay cat. Will you marry me?”

  She started laughing but the laughter turned into weeping. She hugged him and buried her face against his chest. At last she wiped her tears off on her arm and looked up at him:

  “Poor silly me! Poor silly you! Don’t you see it, Mister, I am a cat. If I had children, they would be cat-kittens, every one of them, unless I went every single week to get the genetic code recycled so that they would turn out underpeople. Don’t you know that you and I can never marry—not with any real hope? Besides, Rod, there is the other rule. You and I cannot even see each other again from this sunset onward. How do you think the Lord Jestocost saved my life yesterday? How did he get me into a hospital to be flushed out of all those Amaral poisons? How did he break almost all the rules of the book?”

  The brightness had gone out of Rod’s day. “I don’t know,” he said dully.

  “By promising them I would die promptly and obediently if there were any more irregularities. By saying I was a nice animal. A biddable one. My death is hostage for what you and I must do. It’s not a law. It’s something worse than a law—it’s an agreement between the Lords of the Instrumentality.”

  “I see,” said he, understanding the logic of it, but hating the cruel Earth customs which put C’mell and himself together, only to tear them apart.

  “Let’s walk down the beach, Rod,” she said. “Unless you want your breakfast first of all …”

  “Oh, no,” he said. Breakfast! A flutty crupp for all the breakfasts on Earth!

  She walked as though she had not a care in the world, but there was an undertone of meaning to her walk which warned Rod that she was up to something.

  It happened.

  First, she kissed him, with a kiss he remembered the rest of his life.

  Then, before he could say a word, she spieked. But her spieking was not words or ideas at all. It was singing of a high wild kind. It was the music which went along with her very own poem, which she had sung to him atop Earthport:

  And oh! my love, for you.

  High birds crying, and a

  High sky flying, and a

  High wind driving, and a

  High heart striving, and a

  High brave place for you!

  But it was not those words, not those ideas, even though they seemed subtly different this time. She was doing something which the best telepaths of Old North Australia had tried in vain for thousands of years to accomplish—she was transmitting the mathematical and proportional essence of music right out of her mind, and she was doing it with a clarity and force which would have been worthy of a great orchestra. The “high wind driving” fugue kept recurring.

  He turned his eyes away from her to see the astonishing thing which was happening all around them. The air, the ground, the sea were all becoming thick with life. Fish flashed out of blue waves. Birds circled by the multitude around them. The beach was thick with little running birds. Dogs and running animals which he had never seen before stood restlessly around C’mell—hectares of them.

  Abruptly she stopped her song.

  With very high volume and clarity, she spat commands in all directions:

  “Think of people.”

  “Think of this cat and me running away somewhere.”

  “Think of ships.”

  “Look for strangers.”

  “Think of things in the sky.”

  Rod was glad he did not have his broad-band hiering come on, as it sometimes had done at home. He was sure he would have gone dizzy with the pictures and the contradictions of it all.

  She had grabbed his shoulders and was whispering fiercely into his ear:

  “Rod, they’ll cover us. Please make a trip with me, Rod. One last dangerous trip. Not for you. Not for me. Not even for mankind. For life, Rod. The Aitch Eye wants to see you.”

  “Who’s the Aitch Eye?”

  “He’ll tell you the secret if you see him,” she hissed. “Do it for me, then, if you don’t trust my ideas.”

  He smiled. “For you, C’mell, yes.”

  “Don’t even think, then, till you get there. Don’t even ask questions. Just come along. Millions of lives depend on you, Rod.”

  She stood up and sang again, but the new song had no grief in it, no anguish, no weird keening from species to species. It was as cool and pretty as a music box, as simple as an assured and happy goodbye.

  The animals vanished so rapidly that it was hard to believe that legions of them had so recently been there.

  “That,” said C’mell, “should rattle the telepathic monitors for a while. They are not very imaginative anyhow, and when they get something like this they write up reports about it. Then they can’t understand their reports and sooner or later one of them asks me what I did. I tell them the truth. It’s simple.”

  “What are you going to tell them this time?” he asked, as they walked back to the house.

  “That I had something which I did not want them to hear.”

  “They won’t take that.”

  “Of course not, but they will suspect me of trying to beg stroon for you to give to the underpeople.”

  “Do you want some, C’mell?”

  “Of course not! It’s illegal and it would just make me live longer than my natural life. The Catmaster is the only underperson who gets stroon, and he gets it by a special vote of the Lords.”

  They had reached the house. C’mell paused:

  “Remember, we are the servants of the Lady Frances Oh. She promised Jestocost that she would order us to do anything that I asked her to. So she’s going to order us to have a good, hearty breakfast. Then she is going to order us to look for something far under the surface of Earthport.”

  “She is? But why—”

  “No questions, Rod.” The smile she gave him would have melted a monument. He felt well. He was amused and pleased by the physical delight of hiering and spieking with the occasional true people who passed by. (Some underpeople could hier and spiek but they tried to conceal it, for fear that they would be resented.) He felt strong. Losing C’mell was a sad thing to do, but it was a whole day off; he began dreaming of things that he could do for her when they parted. Buying her the services of thousands of people for the rest of her life? Giving her jewelry which would be the envy of Earth mankind? Leasing her a private planoform yacht? He suspected these might not be legal, but they were pleasant to think about.
<
br />   * * *

  Three hours later, he had no time for pleasant thoughts. He was bone-weary again. They had flown into Earthport city “on the orders of” their hostess, the Lady Oh, and they had started going down. Forty-five minutes of dropping had made his stomach very queasy. He felt the air go warm and stale and he wished desperately that he had not given up his sense of smell.

  Where the dropshafts ended, the tunnels and the elevators began.

  Down they went, where incredibly old machinery spun slowly in a spray of oil performing tasks which only the wildest mind could guess at.

  In one room, C’mell had stopped and had shouted at him over the noise of engines:

  “That’s a pump.”

  It did not look obvious. Huge turbines moved wearily. They seemed to be hooked up to an enormous steam engine powered by nuclear fuel. Five or six brightly polished robots eyed them suspiciously as they walked around the machine, which was at least eighty meters long by forty-five high.

  “And come here …” shouted C’mell.

  They went into another room, empty and clean and quiet except for a rigid column of moving water which shot from floor to ceiling with no evidence of machinery at all. An underman, sloppily formed from a rat body, got up from his rocking chair when they entered. He bowed to C’mell as though she were a great lady but she waved him back to his chair.

  She took Rod near the column of water and pointed to a shiny ring on the floor.

  “That’s the other pump. They do the same amount of work.”

  “What is it?” he shouted.

  “Force-field, I guess. I’m not an engineer.” They went on.

  In a quieter corridor she explained that the pumps were both of them for the service of weather control. The old one had been running six or seven thousand years, and showed very little wear. When people had needed a supplementary one, they had simply printed it on plastic, set it in the floor, and turned it on with a few amps. The underman was there just to make sure that nothing broke down or went critical.

  “Can’t real people design things any more?” asked Rod.

  “Only if they want to. Making them want to do things is the hard part now.”