by Phillip Mann
It was a simple matter for Laverna Felice to manufacture a revolution.
On a pleasant world called Janus, a world owned by the Felice, an order was received that all Spideret eggs and nests were to be destroyed. The men and women who managed the distillation plants on this world scratched their heads. “But if we destroy the eggs, where will we get the next generation of Spiderets to clean the crucibles and gather the Seppel nuts?” Janus was the Homeworld of Seppel juice.
Despite their queries the order could not be disobeyed and so a detachment of the local militia, wearing protective gear, descended into the catacombs where the Spiderets lived. They were equipped with gas bombs and high-pressure spray guns which ejected a sticky acid that burnt its way into anything which it touched.
For a whole day they strolled through the catacombs, firing up into the clusters of nests where the young Spiderets were growing. Any mature Spiderets which they met, such as those who were attending the nests, they gassed and burnt.
With their work completed they returned to their homes and families.
That night the Spiderets attacked.
It was a hopeless attack, fuelled only by rage. The worker Spiderets, who had returned to find their nests ravaged, scrabbled with their legs against the walls, and tried to bite their way through the milk-white domes within which the humans lived. They went on a rampage, smashing the ventilation ducts and tearing open the filter pipes so that the precious Seppel liquor gurgled out and poured into the soil.
All of this was recorded on vivante for Laverna by a startled crew who, believing they had been sent to Janus to make a promotional documentary, found themselves caught in revolution.
Laverna showed this vivante to Helium Bogdanovich. He lay on his back in his bath with the surface of the water lapping just below his eyes. At the end of the vivante Helium reared up, sending a small tidal wave slopping round the walls. Laverna turned her eyes delicately away when he revealed his great grey sleek bulk. In truth, Laverna found the walrus fatness of Helium Bogdanovich and his wife Clover Shell repulsive. But now was not time to be squeamish or risk offence. She was not dealing with an obese creature such as Cicero Paragon. This was Helium Bogdanovich, Master of the third greatest empire in the known galaxy.
“Why,” asked Helium, his eyes wrinkling down to slits, “did they attack? What provoked them? Spiderets are not fools.”
That was the question Laverna was waiting for. She turned her bright purple eyes full on Helium. “I believe that the aliens on our worlds are restless. They have sensed a change in our policies since we allowed your good friend, the Master of Paxwax, to break the Code and marry a girl of some lower family. That action has been taken and we must live with it, and forgive me, for I do not wish to question the collective wisdom of the Masters of the Families. After all, I was one who gave consent to that liaison. But we would be foolish to close our eyes to its consequences.”
Helium stirred the water. He felt caught, though he did not suspect a trap. As a defender of the Code he had argued with Pawl not to marry Laurel Beltane but had finally accepted that Pawl was adamant. Still, the marriage had worried him. He had wondered what the repercussions would be.
Niggling in his mind was the fear that the Felice woman might just be right.
“I will talk with Clover Shell,” he said. “Meanwhile, may I ask, why have you contacted me particularly? Have you spoken to the Proctor First? The Wong? The Xerxes? The Paxwax?”
“Helium, you are a man of action. You have shown that in the recent war. That is why I have spoken to you first, though I have already made my fears known to the Sith and the Paragon. In answer to your second question, I intend to speak to the other Families directly.”
“Then Laverna,” said Helium, leaning forward suddenly so that his finely-haired face filled the entire vivante space, “please accept a warning. In making your news known, do not seek to undermine the Paxwax. Do I need to say more?”
“No,” said Laverna.
She broke contact and Helium’s face shrank to a point of light and then vanished.
Laverna shivered. Then she smiled to herself.
Methodically she tapped out the code which would link her with the Proctor First.
Helium Bogdanovich swam back and forth for several minutes, diving and bursting up through the surface and slapping his platelike hands on the water. Then he heaved his bulk out of the water and shook himself sending up a fine spray. He padded off to find Clover Shell.
The Shell-Bogdanovich Conspiracy used many aliens in their far-flung empire.
11
IN ELLIOTT’S POCKET
There was, of course, no question of following Raleigh’s warning. A full expedition was planned to travel out to the new star and its strange planets. The people who dwelt in the Pocket had faced danger many times. They had found that the best defence was to be inquisitive.
Pawl and Laurel, and even the festival in honour of John Death Elliott, took second place.
Lumb became the headquarters and main clearing house for new information. Every sensor and telescope in that part of the Pocket was trained upon the new arrivals. It was quickly discovered that Erix, despite its size, was not solid. It seemed to have an atmosphere like jelly and nothing could be discovered about its actual surface. It appeared totally dead, inert.
Candle was just a sun, consuming itself, indistinguishable from thousands of other suns, except for its brightness.
Ultima Thule was a complete enigma. Psychics in all parts of the Pocket attested that they could feel a very strong power there, but that was all. An unmanned probe which flew past the world lost all contact with Lumb and returned with its photographic plates black. Messages of all kinds were beamed at the small planet but elicited no response. Dicyanin plates however, exposed on Lumb, showed the green world to have a first magnitude aura. There was no doubt that life of a very vital, but perhaps unknown form existed on Ultima Thule.
The strangeness of the team of investigators who gathered on Lumb matched the strangeness of the newcomers. Raleigh and Laurel travelled up to the Way Gate to meet them.
First to arrive was Cordoba. She hobbled from the Way Gate on a pair of sticks. By reputation she was one of the most powerful psychics that the Pocket had produced. She had gypsy eyes which seemed to read all secrets. She lived alone, since the death of her husband, on one of the small asteroids which made up the tail of the Snake. In her time she had mothered seven children and had foreseen the death of six of them. It was this experience that gave her eyes their candour. She hobbled past Laurel and Raleigh, guided by her youngest daughter, and down into the shuttle station. She gave them scarcely a glance.
“Is she not well?” asked Laurel.
“No. She’s dreaming. Most of us are. Her mind is out there.” Raleigh nodded to the windows beyond which glimmered the green vastness of Emerald Lake. “She’s usually a jolly woman. She’s an old friend of Bardol.”
*
Again the transit light blinked on to announce a new arrival. When the Way Gate doors slid open two men stepped out. The first was a giant like Pettet, but where Pettet was dark and swarthy like a wrestler, this man was graceful with a perfectly-formed face and a mass of blond curls which tumbled down on to his shoulders.
“That is Tank, the painter,” murmured Raleigh. “He made the portrait of John Death Elliott that is hanging in the entrance way.”
“A painter? Why are they sending a painter out to Ultima Thule?”
Raleigh shrugged. “Well, the photographs have failed. And besides, Tank is no ordinary painter. He shows not only the outside of something, but also what is really there. I find him quite frightening.”
“And the other man?”
“Ah, that is Wystan. You’ll like him. He’s quite mad. He believes, really believes, that he should not have been born a human being at all, but should have been a plant. A honeysuckle I think. He talks to plants.” Laurel laughed at this. “And what’s more, he says they talk ba
ck to him. He refuses to live in a house. He has a cave over in the university grounds on Ra.”
Laurel turned and hid her laughter from the two new arrivals. “And why is he included in this quest? He seems less likely than Tank.”
“Many of us believe that w hat lives up there on Thule is not animal life as we know it. We think it might be closer to plant life, and if that is the case, Wystan may be able to make sense of them. He is a rare mystic. Come on, I’ll introduce you to both of them.”
On their way down to the surface of Lumb, Laurel had a chance to observe the three people who would shortly be travelling out to the new solar system. They were perfectly at their ease, yet each seemed enveloped in their own silence. Cordoba sat very still, with her hand baggage on her knees. From time to time small smiles flitted across her face as though she were listening to a well told, amusing story.
Tank sat hunched, his immense shoulders pressed into a corner. He watched everything: the play of the light across the backs of his hands, the way Cordoba held her bag, the inclination of a head. His hands were massive, with fingers like sausages, and Laurel found herself wandering how hands so rough could create such exquisite drawings. Once she found him staring at her. It was not unpleasant, but there was something voracious about his eyes, something which reminded her of Pawl, and she was glad when he looked away.
Wystan was a compulsive talker. He talked about anything, with his mind leaping laterally from topic to topic. But once, when they were passing through the high branches of the shrub which covered Lumb, he paused and placed the flat of his hand against the window. Obediently, it seemed, a frond of the shrub snaked out and matched the place where his hand rested. Then they were past. Laurel was surprised that no one else seemed to have noticed.
That night the festival continued and Bardol sang. It became something of a farewell party, for the next day the small team of investigators was due to depart. Pettet was to captain the ship and Haberjin, naturally, was the pilot.
“Master Pawl, Master Pawl. Can I ask you something?” It was Peron, and clearly he had something preying on his mind. “Yes, Peron. Do you want to take copies of the maps back to Homeworld?”
“Yes, er, no. Well, I do, but that wasn’t what I wanted to ask. I was wondering if I might ask to accompany the expedition. There is room on the ship. It would be a great adventure for me. I have led the quiet life of a scholar and … well, I would return to Bennet Homeworld naturally, as soon as the expedition returned.”
Pawl looked at Peron. The scholar was so eager. He reminded Pawl of a puppy dog that scents there may be a walk in the offing. “Go, if you have a mind to and if they have room. I wish I could join in myself, but the affairs of the Paxwax…. ” He let the sentence trail away. That very morning he had received word from Helium Bogdanovich that he should return to his Homeworld as soon as possible: some trouble was brewing. “Make plenty of vivantes. And when you come back I shall want to hear everything that has happened.”
Peron beamed, and without more ado set off to find Pettet.
The next day, most of the people who lived on Lumb, and those who were visiting for the festival, gathered at the main subterranean hangar.
Standing ready was a huge prospecting ship, the one which Pettet and Haberjin used when they went exploring. Its name was Lotus. Without any undue formalities the crew began to embark. Tank carried a satchel on his back containing his paints and brushes. He helped Cordoba climb up the high gangway and through the spherical hole which led into the ship. Both paused and waved before going on board.
One-eyed Bardol cupped his hands round his mouth and called, “Come back safe, witch-woman, and tell me all the news. I want to write a song about this.”
“Well, make sure you’re still alive when I get back,” she called and went inside.
Tank took a deep breath and ducked inside without saying anything. That man does not like living in confined spaces, thought Laurel. / must make sure to get copies of his paintings.
Wystan and Haberjin clowned on their way up the gangway and then at the top bowed formally to each other and tried to cram through the doorway together.
Next came Peron. He was paler than usual with excitement, and muttered a clumsy farewell to Pawl before climbing the gangway two steps at a time.
Last was Pettet. He kissed Raleigh and she whispered something in his ear and then pushed him away with a smile. He came to Pawl and Laurel. “Take care of one another,” he said. “We love you both. I’ll bring back a bit of green cheese from that world up there as a birthday gift for the little one.”
“Away, man. You take care of yourself. And take care of Peron. I need him to write the history of the Paxwax.”
Pettet grinned. “He’ll be safe with us.”
Then he too was gone and the spherical door closed and the gangway drew back.
“Is that all?” asked Laurel. “I expected fanfares and trumpets.”
“That’s all,” said Raleigh. “We think it is unlucky to make too much of a fuss, no matter how important the assignment. Come on. We’ll watch them take off from the control room.”
Quickly the hangar emptied of people. Pawl and Laurel climbed to an enclosed observation pod high on the walls. They watched as the hangar was pumped clear of air. Then bright blue fire crackled over the surface of the ship.
“Elmo’s light,” said Raleigh. “Now watch.”
One entire wall of the hangar began to slide back, revealing the crazy polychrome sky of the Pocket.
Silently the ship lifted and then began to glide forward. It gathered speed rapidly, barrelling towards the opening, and then suddenly it was out from the planet and its particle engines flared and lit up the entire inside of the hangar. The doors began to close.
“So they’re gone,” said Laurel, “just like that.”
“Just like that,” said Raleigh. She was crying. “Pay no attention to me. I’m always like this when they set out. You’d think by now I would have learned better.”
“Where was Paris?” asked Pawl as he and Laurel made their way back to their cave home. “I hoped he would be there to say goodbye and bon voyage to Pettet.”
“Well, where was Pettet’s daughter come to that?” said Laurel. “I imagine they wanted to be there. I think they have become very involved with one another. I haven’t seen much of Paris at all.”
They wandered on round the lake, hand in hand, in silence.
“And here is someone else I haven’t seen,” said Pawl finally, pointing to a stooped, domed figure that sat beneath a tree close to the water’s edge.
“Don’t disturb it now,” said Laurel. She had enjoyed the last few days, free from the presence of Odin. She wished the small creature would stay on in the Pocket or return to the Inner Circle. With Odin about she never felt that Pawl was completely hers.
“I must talk to him,” said Pawl. “If we are leaving tomorrow … well, at least he needs to be ready. I wonder what he makes of the Pocket and the strange planets. I promised Pettet I would ask him.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going back to the cave. Try not to be too late.”
Laurel walked on, and then on an impulse stepped out of her light clothes and dived into the lake. Pawl watched her for a few moments and then crossed the small margin of grass and squatted down beside Odin. He thought of the fringed red feelers which were their call sign but could detect no presence of Odin. He prodded the dark-robed figure with his finger and felt a mushy resistance. “Come on, wake up, Odin. I need to talk to you.” Again Pawl concentrated on the image of red tendrils creeping like worms.
Odin was not asleep. He was very much aware of Pawl but he was not sufficiently collected to begin communication. Like most of the psychics in the Pocket, Odin’s attention was far out above Emerald Lake where Ultima Thule turned. He had been transfixed ever since the world emerged.
Unlike most of the psychics, who could not make sense of the impressions they received, Odin felt a sting of recognition. He had ex
perienced those muscular thought-forms before. He had stood under them. Odin knew with certainty that the world which the humans called Ultima Thule was the Homeworld of the Tree that lived on Sanctum. He tried to make some impression on the psychosphere of that world but he was beaten back. It was a world on guard. He could not mesh with any of its thought-forms, though he tried with every fibre of his being.
And when he felt Pawl approach and was aware of his nudging, Odin slowly began to withdraw. Deep inside him a slow peristalsis began and his basal sucker contracted. He began to withdraw his roots from the rich loam by the lakeside. Finally he felt sufficiently composed to respond to Pawl.
Odin’s presence uncoiled in Pawl’s mind like a bright red flower opening in the sun. “Master Pawl, it has been some time.”
Pawl shaped his own thoughts. “At last. I am glad to know you are there. I was beginning to worry.”
“I am here. The time for us to leave is growing close, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Tomorrow. Evidently there is some trouble among the Families. I must return. I want you by me.” Silence.
“Have you enjoyed your time in the Pocket?” asked Pawl.
“It has been instructive. But now I am ready to leave.”
“Do you know about all the excitement? Everything that has happened?”
“I have followed events. I hope your friends will be safe, and young Peron.”
“Can you make anything of what is out there?”
“Nothing except that it is very powerful. But I do not think they are heading into great danger.”
“I have a lot I want to ask you.”
Odin sighed his understanding. “And we shall have time, Master Pawl. But now I must rest. Journey through the Way Gate is harder on me than on you and I am a slow creature.”
“Then we shall see you tomorrow.”
Pawl left Odin where he was. He was surprised at how tired the creature’s thought-form seemed. But, he reasoned to himself, the Pocket affects different people different ways. He was glad that Odin did not seem to smell danger in the future.
