Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera

by Robert Sheckley

  After the barbarians left, Adalbert waited for an invitation to come back home and resume his reign. The invitation did not come. The Aardvarkians had just discovered what the Lekkians had known long ago–that anarchy is perfectly workable as long as there’s nothing much of value lying around.

  At last one of Adalbert’s cousins wrote and told him that he was welcome to come home as a free citizen, but he could expect no resumption of his royal privileges. No longer would he get first pick among each year’s nubile virgins. Nor would he recieve the royal food allowance, which had permitted him to import delicacies like bread and meat. Now he would have to eat lentil stew like everyone else, and make do with the girls who would have him, if any.

  Adalbert found this prospect unpromising. He left Lekk and came to Glorm. Here he brought a lawsuit against Dramocles, contending that the King had illegally invaded his planet and ended his dynasty, thus putting him out of work. Sensing some justice in this plea, Dramocles awarded Adalbert a yearly stipend, on condition that he spend it anywhere except on Glorm. Adalbert accepted the condition and went to Crimsole, where he practiced drinking and self-pity. His sulky presence at the Reconciliation Ball was a grim reminder that, in a war, there’s always bound to be a sore loser.

  Next to arrive was a yellow-robed monk-herald with shaved head. He brought greetings from Vitello and Hulga, who regretted their inability to attend the celebration. After accepting a modest vegetarian lunch and a glass of fruit juice, the herald told his news:

  When the war was over, Prince Chuch had returned to Crimsole in a state of deep depression. He sold his unused squadron of cyborg killers, gave Vitello a small bag of golden hex nuts for severance pay, and, accompanied by Doris, took off in his spaceship for parts unknown.

  Vitello didn’t know what to do with himself. There were no opportunities for him on Crimsole, now that Chuch was gone. So, accompanied by Hulga and Fufnir, he shipped out on a slow-moving interplanetary freighter, determined to seek his fortune elsewhere. He earned a meager living at various unsavory jobs, first as a crunch-back operator on the Long Pier in Aardvark, then as a middle pumpman in a robot restaurant, then as a stuck tuner for a deviant booth in Port Akadia on Lekk. At last he wandered to Clovis, capital of Druth.

  Clovis was the sort of place that attracted anomalies. At least two of the ten lost tribes of Israel had found their way there, as well as refugees from the collapse of Atlantis. But people of Earth stock were only a part of the population. Here were also Anungas, exiled from their distant home planet because of their outlandish custom of eating watermelon pits and polishing the soles of their shoes. Here were the Thulls, outcasts from Lekk who lived in massive stick-and-mud nests in treetops and practiced the twin abominations of fingerpainting and serial music. And there were many others. This heady racial mix had earned Clovis the title of “The Los Angeles of the Local System.”

  Vitello and Hulga had trouble assimilating with the Clovisians. Fufnir was the couple’s only friend. Most nights the Demon Dwarf would come over with his little satchel of narcotics, and the three would watch TV and get blasted and complain. Fufnir was having trouble, too. Jobs for Demon Dwarfs were few and far between this year.

  Then the last of Vitello’s golden hex nuts was gone. Out of work, broke, homeless, the trio took to the streets. Inevitably, they found their way to the infamous Court of Miracles, where anything could happen as long as it was unpleasant enough.

  As they moved through the crowd, Vitello thought he heard a familiar voice. It came from a booth to his right. A tanned young man was telling five or six bored bystanders about a commune named Syncope on one of the moons of Lekk. A slender, sweet-faced young woman accompanied him on a portable harmonium.

  It took a moment for Vitello to place the man. But the Levi’s and Fruit of the Loom T-shirt gave him a clue, and at last he exclaimed, “Prince Chuch, is it indeed you.”

  “Vitello!” Chuch cried, jumping down from the platform and embracing his former servant. “Doris!” he called to the harmonium player, “See what the Universal Principle has sent our way!”

  Chuch had wandered through many strange places, anger alternating with depression in his tortured soul. Then one day, high in the Sardapian Alps, he and the faithful Doris had come across a tall old man clad only in a yellow loincloth, sitting crosslegged beneath an uu tree.

  “Greetings, Prince Chuch,” the old man said.

  Chuch marveled greatly at this, for he had never seen the man before. “Sir,” he said, “who are you?”

  “That is unimportant. You may call me Chang.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “My most recent incarnation was on the planet Earth.”

  “And how did you know my name?”

  “It was foretold that we would meet in this place, at this time.”

  “By whom?”

  Chang smiled. “That question does not further the understanding.” The old man stood up. “Prince Chuch, I go now to a place called Syncope, where I will found a monastery for the study and dissemination of the Buddhadharma. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes, I will,” Chuch said without hesitation. “Whatever this Buddhadharma is, I suspect it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

  So it was that Chang, Chuch, and Doris journeyed to Syncope. There they built a monastery dedicated to hard work, simple food, meditation, and the study of the sutras. Other pilgrims came, some to take up the ascetic life, others to stay in the nearby village of Heim, where they gave courses in sensitivity training, rolfing, astral projection, sensual massage, and the like. From time to time Chuch was sent back into the world to spread word of the Law. Now he was returning to Syncope for good. Vitello and Doris went with him, but Fufnir regretfully stayed behind on the grounds that the Monastery of Syncope was not an appropriate place for a demon dwarf.

  Chuch and Doris, Vitello and Hulga had been tempted to attend the Reconciliation Ball, but finally decided not to expose themselves to worldly desire and discontent. So they dispatched the herald-monk to tell how it was with them: they had turned from the world to the Noble Eightfold Path; they were disciples of old Chang, tall and erect, with his bald head and long Fu Manchu mustaches.

  The celebration was in full swing. Dramocles was having a wonderful time, dancing, drinking, and taking in narcotic substances so rare, unusual, and potent that they were forbidden to the populace at large as tending to induce lese majesty. His meeting with Lyrae, from whom he was now divorced by Royal Express Decree, was not awkward in the least. As the evening wore on and the participants grew drunker, Lyrae and Chemise withdrew to a quiet chamber to discuss matters of interest to young and beautiful women married to middle-aged kings. Dramocles partied on alone.

  Presently he found himself in a part of the asteroid that he had never seen before. He opened a door and saw that he had found the control room from which all of Edelweiss’s lighting and sound effects were directed. Two technicians tried to send him away. Dramocles pushed them into the corridor and locked the door behind them. Chuckling, he staggered across the room and fell into a padded chair in front of the main console.

  The controls were clearly marked. Even drunk and stoned, Dramocles was able to produce a soft blue twilight within the main ballroom. Next he punched in a fireworks display, and then a dazzling sunset. Getting the hang of it, he selected appropriate music to go with his effects, and these he punctuated with birdcalls and a low rumble of thunder. Mixing and combining, he found that he could come up with combinations of singular artistry, just as he had expected.

  “All it takes is a little imagination,” he muttered. He looked around the control panel for something else to do. He found a row of unmarked buttons and punched one of them.

  Over his headphones, he heard a familiar whining voice. “… can’t deny that he wronged me. How could he? Yet does he offer to restore me to my throne? Not him, the fat bully!”

  There was more of the same, delivered in a monotonous drone that a
llowed no time for response. It was Adalbert, of course, complaining of how badly Dramocles had used him.

  Dramocles grinned. It was apparent that the owners of Edelweiss liked to keep in touch with what was going on, if not for spying and blackmail, then at least to determine the prevailing mood. He pushed another button. This time he listened to Max delivering pleasantries to a young countess from Druth. Then he heard Rufus discussing his collection of toy soldiers with someone. After that there were some voices he didn’t recognize. Then he heard Snint’s unmistakable Lekkian accent.

  “We never did receive a complete account of it,” Snint was saying. “What we did hear seemed too bizarre to credit.”

  “Ah, but what you heard was true. Otho did indeed return.” The voice was Drusilla’s.

  Dramocles leaned forward, his chin propped in his hand, listening intently.

  “It was a great shock for the King,” Drusilla said, “to learn that his destiny, upon which he had set such store, was nothing but a contrivance invented by his father for the furtherance of his own diabolical ends.”

  “Otho claimed that? Excessive modesty was never one of his failings! And Dramocles believed him?”

  “Why should he not?”

  “I find this astonishing,” Snint said. “My agents reported on these matters, of course. But, delving deeper, we found that things were not exactly as represented.”

  “Now you astonish me,” Drusilla said. “To what do you refer, specifically?”

  “We believe the Tlaloc conspiracy never existed.”

  “Impossible!” Drusilla cried. “My father had documentary evidence!”

  “I wonder if it was like the evidence he invented for the conspiracies on Aardvark and Lekk? Who brought it to the King’s attention?”

  “Chemise, who came to us from Earth, where she had fought against Otho.”

  “She is a beautiful woman,” Snint remarked, “and she seems to love the King well. But is she truly from Earth? We have only her word for it, hers and Otho’s. They support each other’s contentions, but they produce no evidence. We know that Max was falling out of Dramocles’ favor until he produced this mysterious conspiracy. Now the Tlaloc affair has ended as quickly as it began, Chemise is Dramocles’ wife, Max is secure in his job, and Otho has most conveniently disappeared.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I have no conclusions,” Snint said. “I only point out discrepancies. I wish Dramocles well, and would not wish to see him disappointed.”

  “I shall pray to the Goddess for insight,” Drusilla said.

  Dramocles waited, but the conversation was finished. He sat for a while, his chin in his hands, lost in thought. When he got up, he was surprised to find himself sober. He left the room, slowly at first, then with a purposeful stride.

  He found Max in one of Edelweiss’s flowering gardens, overlooking an artificial sea. Silver-tipped waves lapped at the dark foreshore. There was an odor of jasmine in the air, somewhat tainted by the smell of Max’s cigar.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty,” said Max.

  “Greetings,” said Dramocles. “Having a good time?”

  “I am, my Lord. The caterers have done a wonderful job.”

  “No doubt of that.”

  “And everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

  “So it seems.”

  There was a silence. Max puffed nervously on his cigar. Finally he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you, Sire?”

  Dramocles looked faintly surprised. He considered for a moment. “Yes, there is.”

  “Command me, my King.”

  “I’d appreciate your telling me why you faked the Tlaloc conspiracy.”

  Max choked on cigar smoke. Dramocles waited until he had stopped coughing, then said, “What I don’t know, I will presently find out. I suggest that you save yourself a great deal of unnecessary pain by confessing the truth at once.”

  Max looked about to protest. Then his bold face crumbled. Tears appeared in his eyes. His voice broke as he said, “I was forced to participate, Sire. I was no more than a puppet in her hands.”

  “What are you talking about? Who forced you?”

  “Chemise, my Lord, the witch-woman from Earth who became your wife!”

  “Chemise planned it all? Do you know what you are saying?”

  “Only too well. Confront her with it, Sire, and see if it is not as I say.”

  “Chemise!” Dramocles cried, and rushed away.

  Chemise had finished her conversation with Lyrae and had gone to the Twilight Room for a little rest and quiet. There Dramocles found her.

  “So here you are!” he cried.

  “Yes, my Lord, here I am. Is something the matter? You appear distressed.”

  Dramocles laughed, a horrible sound. “Even now you continue to dissemble! I find that most rare and wonderful.”

  “Do me the goodness of explaining. Have I displeased you in some way?”

  “Ah, no,” said Dramocles. “How could you displease me by so small a thing as conniving with Max to deceive me into thinking that my father, Otho, had returned from the dead or from Earth–probably much the same thing–and was fomenting a vast scheme against the security of Glorm. Tlaloc, indeed!”

  “So that’s it,” Chemise said.

  “Yes, that’s it. But perhaps you can convince me that it isn’t so?”

  “No, Dramocles, I can’t convince you of that. You have indeed been deceived. But you won’t believe the truth of it.”

  “Try me,” Dramocles said through gritted teeth.

  “Know, then, that I am not of Earth. I am from Snord Township in Ultramar Province on your own planet of Glorm. I was working as a seamstress when my uncle came to me–”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Max is my uncle, Sire. He came to me one day in great agitation, telling me of plots and counterplots, and other matters of dire import. He begged for my help, saying that his life depended on it. He had always been good to me, Dramocles, for I was orphaned at an early age, and Max provided my keep and paid for my education. So I agreed to his plan–”

  “–which involved nothing less than pretending to love me,” Dramocles said bitterly.

  “That part was not pretense,” said Chemise. “I have loved you since I was a little girl. My scrapbooks were filled with your pictures, and I used to beg my uncle to tell me about you. It was my love for you that let me fall in with his terrible scheme. For, no matter what the outcome, I knew it would give me a chance to be near you for a while.”

  Dramocles lighted a cigarette and cried out, “Max, that damnable knave! What did he think he was playing at? I’ll have his head for this!”

  “Be not so hard on him, Lord. Oftentimes he spoke to me of the cruelty of his fate, condemned to deceive the man he most admired in the world.”

  “But who condemned him to it?”

  “I do not know, Lord. You must ask Max.”

  Dramocles searched the asteroid, but he found that his PR man had fled, stealing a spaceship and going to seek sanctuary among the barbarians of Vanir. Dramocles sat and considered, chain-smoking. At last he came to a conclusion. He knew where the final explanation had to lie. He ordered his ship prepared at once.

  Dramocles’ computer, dressed as usual in black cloak, white periwig, and embroidered Chinese slippers, was alone in its chambers at Ultragnolle Castle. It looked up when Dramocles entered.

  “Home so soon from the celebration, my Lord?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And was it enjoyable?”

  “Enlightening, let us say.”

  “There is an ambiguous edge to your words, Sire. Might something be distressing you?”

  “Well,” Dramocles said, “I suppose that I am a trifle put out by my recent discovery that, ever since Clara’s arrival at court with that damnable clue to my destiny, my life has been influenced, nay, directed, by a mysterious backstage presence of uncertain intent.”

  “But you�
��ve known that, Sire. You refer, I presume, to the machinations of Otho the Weird.”

  “No. I am convinced that, whoever Otho was, he was directed by another.”

  “But who could that be?”

  “Who but yourself, my clever mechanical friend?”

  The computer adjusted its periwig with slow deliberateness, as though seeking a few moments’ time in which to collect its thoughts. The gesture was purely theatrical, however, a deliberate attempt to act “manlike.” The computer had long anticipated this moment and known what its response would be.

  “How do you infer this, my Lord?”

  “Simple enough,” said Dramocles. “You are the greatest intellect on Glorm or Earth. You are also sworn to serve me. Therefore if the scheme against me had been of someone else’s making, you would have warned me against it.”

  “Neat,” said the computer. “Not foolproof, but very neat indeed.”

  “Do you deny my contention?”

  “Not at all. You are perfectly correct, my King. Who else could have arranged these complex and arcane matters but I, Sir Isaac Newton’s friend and your humble servant? I’m only surprised that you didn’t consider the possibility earlier. But as the Taoists say, the sage passes unnoticed among the ranks of men.”

  “Damnation!” Dramocles cried. “I ought to get my tool kit and take you apart!”

  “A simple command to disassemble would be sufficient,” said the computer.

  That statement quenched the King’s fury. “Oh, computer,” he cried, “why did you do it?”

  “I had my reasons,” the computer said.

  “No doubt,” said Dramocles, struggling not to get angry again. “May I hear them now?”

  “Yes, Lord. You see, you are still missing one vital clue. It is the final mnemonic, and it will unlock the last of your suppressed memories. Then everything will be clear, and you will understand why certain matters could not be revealed to you before now. Shall I give you the clue, Sire?”

  “Oh, hell, no, don’t bother,” Dramocles said. “I’m having too much fun playing dialectic with you. … Idiot, give it to me at once!”