The Ragged Astronauts lao-1

by Bob Shaw

  “You’re late,” Lain said, eyeing him critically. “And you should be wearing your greys.”

  “There was no time to get them ready. I had a rough night.”

  “Gesalla has just told me what kind of night you had.” Lain’s expression showed a blend of amusement and exasperation. “Is it true you didn’t even know the woman’s name?”

  Toller shrugged to disguise his embarrassment. “What do names matter?”

  “If you don’t know that there isn’t much point in my trying to enlighten you.”

  “I don’t need you to.…” Toller took a deep breath, determined for once not to add to his brother’s problems by losing his temper. “Where is the stuff you want me to carry?” The official residence of King Prad Neldeever was notable more for its size than architectural merit. Successive generations of rulers had added wings, towers and cupolas to suit their individual whims, usually in the style of the day, with the result that the building had some resemblance to a coral or one of the accretive structures erected by certain kinds of insects. An early landscape gardener had attempted to impose a degree of order by planting stands of synchronous parble and rafter trees, but over the centuries they had been infiltrated by other varieties. The palace, itself variegated because of different masonry, was now screened by vegetation equally uneven in colour, and from a distance it could be difficult for the eye to separate one from the other.

  Toller Maraquine, however, was untroubled by such aesthetic quibbles as he rode down from Greenmount at the rear of his brother’s modest entourage. There had been rain before dawn and the morning air was clean and invigorating, charged with a sunlit spirit of new beginnings. The huge disk of Overland shone above him with a pure lustre and many stars decked the surrounding blueness of the sky. The city itself was an incredibly complex scattering of multi-hued flecks stretching down to the slate-blue ribbon of the Borann, where sails gleamed like lozenges of snow.

  Toller’s pleasure at being back in Ro-Atabri, at having escaped the desolation of Haffanger, had banished his customary dissatisfaction with his life as an unimportant member of the philosophy order. After the unfortunate start to the day the pendulum of his mood was on the upswing. His mind was teeming with half-formed plans to improve his reading ability, to seek out some interesting aspect of the order’s work and devote all his energies to it, to make Lain proud of him. On reflection he could appreciate that Gesalla had had every right to be furious over his behaviour. It would be no more than a normal courtesy were he to move Fera out of his apartment as soon as he returned home.

  The sturdy bluehorn he had been allocated by the stablemaster was a placid beast which seemed to know its own way to the palace. Leaving it to its own devices as it plodded the increasingly busy streets, Toller tried to create a more definite picture of his immediate future, one which might impress Lain. He had heard of one research group which was trying to develop a combination of ceramics and glass threads which would be tough enough to stand in for brakka in the manufacture of swords and armour. It was quite certain that they would never succeed, but the subject was nearer to his taste than chores like the measuring of rainfall, and it would please Lain to know that he was supporting the conservation movement. The next step was to think of a way of winning Gesalla’s approval.…

  By the time the philosophy delegation had passed through the heart of the city and had crossed the river at the Bytran Bridge the palace and its grounds were spanning the entire view ahead. The party negotiated the four concentric bloom-spangled moats, whose ornamentation disguised their function, and halted at the palace’s main gate. Several guards, looking like huge black beetles in their heavy armour, came forward at a leisurely pace. While their commander was laboriously checking the visitors’ names on his list one of his pikemen approached Toller and, without speaking, began roughly delving among the rolled-up charts in his panniers. When he had finished he paused to spit on the ground, then turned his attention to the collapsed easel which was strapped across the bluehorn’s haunches. He tugged at the polished wooden struts so forcibly that the bluehorn sidestepped against him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he growled, shooting Toller a venomous look. “Can’t you control that fleabag?”

  I’m a new person, Toller assured himself, and I can’t be goaded into brawls. He smiled and said, “Can you blame her for wanting to get near you?”

  The pikeman’s lips moved silently as he came closer to Toller, but at that moment the guard commander gave the signal for the party to proceed on its way. Toller urged his mount forward and resumed his position behind Lain’s carriage. The minor brush with the guard had left him slightly keyed-up but otherwise unaffected, and he felt pleased with the way he had comported himself. It had been a valuable exercise in avoiding unnecessary trouble, the art he intended to practise for the rest of his life. Sitting easily in the saddle, enjoying the rhythm of the bluehorn’s stately gait, he turned his thoughts to the business ahead.

  Toller had been to the Great Palace only once before, as a small child, and had only the vaguest recollection of the domed Rainbow Hall in which the council meeting was to be held. He doubted that it could be as vast and as awe-inspiring as he remembered, but it was a major function room in the palace and its use as a venue today was significant. King Prad obviously regarded the meeting as being important, a fact which Toller found somewhat puzzling. All his life he had been listening to conservationists like his brother issuing sombre warnings about dwindling resources of brakka, but everyday life in Kolcorron had continued very much as before. It was true that in recent years there had been periods when power crystals and the black wood had been in short supply, and the cost kept rising, but new reserves had always been found. Try as he might, Toller could not imagine the natural storehouse of an entire world failing to meet his people’s needs.

  As the philosophy delegation reached the elevated ground on which the palace itself was situated he saw that many carriages were gathered on the principal forecourt. Among them was the flamboyant red-and-orange phaeton of Lord Glo. Three men in philosophy greys were standing beside it, and when they noticed Lain’s carriage they advanced to intercept it. Toller identified the stunted figure of Vorndal Sisstt first; then Duthoon, leader of the halvell section; and the angular outline of Borreat Hargeth, chief of weapons research. All three appeared nervous and unhappy, and they closed on Lain as soon as he had stepped down from his carriage.

  “We’re in trouble, Lain,” Hargeth said, nodding in the direction of Glo’s phaeton. “You’d better take a look at our esteemed leader.”

  Lain frowned. “Is he ill?”

  “No, he isn’t ill — I’d say he never felt better in his life.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s been.…” Lain went to the phaeton and wrenched open the door. Lord Glo, who had been slumped with his head on his chest, jerked upright and looked about him with a startled expression. He brought his pale blue eyes to focus on Lain, then showed the pegs of his lower teeth in a smile.

  “Good to see you, my boy,” he said. “I tell you this is going to be our… hmm… day. We’re going to carry all before us.”

  Toller swung himself down from his mount and tethered it to the rear of the carriage, keeping his back to the others to conceal his amusement. He had seen Glo the worse for wine several times before, but never so obviously, so comically incapable. The contrast between Glo’s ruddy-cheeked euphoria and the scandalised, ashen countenances of his aides made the situation even funnier. Any notions they had about making a good showing at the meeting were being swiftly and painfully revised. Toller could not help but enjoy another person attracting the kind of censure which so often was reserved for him, especially when the offender was the Lord Philosopher himself.

  “My lord, the meeting is due to begin soon,” Lain said. “But if you are indisposed perhaps we could…”

  “Indisposed! What manner of talk is that?” Glo ducked his head and emerged from his vehicle to stand with unnat
ural steadiness. “What are we waiting for? Let’s take our places.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Lain came to Toller with a hag-ridden expression. “Quate and Locranan will take the charts and easel.

  I want you to stay here by the carriage and keep an… What do you find so amusing?”

  “Nothing,” Toller said quickly. “Nothing at all.”

  “You have no idea of what’s at stake today, have you?”

  “Conservation is important to me, too,” Toller replied, making his voice as sincere as possible. “I was only.…”

  “Toller Maraquine!” Lord Glo came towards Toller with arms outstretched, his eyes bulging with pleasurable excitement. “I didn’t know you were here! How are you, my boy?”

  Toller was mildly surprised at even being recognised by Glo, let alone being greeted so effusively. “I’m in good health, my lord.”

  “You look it.” Glo reached up and put an arm around Toller’s shoulders and swung to face the others. “Look at this fine figure of a man — he reminds me of myself when I was… hmm… young.”

  “We should take our places right away,” Lain said. “I don’t want to hurry you, but.…”

  “You’re quite right — we shouldn’t delay our moment of… hmm… glory.” Glo gave Toller an affectionate squeeze, exhaling the reek of wine as he did so. “Come on, Toller — you can tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself out in Haffanger.”

  Lain stepped forward, looking anxious. “My brother isn’t part of the delegation, my lord. He is supposed to wait here.”

  “Nonsense! We’re all together.”

  “But he has no greys.”

  “That doesn’t matter if he’s in my personal retinue,” Glo said with the kind of mildness that brooked no argument. “We’ll proceed.”

  Toller met Lain’s gaze and issued a silent disclaimer by momentarily raising his eyebrows as the group moved off in the direction of the palace’s main entrance. He welcomed the unexpected turn of events, which had saved him from what had promised to be a spell of utter boredom, but he was still resolved to maintain a good relationship with his brother. It was vital for him to be as unobtrusive as possible during the meeting, and in particular to keep a straight face regardless of what kind of performance Lord Glo might put on. Ignoring the curious glances from passers-by, he walked into the palace with Glo hugging his arm and did his best to produce acceptable small-talk in response to the older man’s questioning, even though all his attention was being absorbed by his surroundings.

  The palace was also the seat of the Kolcorronian administration and it gave him the impression of being a city within a city. Its corridors and staterooms were populated by sombre-faced men whose manner proclaimed that their concerns were not those of ordinary citizens. Toller was unable even to guess at their functions or the subjects of their low-voiced conversations. His senses were swamped by the sheer opulence of the carpets and hangings, the paintings and sculptures, the complexity of the vaulted ceilings. Even the least important doors appeared to have been carved from single slabs of perette, elvart or glasswood, each one representing perhaps a year’s work for a master craftsman.

  Lord Glo seemed oblivious to the atmosphere of the palace, but Lain and the rest of his party were noticeably subdued. They were moving in a tight group, like soldiers in hostile territory. After a lengthy walk they reached an enormous double door guarded by two black-armoured ostiaries. Glo led the way into the huge elliptical room beyond. Toller hung back to give his brother precedence, and almost gasped as he got his first adult glimpse of the famed Rainbow Hall. Its domed roof was made entirely of square glass panels supported on intricate lattices of brakka. Most of the panels were pale blue or white, to represent clear sky and clouds, but seven adjacent curving bands echoed the colours of the rainbow. The light blazing down from the canopy was a mingling, merging glory which made the furnishings of the hall glow with tinted fire.

  At the far locus of the ellipse was a large but unadorned throne on the uppermost level of a dais. Three lesser thrones were ranged on the second level for the use of the princes who were expected to be present. In ancient times the princes would all have been sons of the ruler, but with the country’s expansion and development it had become expedient to allow some government posts to be filled by collateral descendants. These were numerous, thanks to the sexual license accorded to the nobility, and it was usually possible to allocate important responsibilities to suitable men. Of the current monarchy, only Leddravohr and the colourless Pouche, controller of public finances, were acknowledged sons of the King.

  Facing the thrones were seats which had been laid out in radial sections for the orders whose concerns ranged from the arts and medicine to religion and proletarian education. The philosophy delegation occupied the middle sector in accordance with the tradition dating back to Bytran IV, who had believed that scientific knowledge was the foundation upon which Kolcorron

  would build a future world empire. In subsequent centuries it had become apparent that science had already learned all that was worth learning about the workings of the universe, and the influence of Bytran’s thinking had faded, but the philosophy order still retained many of the trappings of its former eminence, in spite of opposition from others of a more pragmatic turn of mind.

  Toller felt an ungrudging admiration for Lord Glo as the pudgy little man, large head thrown back and stomach protruding, marched up the hall and took his position before the thrones. The remainder of the philosophy delegation quietly seated themselves behind him, exchanging tentative glances with their opposites in neighbouring sectors. There were more people than Toller had expected — perhaps a hundred in all — the other delegations being augmented by clerks and advisors. Toller, now profoundly grateful for his supernumerary status, slid into the row behind Lain’s computational assistants and waited for the proceedings to begin.

  There was a murmurous delay punctuated by coughs and occasional nervous laughs, then a ceremonial horn was sounded and King Prad and the three princes entered the hall by way of a private doorway beyond the dais.

  At sixty-plus the ruler was tall and lean, carrying his years well in spite of one milk-white eye which he refused to cover. Although Prad was an imposing and regal figure in his blood-coloured robes as he ascended to the high throne, Toller’s interest was captured by the powerful, slow-padding form of Prince Leddravohr. He was wearing a white cuirass made from multiple layers of sized linen moulded to the shape of a perfectly developed male torso, and it was evident from what could be seen of his arms and legs that the cuirass did not belie what it covered. Leddravohr’s face was smooth and dark-browed, suggestive of brooding power, and it was obvious from his bearing that he had no wish to be present at the council meeting. Toller knew him to be the veteran of a hundred bloody conflicts and he felt a pang of envy as he noted the obvious disdain with which Leddravohr surveyed the assembly before lowering himself on to the central throne of the second tier. He could daydream about playing a similar role, that of the warrior prince, reluctantly recalled from dangerous frontiers to attend to trivialities of civilian existence.

  An official beat on the floor three times with his staff to signal that the council meeting had begun. Prad, who was noted for the informality with which he held court, began to speak at once.

  “I thank you for your attendance here today,” he said, using the inflections of high Kolcorronian. “As you know, the subject for discussion is the increasing scarcity of brakka and energy crystals — but before I hear your submissions it is my will that another matter be dealt with, if only to establish its relative unimportance to the security of the empire.

  “I do not refer to the reports from various sources that ptertha have sharply increased in number during the course of this year. It is my considered opinion that the apparent increases can be explained by the fact that our armies are, for the first time, operating in regions of Land where — because of the natural conditions — ptertha have always been more
plentiful. I am instructing Lord Glo to instigate a thorough survey which will provide more reliable statistics, but in any case there is no cause for alarm. Prince Leddravohr assures me that the existing procedures and anti-ptertha weapons are more than adequate to deal with any exigency.

  “Of more pressing concern to us are rumours that soldiers have died as a result of coming into contact with ptertha casualties. The rumours appear to have originated from units of the Second Army on the Sorka front, and they have spread quickly — as such harmful fictions do — as far as Loongl in the east and the Yalrofac theatre in the west.”

  Prad paused and leaned forward, his blind eye gleaming. “The demoralising effect of this kind of scaremongering is a greater threat to our national interests than a two-fold or three-fold increase in the ptertha population. All of us in this hall know that pterthacosis cannot be passed on by bodily contact or any other means. It is the duty of every man here to ensure that harmful stories claiming otherwise are stamped out with all possible speed and vigour. We must do everything in our power to promote a healthy scepticism in the minds of the proletariat

  — and I look particularly to teacher, poet and priest in this respect.”

  Toller glanced to each side and saw the leaders of several delegations nodding as they made notes. It was surprising to him that the King should deal with such a minor issue in person, and for a moment he toyed with the startling idea that there might actually be some kernel of truth in the odd rumours. Common soldiers, sailors and airmen were a stolid lot as a rule — but on the other hand they tended to be ignorant and gullible. On balance, he could see no reason to believe there was anything more to fear from the ptertha than in any previous era in Kolcorron’s long history.

  “…principal subject for discussion,” King Prad was saying. “The records of the Ports Authority show that in the year 2625 our imports of brakka from the six provinces amounted to only 118,426 tons. It is the twelfth year in succession that the total has fallen. The pikon and halvell yield was correspondingly down. No figures are available for the domestic harvest, but the preliminary estimates are less encouraging than usual.