The Memory of Whiteness Read online

  “Thistledown. It’s a journal published on Holland, in this system. The rest of my collective will be here for the concert, and they can … vouch for me.”

  “Good,” Margaret said brusquely. This lanky man with his watery gaze was getting on her nerves; she didn’t like hangers-on. “We’ve had some trouble, and I don’t want anyone in our suite that we can’t trust.”

  “I trust him,” said Johannes, returning abruptly from his reverie.

  “Fine,” Margaret said. Just what they needed. “You have arrangements for the stay here?”

  “Yes,” Dent said. “With my collective.”

  “We’ll see you after the concert, then.” Margaret waved the man off, took Karna and Johannes in tow. As they crossed the terminal patio she told them about the crossing’s incident. “So we’ve increased security. And now that it’s known that Johannes traveled by another ship, it would be easy to find him. From now on I think we can do a better job of protecting Johannes on Orion itself.”

  “I agree,” Karna said.

  “Good.” At the terminal patio’s farthest edge a long set of escalators began, and they stepped onto it. It zigzagged down one of the spines of the rift wall, and as they descended they had a fine view of the city. As they walked around a switchback Margaret said, “The tradition in Titania is that the Master of the Orchestra comes down this escalator at the start of the concert, and then plays from the last switchback platform down there. On the way down there’s music amplified all over the city, with lights and so forth.”

  Johannes nodded. “We’ll abide by the tradition.”

  the head of an ass

  One of the Thistledown collective had a brother who lived in Titania, in one of the eastern hemispheres of the city near the cliff and the escalators leading up to the spaceport. On the night of the concert the whole collective was there, on the roof patio drinking and singing and watching the crowd in the open parklike ground under the cliff. Dent Ios was the hero of the hour. He was toasted collectively and by each shifting knot of celebrants, and he initiated a fair share of toasts himself. Several times he was entreated to repeat the story of his trip, which he did with ever-increasing enthusiasm. “The funny thing is,” he declared once again to June, Irdar, and Andrew, “I didn’t even see the Lowell concert!”

  June laughed. “This we know already. But on that tramp of a ship we managed to book you on—”

  “On that ridiculous little ship I met and became friends with Johannes Wright, yes.” Dent toasted the notion with another sip of champagne. “And he is quite an extraordinary fellow. Strange. Oh my yes. You can talk to him and he’ll be right in the conversation, and then—something you say, no doubt—and he’s gone. Those glass eyes of his roll like marbles. Then all of a sudden, bang—he’s back again and wants to know what you’ve been saying. We talked for hours. And it looks like we’ll talk for hours more, if I can get past that tour manager. What a dragon she is! Like a general in charge of her troops. But she let me on board Orion. And so I’ll see the Orchestra—I never saw it at all—there it is, see?”

  Andrew, Irdar and June laughed long and hard. “Yes, Dent, we see it.”

  The Orchestra stood on the lowest platform of the downward escalator ridge, where the escalator made its last switchback. It was about twenty meters above them, and half a kilometer away, and so far it was lit only by the beams of light aimed by curious neighbors. “Bizarre object,” Dent said. “To think of it as an instrument—well—I can hardly wait to hear this.” From the park below came a roar of voices. Dent looked over the roof’s edge and saw a bright field of flesh and clothing. Every rooftop held a party similar to theirs, and a nearby group threw sparkling fireworks at the crowd. Even the randomly placed trees were filled with spectators, and Dent laughed loudly to see a large olive tree collapse under the weight of its climbers. “It reminds me of Lowell,” he said happily.

  “Do you think there’ll be a riot, then?” Andrew asked.

  “It wasn’t exactly a riot in Lowell,” Dent said, frowning as he tried to make the distinction. “More of a … bacchanalia. A Dionysian festival, in fact.”

  “I see,” said Andrew, exchanging glances with Irdar and June.

  Intrigued by the sight of the Orchestra, Dent did not notice. Beams of bent and broken and split light fenced in the air over the Orchestra. The brown expanse of the cliffside served as the palette for hundreds of ellipses of bright color, all jumping about erratically. Many of the beams of light converged on the Orchestra itself, creating a white talcum of light around that omphalos. “It looks like the insides of an antique clock,” Dent said, staring at it owlishly.

  As if in response to his words it began to revolve. The shouts rose to howls and the mass of people on the floor of the Gap surged toward it. Lights ran up and down the escalator ridge, which seamed the cliff-face like a bright metal zipper. From the amplifiers set around the base of the Orchestra came a low, oscillant hum. Dent recognized it; the intermezzo before the last movement of De Bruik’s Human Biology. The finale of the symphony was a standard concert opener in the outer worlds. Soon the crackling of superamplified muscle contractions and the rush of adrenaline into the bloodstream announced the shift to the finale, and the crowd cheered wildly; Dent could feel his blood surging through him—

  Johannes Wright appeared on the rim of the canyon, a tiny figure in a bright blue cape. He stepped onto the escalator and it conveyed him slowly down the ridge of the canyon wall. Thump, thump, thump, pounded the pulse at the heart of the music, and long portamento slides of alpha and beta waves crossed to form the movement’s famous first theme, one of the anthems of the outer worlds; and with each thump and glissand Wright dropped closer to his Orchestra. Dent felt his pulse synchronize with the musical heartbeat, and knowing of the accelerando to come he hopped up and down on his toes, dancing with the rest of his collective. Wright was at the switchback above the Orchestra’s platform—

  With a sizzling snap snap snap a beam of painfully bright red light burst into existence, stretching from the half-buried geodesic structure next to their house, up to the escalator just below Wright. “It’s hot!” someone shouted. Unable to hear himself over the ensuing blast of noise, Dent shouted “Oh my God! Hot light! Look out!” It seared his eyes to stare up at the escalator, but he watched anyway, clutching at the roof railing and moaning. The escalator stairs just down the ridge from Wright glowed a fiery red, sagged, Wright leaped from the escalator, which buckled out into free fall, still pushed from above. “Oh no, oh no, oh no—” No sign of Wright. The burning ruby beam blinked off, and the building housing its source exploded into flame. Dent jumped up and down frantically, squinting through the bright green bars marring his vision. “Come on!” he heard June yell in his ear, and he was jerked by the arm toward the stairwell. Awkwardly he clumped down after her. In the street he hopped and skipped through the gaps between clumps of people, trying to keep up with June and Andrew. The confusion reminded him of Lowell and suddenly he was afraid. He slowed down. The general movement of the crowd was toward the Orchestra; he was cutting across that flow. June and the rest of the collective were gone, lost in the mass of bodies. People crashed into him, he saw round mouths wide open, eyes covered by hands, all through a prison window of green bars. He found himself across an open stretch of ground from the burning geodesic building. He blinked, gasped heavily. No sight of the others. What to do? Why was he here?

  Something about the crowd—there, near the wall of the building next to the burning one—a tall man, a bony face—red whiskers painted on his cheeks. Dent started, turned and pretended to look up at the cliff, looked over his shoulder briefly. It was the man from Lowell, his assailant. Edging away Dent saw that he had been noticed—the man was pointing him out to two companions, and they were starting to move toward him.…

  Dent pointed at them. “They did it!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs. “They did it! They killed Wright! Over there! Them! They did it!”

 
Red Whiskers and his two men turned and ran. Dent struggled forward through the crowd, making slow progress; no one was chasing the assassins but him. When he realized this he slowed his pace considerably. Red Whiskers was looking back often, and Dent kept his head lowered. His shoulders crashed into other shoulders; he brushed a fist aside and stopped running. I’ll tell Karna all about it, he thought to himself, I’ll give him the best description possible, it’s the best I can do. Yet all the while he was shuffling between people, unwilling to let Red Whiskers and his men out of sight. He was elbowed as he hunched over to keep his head below the top of the crowd: “Ow!” he cried. “Excuse me! Excuse me!” What was he to do? If he caught up with the assassins he surely would be beaten, or worse. It only made sense to give up and return to the collective’s house. Up ahead Red Whiskers turned another corner, a grin splitting his face. Grimly Dent put his head down and barreled forward. The street he turned onto was narrow but relatively unoccupied; he saw he would have to run if he expected to keep up with his quarry.

  He ran.

  He followed only two men now; Red Whiskers was one of them. They were fast, and Dent had to hurry. His lungs burned, and he could feel all that champagne sloshing in his belly as his feet pounded over the cobblestoned street. The street opened onto a small square with a fountain, surrounded by wedge-shaped hotels and boarding houses, which fitted between the dozen streets that converged on the square. Drinking peacefully at the fountain was a big flock of sheep, blocking the way across the square. Dent struggled across flagstones, kicking at the sheep and waving them away with his hands. His foes were likewise obstructed by the flock, and their curses were audible. Trying to kick and run simultaneously Dent slipped on sheep dung and fell onto a terrified ewe, which collapsed under him bleating in panic. A sharp little hoof struck Dent in the cheek as he struggled up. Holding his cheek he staggered on, crying “Ow! Shit! Murderer! Stop them!” The two assassins were still in the flock, slipping and cursing.

  “Dent! Dent Ios!” It was Karna Godavari, standing on the rim of the fountain. Dent jumped up and down madly, holding his cheek with one hand and pointing with the other. Karna leaped off the fountain, and Dent resumed the chase.

  They met at the mouth of the alley the two men had chosen. “It’s them,” Dent gasped. “The man who beat me on Pluto. And they came out of the house.” Karna took off and Dent followed as fast as he could, running pell-mell down the cobblestoned alleyway. Breaths rasped in and out of him. “What are you doing here?” he said.

  Karna said over his shoulder, “One of my men saw you chasing someone this way. Whoops—they’ve gone in that building—” Karna ran up a stoop into an apartment, and Dent followed him unsteadily. Inside Karna checked the rooms on the first floor, pointed up a narrow staircase and took them two at a time. The next floor was dark, and Karna had just begun his search when they heard scuffling on the floor above. Dent slipped on the first step of the stairs, and tripped Karna neatly. Together they struggled up the flight of stairs, Karna half supporting Dent, half pushing him away. “Dent, for God’s sake—there—watch it—”

  A light shone on the next floor, and voices came from behind one door; Karna opened it with a bang, and they saw a man holding a girl’s shoulder as she sat at a kitchen table. The man pointed up, toward the roof. They dashed up the last flight onto the flat roof patio.

  Beams of light still stitched the night air. Across the alleyway on the roof of the next building there was movement, and a grin framed by red whiskers shone from the stairwell doorway. “That’s him,” Dent said. They ran to the roof’s edge. A wooden walkway that had connected the two roofs dangled from their side, smoking slightly.

  “Come on,” Karna said. He stepped back, got a running start and leaped across the alleyway onto the other roof. “You’re kidding,” Dent said. He hurried to the back side of the roof, knees shaking. Without pausing to permit himself any more thought he ran forward and jumped into space. A moment of whistling stillness, like eternity; then he crashed onto the opposite roof, tumbling heavily onto his right forearm and over onto his back. He struggled to his feet, disentangling himself from the lounge chair he had landed on. Karna had already disappeared down the stairwell. Dent hobbled down the stairs after him, sucking air in and out like a bellows. “Ow!”

  When he got to the ground floor Karna was standing in the street, staring back the way they had come. He saw Dent and made a chopping motion. “No sign of them,” he said, voice rich with disgust. “I don’t know which way to go.”

  “Ahhh,” Dent said, and sat down on the doorstep. After a while, when his breath had returned, he said, “And Wright?”

  Karna gestured at his ear, which apparently contained an intercom. “They say he’s barely hurt. He landed on the platform and rolled.” He stared at Dent curiously. “He’s probably in better shape than you are. What did you do, fall down the stairs?”

  “Ah … landed on a chair, I believe.” Dent concentrated on his breathing; he was feeling a bit sick. But the news about Wright was a tremendous relief. When the wave of nausea passed he felt immeasurably better. “Well. Quite a chase.”

  Karna laughed shortly.

  “That was them, I’m sure.”

  “They ran like they were.”

  Dent nodded dizzily. “We almost caught them.”

  “Yes,” Karna said, looking at Dent curiously. “We almost caught them. You cut your face on a chair?”

  “No. A sheep kicked me.” Dent did not see Karna’s smile. His ankle, arm and face throbbed fiercely; he felt—he did not know how he felt. He had never felt this particular emotion in his entire life, and he did not know how to name it. But, dear Reader, observing this bloodied, sweaty, gawky, weak-chinned, long-moustached figure, we see a slightly different man than we did at the beginning of this tale; a transformation makes its small beginning, its clinamen.

  * * *

  The next day when Margaret Nevis met with Titania’s highest official, the Chief of Traffic and Utilities Maintenance, she was still furious. “You should look worried,” she said to the man, whose big round face was red and stubble-jawed.

  “The only thing I’m worried about is Johannes Wright,” the man said huffily. “How is he?”

  “Scraped and bruised. Sprained ankle.” She walked to the railing of the spaceport patio and looked over the rim at the city below.

  The traffic chief followed her. “That’s good to hear. Perhaps we can reschedule the concert for next week?”

  “We won’t be rescheduling it,” Margaret said. “You don’t have enough security here to police a concert. You should hire a force.”

  “We don’t need police in Titania.”

  “You did last night.” Margaret shook her head bitterly. “You damned anarchists. Look at that.” She gestured at the city below. “No plan to it—no rhyme or reason—streets all circling around like cow paths, and no one in charge—”

  “That’s the way we like it,” the man said defensively. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  “But you can’t control it. A concert is just an invitation to disaster. Someone means harm to Wright, and you can’t protect him.”

  “That’s your job,” said the traffic chief, setting his big underslung jaw like a bulldog. “There are no hot-light generators in this city, so your assassins came down with the rest of your off-world audience. You should have brought your own police as well.”

  “We have twenty securities traveling with us,” Margaret said. “When they’re working with a local force, that’s enough.”

  “But some of us don’t have local forces,” the man said. “We don’t need them, do you understand? We get along fine without them.”

  “Except that Titania is known to be the most dangerous city in the outer worlds,” Margaret retorted. “Open city anarchism—do what you want, but if you’re attacked, you’re looking out for yourself.”

  “It rarely happens. Listen, you come here from offworld and give a concert, some other offworlder
tries to kill you—don’t blame us for it.”

  “All right,” Margaret said. “But it’s too dangerous here to try it again.”

  “You made a commitment—”

  “Not at the risk of our performer’s life! How could you guarantee it wouldn’t happen again?”

  The traffic chief’s face reddened, and he walked in a small circle. “You can’t guarantee that anywhere. You might as well cancel the whole tour.”

  “Security is adequate when the local authorities cooperate.”

  Now the man was as angry as Margaret. “You’re making a bad mistake,” he said. “Downsystem you’ll be just another novelty act from the rimworlds. You won’t mean a thing to them. It’s out here that you mean something. You should be playing for the people who care about the Orchestra—about music! You should care about these people who came to see you!”

  Margaret gestured at the city again. “This is the only place people could try to kill Wright knowing there was no chance they would be caught. We can’t operate where there is no law, not when we’re in danger.”

  Over at the terminal entrance Marie-Jeanne was waving at her. “I have to leave. Listen, we’ll beam you a holo of the next performance, you can play it from the platform if you like.”

  The traffic chief shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. You should stay up in the rimworlds where the Orchestra is loved. Downsystem you’re nothing.”

  “We’ll beam you a performance. Sometimes you need law,” she said, pointing a finger as she turned away.

  “Damned socialist! You’re a damned fool! Downsystem—you’ll see!”

  Chapter Three

  TERRA INCOGNITA

  motiveless malignity

  Ekern’s fear began in a dream. One night before a performance—just a little recital for all the students of his teacher—he had gone to bed fine. And then in the dream it had all gone wrong. He was alone on a big dark drafty backstage, with acoustic dampers hanging overhead like the blades of guillotines, and through the wings and chinks in the stage curtains the voice of the audience poured like a thick liquid. Frightened by the babble he opened his flute case and found the top section missing. He put the other two sections together and searched frantically in the bare wooden corners of the backstage, but there was nothing there but dust and wood and the thick liquid sound of the watchers, and he was being called to perform. They grabbed him by the arms and pulled him toward the stage as he struggled and fought.…