“Yes, sir. Yonor,” Limbeck answered meekly, and subsided.
“Anything else?” the high froman asked the Offense peevishly. He couldn’t feel his left foot at all, and the right one was beginning to tingle strangely.
“It was after Limbeck’s return that the accused formed the aforementioned organization known as WUPP. This so-called union advocates, among other things: the free and equal distribution of the Welves’ payment, that all worshipers get together and pool their knowledge about the Kicksey-winsey and so learn ‘how’ and ‘why—’”
“Blasphemy!” cried the shuddering head clark in hollow tones.
“And that all Gegs cease to wait for the Judgment day and work to improve their lives themselves—”
“Yonor!” The head clark leapt to his feet. “I ask that the court be cleared of children! It is appalling that young and impressionable minds should be subjected to such profane and dangerous notions.”
“They’re not dangerous!” protested Limbeck.
“Hush up!” The froman scowled and gave the matter some thought. He hated to concede another point to his brother-in-law, but this did offer an ideal way to escape from his chair.” Court recessed. No children under the age of eighteen will be allowed back in. We’ll break for lunch and return in an hour.”
With help from the warders—who had to literally pull him free—the high froman heaved his bulk out of his chair. He removed the iron crown from his head, rubbed life back into his tortured posterior, stomped on his foot until he could feel it again, and breathed a sigh of relief.
1 Female Gegs wear skirts—traditional dress—only on formal occasions and only when the whirling gears of the Kicksey-winsey are far away. At all other times female Gegs wear loose-fitting trousers bound by bright-colored ribbons.
CHAPTER 11
WOMBE, DREVLIN,
LOW REALM
COURT RESUMED, MINUS CHILDREN AND THOSE PARENTS WHO WERE forced to stay home and take care of them. The high froman, with a resigned and martyred expression, put on his crown and once more wedged himself into the torturous chair. The prisoner was brought in, and the Voice of the Offense concluded her case.
“These dangerous ideas, so seductive to impressionable minds, actually swayed a group of young people as rebellious and discontented as the accused. The local froman and the clarks—knowing, Yonor, that young people are by nature somewhat rebellious, and hoping that this was just a phase through which they were passing—”
“Like pimples?” suggested the high froman. This brought the desired laugh from the crowd, although they seemed somewhat uncertain about chuckling in the presence of the frowning head clark, and the laughter ended in a sudden spate of nervous coughing.
“Er … yes, Yonor,” said the Voice, resenting the interruption. The head clark smiled with the patient air of one who tolerates a dullard in his presence. The high froman, seized with the sudden urge to throttle the head clark, missed a considerable portion of the Offensive Voice’s speech.
“—incited a riot during which the Kicksey-winsey, Sector Y-362, sustained minor damage. Fortunately, the Kicksey-winsey was able to heal itself almost immediately and so no lasting harm was done. At least to our revered idol!” The Offensive Voice rose to a screech. “What harm may have been done to those who dared do such a thing cannot be calculated. It is, therefore, our demand that the accused—Limbeck Bolttightner—be removed from this society so that he can never again lead our young people down this path that can only take them to doom and destruction!”
The Voice of the Offense, having rested her case, retired behind the iron drum. Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the Factree. Here and there, however, came hisses and a boo, which caused the high froman to look stern and brought the head clark to his feet.
“Yonor, this outburst only goes to prove that the poison is spreading. We can do one thing to eradicate it.” The head clark pointed at Limbeck. “Remove the source! I fear that if we do not, the Day of Judgment that many of us feel to be at last close to hand will be postponed, perhaps indefinitely! I would urge you, in fact, Yonor, to prohibit the accused from speaking in this assembly!”
“I don’t consider four hisses and a boo an outburst,” said Darral testily, glaring at the head clark. “Accused, you may speak in your own defense. But take care, young man, I’ll tolerate no blasphemous harangues in this court.”
Limbeck rose slowly to his feet. He paused, as if pondering a course of action, and finally, after profound deliberation, laid the sheaf of papers down on the iron drum and removed his spectacles.
“Yonor,” said Limbeck with deep respect. “All I ask is that I be allowed to relate what happened to me the day that I was lost. It was a most remarkable occurrence and it will, I hope, serve to explain why I have felt the need to do what I have done. I have never told this to anyone before,” he added solemnly, “not my parents, not even the person I hold most dear in all the world.”
“Will this take long?” asked the froman, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and endeavoring to find a certain amount of relief from his cramped situation by leaning to one side.
“No, Yonor,” said Limbeck gravely.
“Then proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. It happened the day I was thrown out of school. I had to get away, to do a lot of thinking. You see, I didn’t consider that my ‘why’ had been blasphemous or dangerous. I don’t hate the Kicksey-winsey. I revere it, truly. It fascinates me! It’s so wonderful, so big, so powerful.” Limbeck waved his arms, his face lit by the holy radiance. “It draws its source of energy from the storm and does it with incredible efficiency. It can even take raw iron from the Terrel Fen below and turn that iron into steel and mold that steel into parts so that it is continually expanding. It can heal itself when it is injured.
“It accepts our help gladly. We are its hands, its feet, its eyes. We go where it can’t, help it when it gets into trouble. If a claw gets stuck on Terrel Fen, we have to go down and shake it loose. We push bleepers and turn whirly-wheels and raise the raisers and lower the lowers and everything runs smoothly. Or seems to. But I can’t help,” added Limbeck softly, “wondering why.”
The head clark, scowling, rose to his feet, but the high froman, pleased to have an opportunity to gain one on the church, regarded him with a stern air. “I have given this young man permission to speak. I trust our people are strong enough to hear what he has to say without losing their faith. Don’t you? Or has the church been derelict in its duties?”
Biting his lip, the head clark sat back down and glared at the high froman, who smiled complacently.
“The accused may proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. You see, I’ve always wondered why there are parts of the Kicksey-winsey that are dead. In some sectors it sits idle, rusting away or getting covered over with coralite. Some parts haven’t moved in centuries. Yet the Mangers must have put them there for a reason. Why? What were they supposed to do and why aren’t they doing it? And it occurred to me that if we knew why the parts of the Kicksey-winsey that are alive are alive, and if we knew how they were doing it, then we might be able to understand the Kicksey-winsey and its true purpose!
“And that’s one reason that I think all the scrifts should get together and pool their knowledge—”
“Is this leading somewhere?” asked the high froman irritably. His headache was starting to make him nauseous.
“Er, yes.” Limbeck nervously put his spectacles back on, “I was thinking these thoughts and wondering how I could make people understand, and I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going, and when I looked around, I discovered I had wandered completely outside of the Het town limits. Quite by accident, I assure you!
“There weren’t any fierce storms in the area just then, and I thought I’d take a little look around, sort of distract myself from my trouble. It was difficult walking and I guess I was concentrating on keeping my footing, because suddenly a storm struck. I needed
shelter and I saw a large object lying on the ground, so I ran for it.
“You can imagine my surprise, Yonor,” said Limbeck, blinking at the high froman from behind the thick glass lenses, “when I discovered that it was one of the Welves’ dragonships.”
The words, echoing from the squawky-talk, resounded in the Factree. Gegs stirred and muttered among themselves.
“On the ground? Impossible! The Welves never land on Drevlin!” The head clark was pious, smug, and self-satisfied. The high froman appeared uneasy, but knew—from the reaction of the crowd—that he had allowed this to proceed too far to stop now.
“They hadn’t landed,” Limbeck explained. “The ship had crashed—”
This created a sensation in the court. The head clark leapt to his feet. The Gegs were talking in excited voices, many shouting, “Shut him up!” and others answering, “You shut up! Let him talk!” The high froman gestured to the warders, who shook the “thunder,” and order was resumed.
“I demand that this travesty of Justick stop!” boomed the head clark.
The high froman considered doing just that. Ending the trial now accomplished three things: it would rid him of this mad Geg, end his headache, and restore the circulation in his lower extremities. Unfortunately, however, it would appear to his constituents as if he had caved in to the church, plus, his brother-in-law would never let him forget it. No, better to let this Limbeck fellow go ahead and speak his piece. He would undoubtedly string together enough rope to hang himself before long.
“I have made my ruling,” said the high froman in a terrible voice, glaring at the crowd and the head clark. “It stands!” He transferred the glare to Limbeck. “Proceed.”
“I admit that I don’t know for certain the ship had crashed,” amended Limbeck, “but I guessed that it had, for it was lying broken and damaged among the rocks. There was nowhere to go for shelter except inside the ship. A large hole had been torn in the skin, so I entered.”
“If what you say is true, you were fortunate that the Welves did not strike you down for your boldness!” cried the head clark.
“The Welves weren’t in much position to strike anyone down,” returned Limbeck. “These immortal Welves—as you call them—were dead.”
Shouts of outrage, cries of horror and alarm, and a muffled cheer rang through the Factree. The head clark fell back into his seat, stricken. The Offense fanned him with her handkerchief and called for water. The high froman sat bolt upright in shock and managed to wedge himself firmly and inextricably in his chair. Unable to rise to his feet to restore order, he could only wriggle and fume and wave the flashglamp, half-blinding the warders, who were attempting to pull him free.
“Listen to me!” Limbeck shouted in the voice that had quelled multitudes. No other speaker in WUPP, Jarre included, could be as compelling and charismatic as Limbeck when he was inspired. This speech was the reason he had allowed himself to be arrested. This was, perhaps, his last chance to bring his message to his people. He would make the most of it.
Jumping onto the iron drum, scattering his papers beneath his feet, Limbeck waved his hands to attract the crowd’s attention.
“These Welves from the realms above are not gods, as they would have us believe! They are not immortal, but are made of flesh and blood and bone like ourselves! I know, because I saw that flesh rotting away. I saw their corpses in that twisted wreckage.
“And I saw their world! I saw your ‘glorious heavens.’ They had brought books with them, and I looked at some of them. And truly, it is heaven! They live in a world of wealth and magnificence. A world of beauty that we can only begin to imagine. A world of ease that is supported by our sweat and our labor! And let me tell you! They have no intention of ever ‘taking us up to that world’ as the clarks keep telling us they will, ‘if we are worthy’! Why should they? They have us to use as willing slaves down here! We live in squalor, we serve the Kicksey-winsey so that they can have the water they need to survive. We battle the storm every day of our miserable lives! So that they can live in luxury off our tears!
“And that is why I say,” shouted Limbeck over the rising tumult, “that we should learn all we can about the Kicksey-winsey, take control of it, and force these Welves, who are not gods at all, but mortals, just like us, to give us our proper due!”
Chaos broke out. Gegs were yelling, screaming, shoving, and pushing. Appalled at the monster he’d unwittingly unleashed, the froman—finally freed from his chair—stomped his feet and pounded the butt-end of his flashglamp on the concrete with such ferocity that he yanked the tail free of the statue and doused the light.
“Clear the court! Clear the court!”
Coppers charged in, but it was some time before the excited Gegs could be made to leave the Factree. Then they milled around in the corridors for a while, but fortunately for the high froman, the whistle-toot signaled a scrift change and the crowds dispersed—either going to perform their service for the Kicksey-winsey or returning home.
The high froman, the head clark, the Offensive Voice, Limbeck, and the two warders with smeared face paint were left alone in the Factree.
“You are a dangerous young man,” said the high froman. “These lies—”
“They’re not lies! They’re the truth! I swear—”
“These lies would, of course, never be believed by the people, but as we have seen this day when you recite them, they lead to turmoil and unrest! You have doomed yourself. Your fate is now in the hands of the Manger. Hold on to the prisoner and keep him quiet!” the high froman ordered the warders, who latched on to Limbeck firmly, if reluctantly, as though his touch might contaminate them.
The head clark had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appear smug and pious again, this expression mingling with righteous indignation and the certain conviction that sin was about to be punished, retribution exacted.
The high froman, walking somewhat unsteadily on feet to which the circulation was only now returning, made his way with aching head over to the statue of the Manger. Led along by the warders, Limbeck followed. Despite the danger, he was, as usual, deeply curious and far more interested in the statue of the Manger itself than in whatever verdict it might hand down. The head clark and the Voice crowded close to see. The high froman, with many bowings and scrapings and mumbled prayers that were echoed reverently by the head clark, reached out, grasped the left hand of the Manger, and pulled on it.
The eyeball that the Manger held in the right hand suddenly blinked and came to life. A light shone, and moving pictures began to flit across the eyeball. The high froman cast a triumphant glance at the head clark and the Voice. Limbeck was absolutely fascinated.
“The Manger speaks to us!” cried the head clark, falling to his knees.
“A magic lantern!” said Limbeck excitedly, peering into the eyeball. “Only it isn’t really magic, not like the magic of the Welves. It’s mechanical magic! I found one on another part of the Kicksey-winsey and I took it apart. Those pictures that seem to move are frames revolving around a light so fast that it fools the eyes—”
“Silence, heretic!” thundered the high froman. “Sentence has been passed. The Mangers say that you shall be given into their hands.”
“I don’t think they’re saying any such thing, Yonor,” protested Limbeck. “In fact, I’m not certain what they’re saying. I wonder why—”
“Why? Why! You will have a lot of time to ask yourself why as you are falling into the heart of the storm!” shouted Darral.
Limbeck was watching the magic lantern that was repeating the same thing over and over and did not clearly hear what the high froman had said. “Heart of the storm, Yonor?” The thick lenses magnified his eyes and gave him a buglike appearance that the froman found particularly disgusting.
“Yes, so the Mangers have sentenced you.” The high froman pulled the hand and the eyeball blinked and went out.
“What? In that picture? No, they didn’t, Yonor,” Limbeck argued. “I’m not cer
tain what it is, but if you’d only give me a chance to study—”
“Tomorrow morning,” interrupted the high froman, “you will be made to walk the Steps of Terrel Fen. May the Mangers have mercy on your soul!” Limping, one hand rubbing his numb backside and the other his pounding head, Darral Longshoreman turned on his heel and stalked out of the Factree.
CHAPTER 12
WOMBE, DREVLIN,
LOW REALM
“VISITOR,” SAID THE TURNKEY THROUGH THE IRON BARS.
“What?” Limbeck sat up on his cot.
“Visitor. Your sister. Come along.”
Keys jangled. The closer clicked and the door swung open. Limbeck, considerably startled and extremely confused, rose from the cot and followed the turnkey to the visitors’ vat. As far as he knew, Limbeck didn’t have a sister. Admittedly, he’d been gone from home a number of years, and he didn’t know all that much about rearing children, but he had the vague impression that it took a considerable length of time for a child to be born, then be up walking about, visiting brothers in jail.
Limbeck was just performing the necessary calculations when he entered the visitors’ vat. A young woman flung herself at him with such force that she nearly knocked him down.
“My dear brother!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with more attachment than is generally displayed between siblings.
“You’ve got till the whistle-toot blows the next scrift change,” said the turnkey in bored tones as he slammed shut and locked the closer behind him.
“Jarre?” said Limbeck, blinking at her. He’d left his spectacles in the cell.
“Well, of course!” she said, hugging him fiercely. “Who else did you think it would be?”
“I … I wasn’t sure,” Limbeck stammered. He was extremely pleased to see Jarre, but he couldn’t help experiencing a slight twinge of disappointment at the loss of a sister. It seemed that family might be a comfort at a time like this. “How did you get here?”
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