Universe 4 - [Anthology] Read online

  Bo quivered with wrath. So the girl wouldn’t look at him! So she thought him a stupid laborer! Couldn’t she tell he was Bo Histledine, the notorious Big Boo, known up and down the North Shore, from Dipshaw Heights to Swarling Park?

  He moved along the rail. Halting beside the girl he contrived to drop his adjustment wrench on her foot. She yelped in pain and surprise. “Sorry,” said Bo. He could not restrain a grin. “Did it hurt?”

  “Not very much.” She looked down at the black smear of grease on her white sandal, then she turned and joined her parents, who were entering the aerie. She said in a puzzled voice, “Do you know, I believe that workman purposely dropped his tool on my foot.”

  Tynnott said after a moment, “He probably wanted to attract your attention.”

  “I wish he’d thought of some other way ... It still hurts.”

  Two hours later, with the sun low in the west, Tynnott took the aerie aloft. The spaceyards dwindled below; the black buildings, the skeletal spaceships, the ramps, docks and gantries, became miniatures. The Louthe lay across the panorama in lank mustard-silver sweeps, with a hundred bridges straddling. Dipshaw Heights rose to the west with white structures stepping up and down the slope; beyond and away to the north spread residential suburbs among a scatter of parks and greenways. In the east stood the decaying towers of the Old City; in the south, golden among a tumble of cumulus clouds, Cloudhaven floated like a wonderful fairy castle.

  The aerie drifted full in the light of sunset. The Tynnotts, Merwyn, Jade and Alice, leaned on the railing looking down upon the city.

  “Now you’ve seen old Hant,” said Merwyn Tynnott, “or at least the scope of it. What do you think?”

  “It’s a wild confusion,” said Alice. “At least it seems that way. So many incongruous elements: Cloudhaven, the Old City, the working-class slums . . .”

  “Not to mention Jillyville, which is just below us,” said Jade, “and College Station, and the Alien Quarter.”

  “And Dipshaw Heights, and Goshen, and River Meadow, and Elmhurst, and Juba Valley.”

  “Exactly,” said Alice. “I wouldn’t even try to generalize.”

  “Wise girl!” said Merwyn Tynnott. “In any event, generalization is a job for the subconscious, which has a very capable integrating apparatus.”

  Alice found the idea interesting. “How do you distinguish between generalization and emotion?”

  “I never bother.”

  Alice laughed at her father’s whimsy. “I use my subconscious whenever I can, but I don’t trust it. For instance, my subconscious insists that a workman carefully dropped his wrench on my foot. My common sense doesn’t believe it.”

  “Your common sense isn’t common enough,” said Merwyn Tynnott. “It’s perfectly simple. He fell in love and wanted to let you know.”

  Alice, half amused, half embarrassed, shook her head. “Ridiculous! I’d only just jumped aboard the boat!”

  “Some people make up their minds in a hurry. As a matter of fact, you were unusually cordial with Waldo Walberg last night.”

  “Not really,” said Alice airily. “Waldo of course is a pleasant person, but certainly neither of us has the slightest romantic inclination. In the first place, I couldn’t spare the time, and secondly, I doubt if we have anything in common.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Jade. “We’re only teasing you because you’re so pretty and turn so many heads and then pretend not to notice.”

  “I suppose I could make myself horrid,” mused Alice. “There’s always the trick Shikabay taught me.”

  “Which trick? He’s taught you so many.”

  “His new trick is rather disgusting, but he insists that it works every time.”

  “I wonder how he knows,” said Jade with a sniff. “Wretched old charlatan! And lewd to boot.”

  “In this connection,” said Merwyn Tynnott, “I want to warn you: be careful around this old city. The people here are urbanites. The city festers with subjectivity.”

  “I’ll be careful, although I’m sure I can take care of myself. If I couldn’t, Shikabay would feel very humiliated ... I’ll get it.” She went in to answer the telephone. Waldo’s face looked forth from the screen: a handsome face, the eyes stern, the nose straight, the droop of the mouth indicating sensitivity, or charm, or self-indulgence, or impatience, or all, or none, depending upon who made the appraisal and under what circumstances. In accordance with the current mode, Waldo’s hair had been shorn to a stubble, then enameled glossy black, and carefully carved into a set of rakish curves, cusps and angles. His teeth were enameled black; he wore silver lip-enamel and his ears were small flat tabs, with a golden bauble dangling from his right ear. To a person schooled in urban subtleties, Waldo’s costume indicated upper-class lineage and his mannerisms were those of Cloudhaven alone. “Hello, Waldo,” said Alice. “I’ll call Father.”

  “No, no, wait! It’s you I want.”

  “Oh? For what?”

  Waldo licked his lips and peered into the screen. “I was right.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re the most exciting, entrancing, exhilarating person in, on, above or below the city Hant.”

  “How ridiculous,” said Alice. “I’m just me.”

  “You’re fresh as a flower, an orange marigold dancing in the wind.”

  “Please be serious, Waldo. I assume you called about that book Cities of the Past.”

  “No. I’m calling about cities of the present, namely Hant. Since you’ll be here so short a time, why don’t we look the old place over?”

  “That’s just what we’re doing,” said Alice. “We can see all the way south to Elmhurst, north to Birdville, east to the Old City, west to the sunset.”

  Waldo peered into the screen. Flippancy? Ponderous humor? Sheer stupidity? Utter naivete? Waldo could not decide. He said politely, “I meant that we should look in on one of the current presentations, something that you might not see out on Rampold. For instance, a concert? an exhibition? a percept? . . . What’s that you’re doing?”

  “I’m noting down an idea before I forget it.”

  Waldo raised his expressive eyebrows. “Then afterwards we could take a bite of supper somewhere and get acquainted. I know an especially picturesque place, the Old Lair, which I think you might enjoy.”

  “Waldo, I really don’t want to leave the aerie; it’s so peaceful up here, and we’re having such a nice talk.”

  “You and your parents?” Waldo was amazed.

  “There’s no one else here.”

  “But you’ll be in Hant such a very short time!”

  “I know . . . Well, perhaps I should make the most of my time. I can enjoy myself later.”

  Waldo’s voice became thick. “But I want you to enjoy yourself tonight!”

  “Oh, very well. But let’s not stay out late. I’m visiting the Academy tomorrow morning.”

  “We’ll let circumstances decide. I’ll be across in about an hour. Will that give you time to do your primping?”

  “Come sooner, if you like. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  2

  Waldo arrived half an hour later to find Alice waiting for him. She wore a simple gown of dull dark-green stuff; a fillet of flat jade pebbles bound with gold wire confined her hair. She inspected Waldo with curiosity, and for a fact Waldo’s habiliments were remarkable both for elegance and intricacy. His trousers, of a light material patterned in black, brown and maroon, bagged artfully at the hips, gripped the calves, and hung carelessly awry over the slippers of black- and red-enameled metal. Waldo’s blouse was a confection of orange, gray and black; above this he wore a tight-waisted black jacket, pinched at the elbow, flaring at the sleeve, and a splendid cravat of silk, which shimmered with the colors of an oil-film on water. “What an interesting costume!” Alice exclaimed. “I suppose each detail has its own symbological value.”

  “If so, I’m not aware of it,” said Waldo. “Good evening, Commander.”

&n
bsp; “Good evening, Waldo. And where are you bound tonight?”

  “It depends upon Alice. There’s a concert at the Contemporanea: the music of Vaakstras, highly interesting.”

  “Vaakstras?” Alice reflected. “I’ve never heard of him. Of course that means nothing.”

  Waldo laughed indulgently. “A cult of dissident musicians emigrated to the coast of Greenland. They raised their children without music of any sort, without so much as knowledge of the word ‘music.’ At adolescence they gave the children a set of instruments and required that they express themselves, and in effect create a musical fabric based upon their innate emotive patterns. The music which resulted is indeed challenging. Listen.” From his pocket he brought a small black case. A window glowed to reveal an index; Waldo set dials. “Here’s a sample of Vaakstras; it’s not obvious music.”

  Alice listened to the sounds from the music-player. “I’ve heard better cat fights.”

  Waldo laughed. “It’s demanding music, and certainly requires empathy from the participant. He must search his own file of patterns, rummaging and discarding until he finds the set at the very bottom of the pile, and these should synthesize within his mind the wild emotions of the Vaakstras children.”

  “Let’s not bother tonight,” said Alice. “I’d never be sure that I’d uncovered the proper patterns and I might feel all the wrong emotions, and anyway I’m not all that interested in feeling someone else’s emotions; I’ve got enough of my own.”

  “We’ll find something you’ll like, no fear of that.” Waldo bowed politely to Merwyn and Jade, and conducted Alice into the cab. They slanted down toward the city.

  Waldo looked sidewise at Alice. He declared, “Tonight you’re an enchanted princess from a fairy tale. How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alice. “I didn’t try anything special. Where are we going?”

  “Well, there’s an exhibition of Latushenko’s spirit crystals, which he grows in new graves; or we could go to the Arnaud Intrinsicalia, where there’s a very clever performance, which I’ve already seen three times; I know you’d enjoy it. Operators are prosthetically coupled to puppets, who perform the most adventurous and outrageous acts. There’s a performance of Salammbo on tonight, with The Secret Powder-puff, which is rather naughty, if you like such things.”

  Alice smiled and shook her head. “I happened upon the mammoth atrachids of Didion Swamp in a state of oestrus, and since then I’ve lost all interest in voyeurism.”

  Waldo was taken aback. He blinked and adjusted his cravat. “Well—there’s always the Perceptory—but you’re not wired and you’d miss a great deal. There’s an exhibit at the Hypersense: John Shibe’s Posturings. Or we might luck into a couple seats at the Conservatory; tonight they’re doing Oxtot’s Generation of Fundamental Pain, with five music machines.”

  “I’m not really all that interested in music,” said Alice. “I just don’t care to sit still that long, wondering why someone saw fit to perform this or that particular set of notes.”

  “My word,” said Waldo in astonishment. “Isn’t there any music on Rampold?”

  “There’s music enough, I suppose. People sing or whistle when the mood strikes them. Out on the stations there’s always someone with a banjo.”

  “That’s not quite what I mean,” said Waldo. “Music, and in fact, art in general, is the process of consciously communicating an emotional judgment or point of view in terms of abstract symbology. I don’t believe whistling a jig fits this definition.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Alice. “I know it’s never occurred to me when I’m whistling. When I was very little we had a school-teacher from Earth—an elderly lady who was dreadfully afraid of everything. She tried to teach us subjectivity; she played us plaque after plaque of music without effect; all of us enjoyed our own emotions more than someone else’s.”

  “What a little barbarian you are, for a fact!”

  Alice only laughed. “Poor old Miss Burch! She was so upset with us! The only name I remember is Bargle, or Bangle, or something like that, who always ended his pieces with a great deal of pounding and fanfares.”

  “ ‘Bargle’? ‘Bangle’? Was it possibly Baraungelo?”

  “Why, yes, I’m sure that’s the name! How clever of you!”

  Waldo laughed ruefully. “One of the greatest composers of the last century. Well—you don’t want to go to concerts or exhibitions, or to the Perceptory,” said Waldo plaintively. “What are you doing? Making more notes?”

  “I have a bad memory,” said Alice. “When an idea arrives, I’ve got to record it.”

  “Oh,” said Waldo flatly. “Well—what do you suggest we do?”

  Alice tried to soothe Waldo’s feelings. “I’m a very impatient person. I just don’t care for subjectivizing, or vicarious experience . . . Oh, my, I’ve done it again, and made it even worse. I’m sorry.”

  Waldo was dazed by the whirl of ideas. “Sorry for what?”

  “Perhaps you didn’t notice, which is just as well.”

  “Oh, come now. It couldn’t have been all that bad. Tell me!”

  “It’s not important,” said Alice. “Where do spacemen go for amusement?”

  Waldo responded in a measured voice. “They drink in saloons, or escort fancy ladies to the High Style Restaurant, or prowl Jillyville, or gamble in the Epidrome.”

  “What is Jillyville?”

  “It’s the old market plaza, and I suppose it’s sometimes amusing. The Alien Quarter is just down Light-year Road; the jeeks and wam-poons and tinkos all have shops along the Parade. There are little bistros and drunken spacemen, mystics, charlatans and inverts, gunkers and gunk peddlers and all sorts of furtive desperate people. It’s more than a trifle vulgar.”

  “Jillyville might be interesting,” said Alice. “At least it’s alive. Let’s go there.”

  What an odd girl! thought Waldo. Beautiful to melt a man’s mind, a daughter of Commander Merwyn Tynnott, O.T.E., a member of the galactic nobility with a status far superior to his own; yet how provincial, how incredibly self-assured for her age, which could hardly be more than seventeen or eighteen! She seemed at times almost patronizing, as if he were the culturally impoverished star-lander and she the clever sophisticate! Well, then, thought Waldo, let’s divert matters into a more amusing channel. He leaned close, put his hand to her cheek and sought to kiss her, which would reestablish his initiative. Alice ducked back and Waldo was thwarted. She asked in astonishment, “Why did you do that?”

  “The usual reasons,” said Waldo in a muffled voice. “They’re quite well known. Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Waldo. But let’s just be casual friends.”

  Waldo said largely, “Why should we limit ourselves in any way? There’s scope for whatever relationship we want! Let’s start over. Pretend now that we’ve just met, but already we’ve become interested in one another!”

  “The last person I want to deceive is myself,” said Alice. She hesitated. “I hardly know how to advise you.”

  Waldo looked at Alice with a slack jaw. “As to what?”

  “Subjectivity.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

  Alice nodded. “It’s like talking to a fish about being wet. . . Let’s speak of something else. The lights of the city are really magnificent. Old Earth is certainly picturesque! Is that the Epidrome down there?”

  Looking askance at the charming features, Waldo responded in a somewhat metallic voice. “That’s Meridian Circle, at the end of the Parade, where the cults and debating societies meet. See that bar of white luciflux? That marks the Parade. The luminous green circle is the Epidrome. See those colored lights across the Parade? That’s the Alien Quarter. The jeeks like blue lights, the tinkos insist on yellow, the wampoons won’t have any lights at all, which accounts for that rather strange effect.”

  The cab landed; Waldo gallantly assisted Alice from the craf
t. “We’re at the head of the Parade; that’s all Jillyville ahead of us . . . What’s that you’re carrying?”

  “My camera. I want to record some of those beautiful costumes, and yours too.”

  “Costume?” Waldo looked down at his garments. “Barbarians wear costumes. These are just clothes.”

  “Well, they’re very interesting in any event. . . What a remarkable assortment of people!”

  “Yes,” said Waldo glumly. “You’ll see everybody and everything along the Parade. Don’t walk too closely behind the jeeks. They have a rather noxious defensive mechanism right above their tail horn. If you see a man with a red hat, he’s a bonze of the External Magma. Don’t look at him or he’ll want an ‘enlightenment fee’ for divining his thoughts. Those three men yonder are spacemen—drunk, of course. Down at the end of the Parade is Spaceman’s Rest: a jail reserved for overexuberant spacemen. Out yonder is the Baund, the most garish section of Jillyville: saloons, bordellos, shampoo parlors, cult studios, curio shops, mind-readers, evangelists and prophets, gunk-peddlers—all in the Baund.”