Ports of Call Page 11

  In total contrast to Schwatzendale, Wingo was short, thick, blue-eyed, with only a few strands of blond hair across his pink scalp. Wingo was mild, amiable and sympathetic. He was an avid collector of curios, small trinkets and interesting oddments, prizing them not for their inherent value but for their craftsmanship and cleverness of execution. Wingo was also a dedicated photographer, and was engaged in compiling a collection of what he called ‘mood impressions’, which he hoped ultimately to publish in a portfolio entitled: ‘Pageant of the Gaean Race’.

  Wingo was greatly interested in comparative metaphysics: the sects, superstitions, religions and transcendental philosophies, which he inevitably encountered as the Glicca travelled from world to world, endlessly fascinated him. Whenever he wandered strange places, he gave careful attention to local spiritual doctrines: a practice which aroused Schwatzendale’s disapproval. “You are wasting your time! They all talk the same nonsense and only want your money. Why bother? Religious cant is the greatest nonsense of all!”

  “There is much in what you say,” Wingo admitted. “Still, is it not possible that one of these doctrines is correct and exactly defines the Cosmic Way? If we passed it by, we might never encounter Truth again.”

  “In theory, yes,” grumbled Schwatzendale. “In practice, your chances are next to nil.”

  Wingo waved a pink forefinger. “Tut! One can never be sure. Perhaps you have miscalculated the odds.”

  “I can’t answer you properly,” growled Schwatzendale. “Odds of zero in a thousand are much the same as zero in a million.”

  Wingo’s only response was a benign shake of the head.

  The pilgrims settled into routines of their own, drinking tea, criticizing the cuisine, performing rites, discussing the world Kyril, where they proposed a circumambulation which would require about five years, and earn them the honorific title ‘Rondler’.

  Once Myron had brought the accounts into order he occasionally found himself with time on his hands. In such an event he assisted Wingo in the galley or Schwatzendale in the engine room. Myron found Schwatzendale an unending source of fascination. He was physically beautiful: a fact which Schwatzendale himself recognized but ignored. In the engine room he worked with speed, precision, absolute certainty and his characteristic panache. Typically, he finished each job with a flourish and a glance of disdainful menace at the repaired part, as if warning it never to repeat its mistake. Myron soon came to see past the epicene beauty to an inner hardness which was intensely masculine. Myron studied Schwatzendale’s slantwise attributes with covert fascination. They manifested themselves in many tricks and habits: sardonic jokes and oblique ideas; in the tilt of his head and the angle of his elbows; in his quick loping strides. Myron sometimes fantasized that all Schwatzendale’s parts were askew, so that they necessarily fitted together on the bias. All was asymmetric, quirky, ‘slantwise’. Schwatzendale was like a knight on a chessboard who could move only by eccentric hops and bounds.

  One day Myron found Schwatzendale sitting at the table in the saloon, occupied with a deck of playing cards. Myron watched for a time, admiring the deft flicker of Schwatzendale’s fingers. Schwatzendale suddenly asked Myron if he knew any amusing games of chance by which they might pass the time, and perhaps wager a coin or two. For instance, was Myron acquainted with the game Hurlothrumbo?

  Myron said that he knew nothing of ‘Hurlothrumbo’, or any other game. “I have noticed that when these games are played, money changes hands. If I played and won, it would give me no pleasure; but if I lost, I would be haunted by remorse. I would also feel foolish.”

  Schwatzendale showed his crooked grin. “You do not understand the joy of the hunt. To gamble is to play at prehistoric savagery.”

  “The metaphor is apt,” said Wingo. “The victor is a cannibal, feeding upon the substance of the victim.”

  “That is the thrust of our instincts!” Schwatzendale explained. “It is the contrast which generates so much triumph — or such tragic despair.”

  Wingo shook his head. “When Fay gambles, he often forgets what I shall call ‘amour propre’.” He addressed Myron. “I advise against gambling in general and with Fay in particular. He will deprive you of assets so neatly that you will never notice until you grope in your pocket and find not so much as a soiled handkerchief.”

  “Wingo is correct!” said Schwatzendale. “Given the chance, I will win the trousers from your arse, so that you have not even a pocket for the groping!”

  “Fay does not exaggerate,” said Wingo somberly. “Only Moncrief the Mouse-rider has beaten him, and Fay still smarts at the recollection.”

  Schwatzendale clutched his head. “Why must you utter that name? I shall never rest until —”

  “Until you have played him again, and lost more money, and known more shame?”

  “Never, never, never!”

  “Let us hope not,” said Wingo virtuously.

  3

  Tacton’s Star grew bright ahead, then passed to the side as the Glicca descended into the plane of the orbiting planets. Fourth in the order was Scropus: a world six thousand miles in diameter with a dense core and standard gravity.

  Scropus became a sphere; the horizons expanded and the geography took on definition. A pair of large continents clasped the north and south poles, both marked by swirling clouds, indicating fearful storms. Ayra, the third continent, was shaped like a salamander and sprawled across the world in the zone immediately north of the equator, where it was secure from the storms, blasts of rain and sleet, thunder and lightning which ravaged the polar continents. The soft sunlight diffusing the hazy atmosphere seemed to enhance the clarity and character of color. Blues, reds and greens glowed with the purity of a child’s perception. The sky was a deep cobalt; by night the moon Olanthus showed a silver-green shine. The seas were ultramarine and the surf a dazzling white effervescent froth.

  The Glicca landed at the rambling old town Duhail, at the center of Ayra, close by the Refunctionary.

  Thousands of years previously the world Scropus had been lost in the far Beyond, immune to the laws of the Gaean Reach and safe from the IPCC. At this time Scropus had been the private domain of Imbald, the so-called Sultan of Space, whose reputation had been such that, when his name was mentioned, conversation came to a frozen halt. Imbald had been a large man, seven feet tall weighing three hundred pounds. His concepts were as large as his person; his intellect was keen; his imagination ranged the sweep of human history, while his atrocities commanded a grotesque magnificence by reason of their incomprehensible scale. Near the town Duhail he ordained a palace to excel every other edifice built by the will of man. It must be supreme in architectural elegance, the splendor of its appointments, the beauty and grace of its attendants, its all-pervading luxury. The palace came into being and was named Fanchen Lalu. To celebrate its dedication, Imbald despatched a thousand small ships into every quarter of the Gaean Reach. They returned to Scropus, bringing with them the most eminent folk of the time. They included scientists, musicians, philosophers, statesmen, celebrities of every description. Some came willingly; more were kidnapped and brought willy-nilly, despite their complaints. In either case, they were conveyed to Fanchen Lalu and housed in splendid suites, provided a retinue of servants and a wardrobe of fine garments. At Imbald’s command, they participated in the rites which certified the existence and the quality of Fanchen Lalu and — by extension — the grandeur of Imbald, Sultan of Space, himself.

  The formalities continued for three days, after which Imbald executed a few of the notables who had annoyed him, then sent the others home.

  Less than a year later the IPCC sent out a battle fleet and destroyed Imbald’s pirate flotilla. Imbald could not credit his great defeat and remained at Fanchen Lalu, where he was besieged by IPCC troopers. Imbald was trapped; there was no escape for him and his capture was imminent, along with his execution. The idea put Imbald into a great fury; he was not yet ready to die! He would have no choice in the matter
. In the extremity of his despair he began to destroy Fanchen Lalu, hall after precious hall. The commander of the IPCC, Sir Ralph Vicinanza, a sensitive man, refused to tolerate the wanton destruction of so much beauty. He called Imbald to a parley, where he offered what he considered a reasonable and even generous proposal. Imbald must desist from further destruction and surrender his person to the IPCC. He would then be placed aboard a spaceship with the pilot-house sealed and the navigation system isolated from his control. The ship would be directed up and away from the Gaean Reach, on a course which would take it away into intergalactic space. Imbald would be alone aboard the ship, with provisioning to sustain him for three lifetimes. He would fly out into unknown regions and see sights never before seen by the eyes of man. He would never return.

  Imbald reflected only five minutes. He made several stipulations regarding the quality of the food and wine to be supplied, the interior décor of the spaceship, the scope of the ship’s library. Then he assented to the proposal, which, so he considered, offered him a dignified retirement from his previous occupation. He confided to Sir Ralph that he had long wished for leisure in which to write his memoirs, and finally the opportunity was at hand. Sir Ralph wished him many placid years and sent him off into space. By such a tactic much of Fanchen Lalu was preserved. Over the centuries the property passed from hand to hand. A number of restorations had been attempted, with indifferent success. Fanchen Lalu now served as a penal institution, known as the Refunctionary, along with the Institute of Advanced Penology and a laboratory for psycho-pathological research.

  The current inhabitants of Scropus were for the most part descendants of the Sultan’s henchmen, who had been allowed estates about the countryside. They showed little of their original ferocity, living somnolent lives, disapproving of the Refunctionary, and occasionally visiting Duhail for a meeting of the Garden Club, or perhaps one of the Outreach Society’s cultural seminars.

  The Glicca landed at the Duhail terminal, next to a line of tall blue and teal-green cycads, which held feathery fronds on high.

  Myron supervised the discharge of cargo. There were three large cases destined for the Refunctionary, but when he started to unload them he was approached by the superintendent of the facility, a mild-seeming person of middle age named Euel Gartover. He wore a neat blue, white and black uniform and spoke with such modest civility that Myron was instantly sympathetic to his request. Gartover wanted the Glicca to shift to the grounds of the institution, where the three cases could be discharged directly and the need for drayage, which was slow and uncertain, could be avoided.

  Myron relayed the request to Maloof, who made no objection. After on-loading a shipment of pollen cake, destined for Cax on Blenkinsop, the Glicca was shifted to the grounds of the Refunctionary as an act of good will.

  Euel Gartover expressed his appreciation and took the crew on a tour of the facility. Despite the effects of time and a dozen programs of reconstruction, Fanchen Lalu retained much of its old magnificence.

  No less interesting were the men and women who carried on their affairs in the ancient halls. They were a various lot and, according to Gartover, included supervisory staff, the college faculty, research scientists and the criminals themselves.

  Wingo expressed astonishment. “These folk wander about quite freely, lacking all restraint! We are surrounded by desperate criminals! How can you sit here with such calm?”

  Gartover grinned. “Why should I not? Our inmates have better things to do than cause disturbances.”

  “Most odd!” mused Wingo. “I assume that the truly vicious types are confined elsewhere.”

  Gartover, still smiling, shook his head. “You must remember that this, in a sense, is an experimental facility. Orthodoxy is not totally abandoned; we use methods both old and new, but always in a mode of what I shall call ‘Dynamic Optimism’. ‘Failure’ is not in our vocabulary, and ‘Crime’ is a non-permitted word; we use the term ‘mistake’, or ‘excessive conduct’. That is not to say that we are innocent mooncalves who deny the existence of pain. We are pragmatic mechanics; our goal is to obliterate the thrill of wrong-doing by making such acts seem pointless and boring.”

  “You are trying to demonstrate the banality of evil,” murmured Maloof. “Does it replace the code of morality?”

  “Yes and no,” said Gartover. “I can only ask, ‘what is morality?’ — a question you cannot answer.”

  Wingo looked dubiously toward Schwatzendale. “What would you say of a man who dangles a monstrous dead insect a foot above a sleeping man’s face, illuminates it with a strong light, then stands back and yells: ‘Help! Help! The world is coming to an end!’”

  Gartover reflected, then said politely, “In the absence of all the facts, I could not justify a diagnosis. Still, I might guess the miscreant to be an imaginative rascal who finds himself bored.”

  “Yes; perhaps so.”

  Myron asked, “Here at the Refunctionary, are the criminals — or, I should say, ‘mischief-makers’ — aware of the harm they have done?”

  Gartover pursed his lips and shrugged. “Possibly, but it is beside the point, since it relates to the past and our emphasis is the future. We want to inculcate pride, rather than shame.”

  “That is what is called ‘rehabilitation’,” said Wingo.

  “Exactly! In that connection we had a curious case recently. A man who had killed both his grandmothers declared himself rehabilitated, on the grounds that he could not conceivably repeat his offense in the absence of any further grandmothers. He asks for immediate release. The argument, I must say, has a certain merit, and the Board of Control is currently considering his petition.”

  Maloof frowned. “Are you possibly subordinating the real to the theoretical? In short, is this method practical?”

  “Never fear! We are not only practical, but clever and flexible as well. At the Refunctionary we have learned to avoid static solutions to evanescent situations, which come and go like the flicker of fireflies. Each type of mischief-maker has a generic pattern of behavior, which can to some extent be classified. We never deal with our animal-torturers as we do our widow-swindlers; each must be processed in subtly different ways, to match his or her predilections. We must act tactfully; some of our murderers are damnably proud folk, and we do not want to inflict new lesions upon their self-image. This is how we think of venal acts — as psychic lesions to be healed. We avoid unnecessary stigma and to this end we have evolved a playful little ruse, and I refer to the color of the caps. Murderers wear white; forgers, swindlers and counterfeiters wear black, and larcenists wear green. Blackmailers wear orange and also sport small pointed goatees. Don’t ask me why; it is the fad. Arsonists wear purple; mutilators wear pink, while sexual activists wear brown, and so it goes. The system fosters a healthy rivalry, with each group vying for excellence. Our games are often exciting because of the cheers and enthusiasm. Everyone is spirited; no one is demoralized: that is our goal. A man may state, almost with pride: ‘Yes! I was a wife-beater! Now I have put aside all remorse, and I feel the better for it!’”

  Wingo was impressed. “It seems as if great things are being done.”

  Gartover made a rueful gesture. “I won’t deny that we have our disappointments. Some of our folk are intrinsically anti-social. We try to avoid the word ‘evil’, though I suppose it all comes out of the same bucket.”

  “And how do you deal with these folk?”

  “We try our best techniques: friendly counsel, dramatic enactments demonstrating the positive values of decency, meditation, work-therapy, hypnosis.”

  Gartover noticed Schwatzendale’s slantwise smile and sighed. “When I use the word ‘hypnosis’, I arouse skepticism, without fail.”

  “I was born without illusions,” said Schwatzendale.

  Gartover smiled. “‘Skepticism’ is sometimes known as ‘dogmatic ignorance’.”

  Schwatzendale refused to be daunted. “I have met a number of evil men. Just as water is wet and space
is wide, these men were wicked through and through, in every wisp, shard, tangle and tuft of their beings. You can hypnotize them as you like; they will remain irredemptible.”

  Gartover looked from face to face. “And you others? Are you equally skeptical?”

  Wingo said soberly, “I have always considered hypnosis a parlor game. The savants tell us of the Cosmic principle, which, so they declare, controls ‘All’. When we have transcended to the seventh level, then we shall understand the ultimates of good and evil. There is no reference to hypnotism.”

  “A profound statement, certainly.” Gartover addressed Myron. “And you, sir?”

  Myron considered a moment, then said, “I suspect that many of your mistake-makers, once they are loose, will put hypnotism aside and return to murdering their grandmothers.”

  Gartover sighed and looked to Maloof. “What of you, sir?”

  Maloof shrugged. “Like the others, I am dubious in regard to hypnotism, although I know little of the subject.”

  Gartover laughed. “We will not convince each other — not today at any rate. So now, allow me to offer you refreshment.”

  Gartover took his guests to a private refectory and excused himself while he went to see to the arrangements.

  The four spacemen looked about themselves in admiration. The room retained much of ancient Fanchen Lalu. The walls were panelled in pale ivory wood, and displayed depictions of floral baskets fashioned from infinitesimal needles of colored glass illuminated from behind. The table was a four-foot-wide slab of dark brown wood twelve feet long, enlivened by a rich and intricate figure. Overhead hung a chandelier of unique design. Six horizontal disks of glass three feet wide were superimposed in layers, six inches apart. Each disk revolved slowly at different speeds in different directions. Each glowed with wavering flows of color. Myron tried to relate the colors to the movement of the disks, but after being deceived a dozen times, he decided that random processes were at work.