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GRIMM’S STORY
By Vernor Vinge
The tavern was old, luxurious—even respectable. Its sloping dance floor and high ceiling created the illusion that the hall was an open amphitheater. Crystal spheres cast an even, unwavering twilight over tables and patrons. Svir Hedrigs squinted gloomily at the newly polished table surface. Barely visible under the varnish were three centuries of minor vandalism. Krirsarque had been a university city for almost ten generations, and during that time, unnumbered students had carved their names in the durable furniture of the Bayside Arbor.
It was still early and not a third of the tables were occupied. The jongleurs were up on their platform, playing songs and doing acrobatics. So far their amusements had not drawn a single couple onto the dance floor. Hedrigs grunted his disgust, and extended long knobby legs under the table. He absently caressed the furry body of the creature sitting on the table. The animal turned its outsize head toward him and regarded the man with limpid black eyes. A deep purring sound came from its wide, pointed ears. Then it turned away and scanned the hall, its tall ears flicking this way and that. Far across the hall, a waiter looked severely in their direction, began walking toward them. When he got to within three tables of Hedrigs, he stopped, puzzled, with the air of someone who has forgotten his purpose. The waiter shook his head confusedly and headed back to the bar.
“Good boy,” murmured Hedrigs. Tonight he didn’t want to argue with anyone about his pet’s presence in the tavern. Svir had come out for one last fling before sailing tomorrow. Fling—ha! He knew he would just sit lumpishly till closing time. For the thousandth time he cursed his bad luck. Who’d have thought that his thesis topic would require him to sail all the way to Crownesse? Because of the season, that was more than ten days’ sailing time, unless one could afford hydrofoil passage— which he certainly could not.
The hall was filling now, but as he surveyed it, Hedrigs concluded with sick self-pity that this night he didn’t have the courage to tour the tables, importuning unattached girls. He slouched back and made a determined effort to finish his drink in one draft.
“May I join you?” The soft voice came from behind and above. Hedrigs choked violently on his skaal, spewing the liquid in all directions. His fit of choking gave him a chance to see that the speaker was as pretty as her voice.
“Please do!” He gasped painfully, trying to regain some shred of poise. “Miss, uh—?”
“Tatja Grimm.” The miracle lowered herself gracefully into the chair next to his, and set her drink on the table next to Ancho’s right forepaw. Svir felt himself staring. He daydreamed of encounters like this constantly, but now that he was confronted by reality he didn’t know what to do or say. Tatja Grimm was certainly not pretty: she was beautiful, beautiful in an especially wonderful way. From a distance she would have appeared to be a slender girl with a superb figure and reddish-brown hair. But Tatja Grimm was more than six feet tall— nearly as tall as Hedrigs himself. Her hands were slim and delicate—and larger than the hands of most men. But the most wonderful thing of all was the look of genuine interest and intelligence in her gray-green eyes. She was interested in him.
“And your name?” Tatja smiled dazzlingly.
The wheels went round and Svir remembered his name: “Svir Hedrigs.”
Tatja rubbed Svir’s pet about the neck. “And that,” said Svir, happy at finding something to say, “is Ancho.”
“A dorfox? They’re awfully rare, aren’t they?”
“Uh-huh. Only a few can survive ocean voyages.”
Tatja played with Ancho for a few seconds. The dorfox responded with satisfied humming. The human female was accepted.
Hedrigs’ hopes were shattered almost as quickly as they had crystallized. Three men came over and sat down, without a word to Svir.
“Miss Grimm, did you—?” one began. Then he noticed the dorfox. The newcomers sat silently and watched her and the animal. Svir didn’t know what was going on, but now he didn’t care. There was obviously more competition here than he could handle.
Tatja Grimm looked up from the dorfox. “Men, this is Svir Hedrigs. Svir, meet Brailly Tounse, Rey Guille, and Kederichi Maccioso. They are respectively the First Proofreader, General Fiction Editor, and Ship’s Captain for Fantasie magazine. I serve as the Science Editor.”
Like hell, thought Svir. He knew he was being taken. Svir was a naturally gullible person. Once, in this very tavern, a couple of netscrapers had managed to convince him they were hot-air balloonists. Since then, he had been always on his guard. There were several good reasons why his new “friends” were frauds. In the first place, the Tarulle Publishing Barge wasn’t due in the Krirsarque area for another three days. Svir had been very upset to learn that his ship would stay a day ahead of the Tarulle fleet as the publishing company sailed slowly east along the Chainpearl Archipelagate. He wouldn’t receive the latest copies of Fantasie—all two years’ worth—until he reached Bayfast in Crownesse. In the second place, the Tarulle Barge rarely landed at minor places like Krirsarque. The Barge dispatched its hydrofoil sailing boats for such contacts. These boats delivered the company’s publications, and took aboard supplies and manuscripts. People like Rey Guille and Ked Maccioso were far too important and busy to leave the Barge. The frauds at his table had aimed far too high in their impersonation. Of all the literary corporations in the world—fiction or non-fiction, periodical or book—Fantasie was perhaps the most prestigious. Hedrigs had always admired Rey Guille and the managing editor, Spektr Ramsey. And never had he seen a Science Section in Fantasie, or heard of Tatja Grimm.
Well, determined Svir Hedrigs, I can trade them lie for lie. Aloud he said, “So happy to meet you. I find a lot of your stuff especially provocative since my specialty is astronomy.”
“An astronomer?” They were obviously impressed. Even the over-muscled bruiser identified as Ked Maccioso seemed interested.
“That’s right,” Svir affirmed. And, actually, he was an astronomer. But the others naturally assumed from his unmodified assertion, that he was one of those intrepid souls who manned the ninety-inch reflector in the Doomsday Mountains on The Continent. Life at the Doomsday Observatory was a constant struggle against asphyxiation, cold, mountain apes, and Hurdic tribesmen. “I came out here to deliver some speeches at Krirsarque University.” This last was an inversion of the truth. Svir was a graduate student in astronomy at Krirsarque. For the last two years he had worked with the thirty-inch telescope at the university. The most recent publisher coming west from The Continent had brought news that the men at Doomsday had duplicated some of Hedrigs’ work. Now Svir had to journey all the way to the coast of The Continent to meet with one of the Doomsday astronomers and thrash the problem out.
“What’s your preference in astronomy?” asked Tatja. “Seraphy?”
“No,” replied Svir. “Seraph’s not visible from Doomsday. I’m in a new field—parallax astronomy. Using very delicate trig techniques, I’ve measured the distances to some of the nearer stars.”
“Really! I bought an article on that very subject for the latest issue.” She snapped her fingers. “Brailly Tounse” reached into a side pouch and handed Tatja a magazine. She gave it to Svir. “See.”
Svir gasped. There was the familiar masthead of Fantasie. In small letters beneath it were the words: “Issue of the 162nd Meridian. Whole Number 10,039.” Here was physical proof that the Tarulle fleet had already arrived. With the quivering ecstasy of a long-time addict, he drooled over the Togoto cover, and then the table of contents. Beneath the magazine’s famous motto, “Things are not as they seem,” were listed fifteen stories and novelettes by authors from all over the world. A new short by Ivam Alecque, a serial by Tsumish Kats . . . Svir flipped through the pages and came across one that caught on his fingers. It wasn’t made of the usual seaweed pulp, but of some heavier, lacquer-coated material. At the top of that page was written: “Meet the Fantasie staff.” Below were six portraits do
ne in tones of green. But they weren’t acid-etch prints, or even hand paintings. These pictures were green-tinted windows revealing perfect likenesses of Tatja Grimm and the men seated at Svir’s table.
Hedrigs wondered if he looked as embarrassed as he felt. These people were everything they claimed to be. And now Tatja Grimm was even more desirable—if that were possible—than she had been before.
Grimm placed her hand on his forearm as she saw what Svir was looking at. “How do you like those pictures? That’s a development we picked up in the Osterlei Archipelagate. Those pictures are made by a machine that looks at its subject and instantly ‘paints’ the picture, just like in the Diogens stories.” Tatja slipped her hand down onto his. For a moment Svir’s vision blurred. A warm glow spread through his body. “My picture is at the bottom there because the Science Department was only introduced last year, when dear old Spektr gave in to the increased popularity of contrivance fiction.
“I can tell you are a fan. How long have you been reading Fantasie?”
“Ever since I was seven. Twenty years. The Tarulle Barge has come through the Archipelagate ten times in that period. I’ve looked forward to each arrival more and more eagerly. I’ve even collected some issues from the last century.”
Tatja laughed, a friendly, intimate chuckle. The men at the table receded into the back of Svir’s consciousness. “That’s a worthwhile project. Do you know that in all the world, there is only one complete collection of Fantasie?”
“You mean the proof copies on the barge?”
“No. Not even the Tarulle Company has a complete set. Remember, there was a fire on Old Barge three hundred years ago, and all the copies to that date were lost. Up to twenty years ago, there were more than twenty-five complete collections, but a series of accidents has destroyed all but one.” She put a faint accent on the word “accidents.”
Hedrigs had never thought about it, but it certainly was possible that only one complete collection existed. As the Tarulle Company toured the world, they sold their magazines, and printed extra copies to drop off at later island chains. Delivery was quite unreliable compared to a subscription service, such as some island magazines used. Thus it was very difficult to get a continuous sequence of issues. And Fantasie was seven hundred years old. Even though most issues had been recopied and their stories anthologized, so that any major library contained thousands of stories from the magazine, there were still “lost” issues unavailable on the Chainpearls.
The person or government that possessed the complete set must be very wealthy and dedicated to culture. “Who has the collection?” asked Svir.
“The Regent of Crownesse, Tar Benesh,” Tatja answered.
Svir frowned. Tar Benesh had never impressed him as a man of high taste. He almost missed what Tatja Grimm said next. She was looking directly at him, and her lips barely moved. She seemed to be preoccupied with something far away.
“It’s too bad Benesh is going to destroy them.”
“What! Why? Can’t he be stopped?” His shocked questions tumbled over each other. Why would anyone want to destroy seven hundred years of Fantasie? The epic cycles, the ingenious short stories—all those glimpses into worlds-that-are-not—would be lost.
Tatja’s hand tightened around his. Her face came near his and he heard her say, “Perhaps there is a way to stop him. With you and your dorfox perhaps—”
“Please, Miss Grimm, not here!” Ked Maccioso leaned forward tensely, at the same time glancing around the tavern. Svir’s domain of attention expanded. He realized that now the Arbor was crowded, the dance floor overflowing, and the jongleurs in fine form on their resonation platform. Tatja’s presence had made him completely unaware of the changes.
Grimm nodded to the heavy ship’s captain. “I suppose you’re right, Ked.” She turned back to the astronomer. “When were you planning to return to The Continent, Svir?”
Return? Then Svir remembered the lie he had told them. But he couldn’t reveal his fraud to her now. He wanted, needed, the interest Tatja was showing him.
“I sail tomorrow for Bayfast.”
“Would you like to come on the Tarulle Barge? It’s slower than hydrofoil, but we’ll get you there just the same.”
“I certainly would.” The words came spontaneously, but he felt no desire to retract them. Imagine sailing off with a beautiful, famous girl—into adventure. His previous reality seemed pale indeed beside these prospects.
“Why don’t you come out to Barge with us tonight? We’ll show you around.” She looked straight into his eyes. The men with her watched carefully, too. They couldn’t talk here.
“Okay.” Svir set Ancho on his shoulder. They all stood up and worked their way to the door. The music and party sounds faded as they descended the ancient stone stairs that led from Highrock to the wharves of the Krirsarque harbor.
Soon Maccioso was paddling them out to sea. Apparently the landing was a secret. It was well into the night sleep period and no other craft were moving. A breeze swept across the water, splashed luminescing algae into the boat.
Half an hour passed. No one spoke. Ancho shivered quietly, fearful of the water. They left the glowing waters of the harbor behind. It was quite cloudy, so even the light of Seraph was denied them. Gradually Svir convinced himself that there was a greater darkness on the water ahead of them. And then he was sure. The huge pile of the Tarulle Publishing Barge rose tier upon tier out of the ocean. Beside it floated the smaller forms of scout hydrofoils. All were without lights.
They pulled over to the hulk, and a group of company sailors pulled the little boat into a freight bay. A section leader saluted Maccioso. She said, “XO’s compliments, sir, and no exterior activity noted.”
Maccioso returned the salute. “Have him take us out past the shelf.”
Svir was escorted up a long corridor, into the heart of the vessel. They entered a luxurious, brightly-lit room. Just the maintenance of the algae pots must cost several man-hours a day. The five seated themselves around a table, on which was fastened a detailed map of Bayfast, the capital of Crownesse.
“This must all seem a bit melodramatic, Svir,” said Tatja, “but Tar Benesh has an efficient spy system extending from Crownesse on The Continent all the way to the Osterlei Archipelagate. The Regent is ambitious without limit. He—”
Ancho began nibbling at the map. As Svir pulled him back, the animal keened an almost inaudible whistle. For an instant everyone in the room felt stark terror. Then Hedrigs patted the little animal, and the dorfox relaxed. The feeling of panic disappeared. Ancho turned his large eyes toward Hedrigs as if to ask forgiveness.
Tatja smiled shakily. “Tar Benesh is also an extremely intelligent, capable individual. And he is—mad. Or perhaps he is just alien. Some rumors hint that he is actually a Wildman from the center of The Continent.
“Since he came to power twenty years ago, he has been a collector of Fantasie. And to enhance the value of his wealth, we believe that he sabotaged other collections.”
“We know for a fact that he has destroyed other collections,” Rey Guille interrupted.
“Every five years, Benesh holds the Festival of the Ostentatious Consumption. You may have heard of it—”
Svir gulped. “You’re not trying to tell me that the Fantasie collection is going to be one of the sacrifices?”
Tatja nodded her head slowly, “Yes, that’s it exactly. The Festival is scheduled to begin ten days from now. We plan to arrive in Bayfast on the night wake period of the Consumption.” She gestured to the map of the Bayfast area, and the detailed floor plans of Tar Benesh’s Keep. “I can’t go over the details of the plans now, but we are going to try to save that collection. Our magazine has the unconditional backing of the entire Tarulle Company,” she nodded at Maccioso, “in this venture. It’s not going to be easy. But I think we could succeed if we had Ancho’s help. And we need you too. You know Ancho best, and can persuade him to cooperate.”
Svir glanced down at the li
ttle mammal, who sat licking his paws, unaware of the plans being made for him. “Yes,” the astronomer answered, “dorfoxes are strange that way. They will answer to only one master at a time. And no one can predict exactly when they will change loyalties.”
“Svir, this will be dangerous. But we need you. And some of the stories Benesh has, exist nowhere else. Will you come with us and help?” She was pleading.
Hedrigs suddenly realized what he was being asked to do. He could get killed—and all for some magazines. Before now he had been uneasy at the mere thought of traveling to Crownesse, and now he was going to risk his life in a plot against the government of that country. Some sensible element within him was screaming No—no—no! But he saw the pleading in Tatja’s eyes. “Yes,” he quavered, then continued more strongly, feigning confidence, “I’ll be glad to do anything I can.”
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