“I call that farm Lazy Days,” he told me. “Everyone sleeps over zenith.”
We made three further stops that day, lightening our load so that bit by bit the barge began to ride higher in the water. We were served drinks and snacks at the first two, but by the time we reached the third, dusk was approaching and my father indicated that we would stay the night there.
Collinsford farm was one of the larger settlements in the Plains, with a population of almost three thousand. After we had unloaded (helped by a young blind girl who insisted on carrying all the smaller items and seemed to know my father well), we joined the adults in the main dining-hall for dinner.
The atmosphere was boisterous, in keeping with the gregarious nature of the plainsfolk. Eating here was not the solemn ritual of the High Valleys, nor the casual, desultory activity of the city. The farmers attacked their food with gusto, laughing and chattering incessantly. It was clear that my father was well-respected, for we sat amongst the older members of the commune and they talked with him as if he was one of their own people.
Enlivened by the festive mood, I ate heartily, especially of the white bread which is seldom obtainable fresh in Helix-port but which here came to the tables crisp and still warm from the ovens. Several females caught my eye, and one or two smiled at me in greeting. One of the elders asked me if I was Daniel’s new apprentice and, out of mischief, I said yes.
With the ending of the meal a sudden lethargy seemed to overtake everyone and the hall quickly emptied. My father left with a striking blonde-haired woman on whom he had concentrated most of his attention during the meal. Their relationship was obviously a long-standing one.
Few people now lingered in the hall and I began to cast around for a friendly face. A youth my own age with tawny, close-cropped hair came up to me, smiling widely. An array of freckles, the same colour as his hair, formed a mottled bridge across his nose.
“You’re Marie’s replacement?” he asked.
“Just this one trip,” I said.
We introduced ourselves. His name was Mark and he worked in one of the flour mills. We sat on the veranda for a while, watching a group of young children play hide-and-seek amongst the dusters of spadeleaf bushes which lined the approach to the hail. I listened to their laughter and the swishing of the leaves as they scampered through the russet foliage.
We went down the bush-lined pathway which finally debouched into a square bordered by green-roofed dormitories arranged about three of its sides.
“You didn’t want a woman?” Mark asked me.
“A woman?”
“Several females smiled at you in the hall. Didn’t you notice?”
“I took it to be merely a greeting.”
“Oh, no. A smile here is more than a greeting. It’s an Invitation.”
After a moment, he added: “I thought perhaps women didn’t appeal to you.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “I was hoping that perhaps you were homo like myself.”
“You’re a homo?” I said, surprised. “They’re pretty rare, aren’t they?”
Mark politely ignored my boorishness. “Yes, we are few in number,” he said. “Which makes it difficult to find partners.”
I was intrigued. “When did you first discover it?”
He sighed, as if this was a question people were always asking him. “When did you first discover you were hetero? We grow up with our proclivities.”
“But how did everyone else react? It must have caused a stir.”
“My wardens were most understanding. They informed me that I was the victim of a thousand-to-one chance malfunction at the incubators. Humans are always bred to be hetero, they told me. I was just unlucky.” He smiled without humour. “I didn’t feel unlucky. I just felt different.” We stopped outside a small dorm at one corner of the square. “Luckily I’ve always been pretty resilient and I never let it bother me. Eventually everyone got used to the idea. Everything’s fine now.”
“Apart from finding partners.”
“That’s the main problem. We have a kind of grapevine, but there are so few of us we don’t get the chance to get together too often. My closest friend lives in Helixport but we see each other only once or twice a season.”
He turned towards the window above our heads and shouted: “Gail!”
A moment later a female head poked through the window, a young, pretty female head with sandy, close-cropped hair remarkably similar to Mark’s.
“Would you entertain a stranger on his travels?” Mark asked.
The girl appraised me briefly. “You came with the barge?”
“Yes,” I said. “You were not at dinner?”
“No, I’m fasting today. It tones the mind.”
“I thought not. I would have remembered your face.”
She laughed. “A flatterer!” She turned to Mark: “He’ll do.” Her head vanished.
“She’s my bond-sister,” Mark told me. “We’ve always been very close. You’ll like her.”
With that he was off, strolling across the square. He began whistling a cheerful, lilting air, and after a moment I recognized it as the old American song Yankee Doodle Dandy.
The first day set the pattern for the subsequent days of the voyage. My father’s timetable was immaculately planned so that we always arrived at a hospitable commune just at sunset. It became clear to me that my father was not merely accepted as a welcome visitor by the plainsfolk; he was, effectively, one of them. He had covered the same area for the past fourteen seasons, and with such frequency and regularity that, though his stays were only brief, they were part of the order of things; those communes that provided him with a night’s bed accepted him as one of their own. He was a citizen of Collinsford, of Maitland, of Oz, and no matter that he was only “at home” for six days a month at each.
On the fourth day we began retracing our course, taking on cargo this time at each of our stops. By now I was used to the bursts of labour followed by periods of rest as the barge puttered along the waterways. I felt relaxed and attuned to everything around me, the pressures and problems of the city pushed into the background of my mind. I had initially sought out my father with no real idea of what I hoped to gain from making his acquaintance, but things had worked out beyond my expectations. I had, simply, obtained a respite, a breathing space in which to gather my strength. I had studiously avoided reading newspapers or listening to any gossip about the city during the voyage, and now I was ready to return.
At dusk on the fifth day we stopped overnight at Collinsford, and in the morning I took charge of a letter from Mark which I promised to deliver to his friend in Helixport. A storm was developing as we cast off, and the grit-laced wind whistled devilishly through the cropped fields.
My father and I sat at the cabin for most of the day while the barge rolled and heaved along the choppy waters of the Tamus and the wind found ingress through the ill-fitting cabin door. He taught me to play poker, a game which I had never encountered before. But beginner’s luck deserted me and the tally of debt which my father was entering into a notebook mounted minute by minute. When Helixport finally loomed through the murky aspect of the window, I threw down my cards in disgust and said: “I’ve had enough. How much do I owe you?”
“Three hundred and forty-three checks,” he replied instantly.
I checked my pouch. Although I had spent nothing throughout the voyage, I carried with me less than three hundred checks.
I counted out two hundred in notes and laid them on the table. “I’ll pay you the rest when I get back. Is that all right?”
My father gathered the cards together and squared the pack on the tabletop. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“No, a bet is a bet. I insist” I pushed the notes towards him.
He shook his head. “There are no debts. You worked for me on this trip and you worked well. I’ll write off your losses. It saves me paying you anything.” He was smiling.
“I’ve enjo
yed it.”
“And so now you will be able to write your report,” There was a hint of mockery in his voice. “What improvements will you suggest?”
I pretended to consider. “What improvements would you like?”
“Ah,” he said, reflecting. “An air-conditioned cabin, perhaps. Plenty of free beer. A fresh woman to ride with me each day.”
“And nothing more?”
“I have simple tastes.”
We reached Venice just after dark. We unloaded in the squally rain, covered our cargo with tarpaulin, and hurried across the wharf and into the welcoming warmth of the Water’s Edge. We sat down at an empty table in one corner of the saloon and moments later the barman arrived with a small jug filled with a steaming dark red liquor. He set the jug and two porcelain cups down on the table and departed without a word. My father filled the cups and passed one to me. The liquid had a strong, minty aroma, and when I sipped it, it tasted like liquid fire; there was aniseed and liquorice, and herbs which I could not identify, pungent and stimulating on the palate; but above all there was a warm afterglow of alcohol which penetrated my entire body, casting out the chills of our stormy passage.
“It’s good,” I said. “What is it?”
“We call it bat’s blood,” my father said with a wry grin. “It’s a secret recipe which Gregor would never divulge. Drink it slowly.”
Not long afterwards Gregor returned with two large bowls of thick vegetable stew and a cylinder of bread. I gulped the broth down gratefully, amazed at the capacity of my appetite this past six days. The saloon was slowly filling with incoming bargemasters, each of whom Gregor served with the alacrity which he had shown us. The fluted gas-fire at the centre of the room gave off a steady heat, and with an excess of soup and bat’s blood inside me, I began to feel drowsy.
A young girl of about eighteen entered. She looked about the saloon and, on seeing my father, came over to our table.
“This is Marie,” my father said, “Marie, David. He’s taken over your job.”
The girl eyed me speculatively. Her face was oddly proportioned: a rounded nose, large, wide-set eyes, an indented chin. She could not be called pretty, but she radiated a certain impish charm.
“Only for the last trip,” I said. “I went along for the ride.”
“He’s a good worker,” my father said. “You’ll have to double your efforts to match him.”
The girl turned to my father, unmoved by his goadings. “Dawn, tomorrow?”
“Are you fully recovered?”
“It was just a touch of fever. I’m all right now.”
“Dawn,” he said.
Marie departed, and we finished off the last of the bat’s blood. I felt extremely weary, now; the babble of conversation in the saloon was having a soporific effect on me.
“I had better be getting home,” I said.
My father nodded, his eyes half-closed.
I rose. “Thank you once again. It has been a good six days.”
He made no immediate reply, but as I was walking towards the door, I heard him say:“Take care, son.”
Chapter Eight
Wendi had visited the villa in my absence and removed her belongings. She had left a short, almost cheerful note to thank me for my “understanding” and “consideration”, adding that she would contact me “when things have settled down a little”. There was no mention of the annulment of our liaison.
The last six issues of the Chronicle were lying in the newspaper chute. I left them on the living-room table and went straight to bed. I slept soundly and in the morning over breakfast I began working my way through each issue. The breach in the M’threnni parapet had been repaired overnight by the aliens but the terminus had not been opened and the latest shipment still lay uncollected at its centre. The authorities had mounted a vigorous search for the perpetrators of the bomb attack and the jail-break—evidently with rapid results: the headline for the 11th read:
league seditionists apprehended by militia
I read the report.
The rebels believed responsible for the recent bomb-blast on Round Island were yesterday taken into custody by the Civil Militia following a raid on a South Bank hostel. The hostel was known to be a meeting-point for members of the outlawed Humanistic League and the three suspects were found to be in possession of a number of explosive devices. All three have admitted planting the bomb and are expected to appear in court tomorrow. The arrest of those involved in the raid on Helixport Penitentiary is believed to be imminent
The rest of the report gave further details of the operation. I went to the next day’s paper, yesterday’s paper, and scanned the follow-up report. Half-way down the page I came across the following:
The three people held in custody have been named as Samuel Koster, an electrician, Nita Duprez, an unemployed schoolteacher, both of Helixport, and Jax 52176883, late of Silver Spring, recently serving as a trawlerfoil mate.
I read no further, but left my breakfast half-finished and drove to the Complex where I requested an immediate interview with Helmine. Within ten minutes I was being ushered into her office.
Helmine was sitting at her desk, attending to her nails with a file. I ignored her calculated air of indifference and came straight to the point: “One of the rebels responsible for the bomb-blast is an old friend of mine. I would like to see him.”
Without looking up, she said: “Take a seat, my boy.”
I sat down and leaned across the desk to stress my impatience, “The one called Jax. We grew up together in Silver Spring.”
The file made tiny rasping sounds and a fine mist of powdered nail was collecting on the dark polished surface of the desk between her elbows.
“We are aware of the connection,” she told me. “Immediately we learned their names we checked out their backgrounds in detail. Nothing was overlooked.”
She inspected the nail, and, satisfied, peered over her fingers at me. “Where have you been these past six days?”
“I took a holiday. I needed a break.”
“Where?”
“West Helixport. I went for a ride down the canals.”
“With who?”
“What business is this of yours?”
“It’s very much my business.” She pointed the file at me, “You are admitted to the M’threnni tower, and a few days later you disappear. Don’t you think we should be concerned?”
“I didn’t think my movements were being monitored,” I said indignantly. “Perhaps you’d like me to report in to you every hour?”
“Who were you with?”
“My father. I helped him on a supply run.”
I waited, and she began work on another nail. Her little strategems for slowing the pace of any conversation were infuriating because they were so transparent.
“I’d like to see him,” I said.
Helmine ran her tiny purplish tongue over the freshly manicured nail.
“I think a meeting would be appropriate,” she said. “I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”
This time I deliberately waited for her to speak again.
“Find out where Eilan and her cohorts are hiding,” she said. “We have been unable to trace them and the prisoners refuse to talk.”
“You want me to betray him.”
“It’s not a question of betrayal; it’s one of duty. These people are a danger to our society. They must be located and put away where they can do no harm.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Was your friend. You haven’t seen him in over a cycle. Don’t let memories blind you to the realities of the situation now. He is a renegade; you are a citizen of Gaia in good standing and as such you must put the fate of the people at large before that of a single individual.” She leaned forward in her chair, matching my posture with a sudden show of earnestness. “I am not exaggerating when I say that we are going through an extremely dangerous phase at present. There is no telling how the M’threnni might react to the attack on th
e terminus. We must ensure that nothing of this nature ever happens again. The League is like a malignant growth; we must cut it out, cauterize it.”
I considered at length.
“No, I can’t do it.”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “There is no doubt that we will obtain the information we seek. It is just a matter of what method we use.”
“You’ll torture them?”
“Of course not. Do I look like a fiend?”
The sight of her thin, angular body and her gaunt, shrewlike features almost prompted me to say: “Yes.”
“But the prisoners will inevitably suffer some discomfort,” she went on. “The degree of their resistance will naturally determine the severity of our interrogative techniques.”
So, it would be torture; I knew Jax well enough to be sure that he would never betray his friends under anything but the most extreme pressure. At that moment my dislike of Helmine was transformed into active loathing.
“Very well, I’ll do it,” I said.
She opened a drawer and took out a silvery, cylindrical object which I recognized as a tape-recorder. She laid it at the centre of the desk-top. “Slip it inside your tunic. It will ensure that we get everything.”
“No,” I replied. “I’ll report everything verbatim. You have to trust me.”
“No recorder, no visit.”
Again I considered, then snatched up the device.
The meeting was arranged for the third hour of zenith that day. A civilian floater stood waiting outside the main entrance, manned by a gruff, hostile-looking driver who scarcely acknowledged me as I climbed inside. Leaving the approach road, we turned eastwards rather than continuing north towards the penitentiary, I resisted the impulse to ask the driver where we were going.
Capella's Golden Eyes Page 14
