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  The first, possibly the earliest, induced a sad sweet ache which brought tears to Jaro’s eyes. He seemed to be looking over a beautiful garden, silver and black in the light of two pale moons. Sometimes there was a shudder of displacement, as if Jaro might be someone else. But how could this be? It was himself, Jaro, who stood by the low marble balustrade looking over the moonlit garden, out to the tall dark forest beyond.

  There was nothing more to the recollection; it was brief and dreamlike, but it afflicted Jaro with longing for something, or somewhere, forever lost. It was a scene of tragic beauty, rife with an odd nameless emotion: the humiliation of something innocent and gorgeous, so that the throat choked with sorrow and the pain of lost grandeur and pity.

  The second of the images, more powerful and vivid, never failed to strike terror into his soul. The gaunt shape of a man stood silhouetted against the luminous twilight sky. The man wore a flat-crowned hat with a stiff brim; a tight black magister’s coat. He stood with legs apart, brooding across the landscape. When he turned his head to stare at Jaro, his eyes seemed to glitter like small four-pointed stars.

  As time passed, the images came ever less frequently. Jaro became more confident and his periods of reverie waned and were gone; Jaro was everything for which the Faths might have hoped, unusual only in that he was neat, orderly, soft-spoken and dependable.

  This halcyon time seemed as if it might go on forever. Then one day Jaro became aware of something he had not noticed before: an uneasy weight at the edge of his consciousness, as if he had forgotten something important. The feeling went away, leaving Jaro in a mood of depression, for which he could find no explanation. Two weeks later, after he had gone to bed, the sensation returned, along with a near-inaudible sound, like the mutter of distant thunder. Jaro lay stiffly, looking up into the dark, tingling to the nearness of something eery. After a minute the sound was gone and he lay limp, wondering what might be happening to him.

  Spring became summer. One evening, with the Faths out attending a seminar, Jaro heard the sound again. He put down his book and strained to listen. From far away he thought to hear a low-pitched human voice, expressive of grief and pain. There was no articulation of words.

  At first Jaro was puzzled rather than concerned, but the sounds became distinct and ever more woeful. Could they represent a simple seepage from his dead memory: the aftermath of dark deeds mercifully forgotten? A theory as reasonable as any. He listened to the sounds with as much detachment as he could muster, until they drifted away into silence.

  Jaro sat in a state of bafflement. Without conviction he told himself that the sounds were no more than a minor nuisance which sooner or later would dwindle to nothing.

  This was not the case. From time to time Jaro continued to hear the woeful sounds. They wavered in and out of definition, as if originating in a place sometimes near, sometimes far. It was most confusing, and Jaro presently gave up any attempt at analysis.

  As time passed the sounds became more immediate, as if they were deliberately challenging Jaro’s composure. Often they intruded into his mind when he could ill afford the distraction. He thought to detect malice and hatred, which made the sounds frightening. Jaro finally decided that they were telepathic messages from an unknown enemy: an idea no less far-fetched than any other. A dozen times he started to confide in the Faths; as many times he held back, not wishing to excite Althea.

  Who could be causing such a dreary nuisance? The voice came and went without regularity. Jaro grew resentful; no one else suffered such persecution! It clearly derived from the occluded early years of his life, and Jaro made a resolve he was never to abandon: as soon as possible he would explore all the mysteries and learn all the truths. He would locate the source of the voice and release it from its torment.

  Questions marched across his mind. Who am I? How did I come to be lost? Who was the gaunt man who stood so dark and ominous against the twilight sky? His questions, clearly, would never be answered on Gallingale, so that only one course lay open. Despite the certain opposition of the Faths, he must become a spaceman.

  When Jaro thought these thoughts, he felt an eery tingling of the skin, which he took to be a presage of the future—whether for good or for bad he could not guess. Meanwhile, he must find a means to deal with the nuisance which had invaded his mind.

  As time passed, he found that the most effective strategy was simply to ignore the voice and let it drone on unheeded.

  Still, the voice persisted, as dreary as ever, returning at intervals ranging from two weeks to a month. A year passed. Jaro applied himself to his schoolwork and ascended the levels of Langolen School. The Faths provided him everything but what they themselves had renounced: high social status, which could only be gained by “striving” up through a series of ever more prestigious social clubs.

  At the tip of the pyramid the three Sempiternals maintained a precarious stability. These were the mysterious Quantorsi—so preferential that the membership was limited to nine—the equally exclusive Clam Muffins and the Tattermen. The Sempiternals were unique in that their members enjoyed hereditary privileges denied the common ruck. Next below were the Bon-tons and the steady old Palindrome. The Lemurians asserted equal status but were considered a bit recherché.

  To the ledges an iota below clung Bustamonte, Val Verde and the Sasselton Tigers. Claiming equal status were the Sick Chickens and the Scythians: both considered a trifle extravagant and hyper-modern. At the bottom layer of the “Respectables” (though indignantly asserting otherwise) were the four Quadrants of the Squared Circle: the Kahulibahs, the Zonkers, the Bad Gang and the Naturals. Each claimed preeminence, while half-jocularly deriding the deficiencies of the others. Each expressed a particular character. The Kahulibahs included more financial magnates, while the Zonkers tolerated unconventional types, including musicians and artists of a decent sort. The Naturals were dedicated to the refinements of decorous hedonism, while the Bad Gang included a contingent of top level Institute faculty. Still, all taken with all, there was little difference between any of the quadrants, despite the sometimes rather shrill claims to supreme status, and a few incidents of hair-pullings, slapped faces, and the occasional suicide.

  The Quadrants of the Squared Circle, like all middle-status clubs, were anxious to recruit high-quality new members, but even more anxious to exclude outsiders, schmeltzers and bounders.

  For Jaro it came as a surprise and a shock to learn that both his beloved foster parents and he himself were considered “nimps.” Jaro was shamed and indignant. Hilyer only laughed. “It makes no difference to us. It’s not important! Is it fair? Probably not, but what of that? According to Baron Bodissey: ‘Only losers cry out for fair play.’ ”[7]

  To this day the most erudite thinkers of the Gaean Reach ponder the significance of the remark.

  Jaro quickly learned that, like Hilyer and Althea, he had no inclination for social striving. At Langolen School he was neither gregarious nor socially aggressive; he took no part in group activities and competed in no sports or games. Such conduct was not admired, and Jaro made few friends. When it became known that his parents were nimps and when he showed no comporture of his own, he became even more isolated, despite his neat garments and well-scrubbed appearance. In the classroom, however, he excelled, so that his instructors considered him almost on a par with the notorious Skirlet Hutsenreiter, whose intellectual prowess was the talk of the school, as were her haughty and imperious mannerisms. Skirlet was a year or two younger than Jaro: a slender erect little creature so strongly charged with intelligence and vitality that, in the words of the school nurse, she “gave off blue sparks in the dark.” Skirlet carried herself like a boy, though she was clearly a girl, and far from ill-favored. A cap of thick dark hair clasped her face; eyes of a particularly luminous gray looked from under fine black eyebrows; flat cheeks slanted down to a small decisive chin, with a stern little nose and a wide mercurial mouth above. Skirlet seemed to lack personal vanity, and she dressed s
o simply that her instructors sometimes wondered as to the solicitude of her parents—all the more surprising, since her father was the Honorable Clois Hutsenreiter, Dean of the College of Philosophy at the Institute, a transworld financier, purportedly of great wealth, and—more importantly—a Clam Muffin, at the very apex of the status pyramid. And her mother, Espeine? Here there seemed to be hints, if not of scandal, at least of some high-status irregularity, very spicy, if the gossip could be believed. Skirlet’s mother now resided in a splendid palace on the world Marmone, where she was Princess of the Dawn. How and why this should be no one seemed to know, or dared to ask.

  Skirlet made no attempt to gain the approval of her classmates. Some of the boys grumbled that she was sexless, cold as a dead fish, because she ignored their routines. During the lunch period, Skirlet often went out to sit on the terrace, where she would attract a group of acquaintances. On these occasions, Skirlet was sometimes gracious, sometimes moody, and sometimes she would jump to her feet and walk away. In the classroom she tended to complete her work with insulting facility; then, flinging down her stylus, she would look around at the other students with patronizing amusement. She also had the unsettling habit of glancing up sharply should the instructor carelessly make a mistake, or indulge in some lame facetiousness. The instructors were nonplussed, especially since Skirlet never spoke with other than cool politeness. In the end they treated her with wary respect. When they gathered in the faculty lounge during the lunch hour, Skirlet often came under discussion. Some disliked her with bitterness and spite; others were more temperate, and pointed out that she was still barely adolescent, with small experience of the world. Mr. Ollard, the erudite sociology instructor, analyzed Skirlet in terms of psychological imperatives: “She’s intellectually vain and even intolerant—to a degree which transcends simple arrogance, to become an Elemental Principle: a real achievement for a person so young and slight of physique.” He thought it best not to say that he found her captivating.

  “She’s not a bad girl,” said Dame Wirtz. “There’s nothing vicious or mean in her nature, though of course she can be quite exasperating.”

  “She’s a little snip,” said Dame Borkle. “She needs a good spanking.”

  Since Skirlet was a Clam Muffin by birth, while Jaro, a nimp, commanded no prestige whatever, there was small chance for communication between the two, and even less for any social connection. Jaro had already discovered that some girls were prettier than others. At the upper end of the list he included Skirlet Hutsenreiter. He liked her taut little body and the swagger with which she conducted her affairs. Unfortunately, it was not Skirlet, but Dame Idora Wirtz, the middle-aged mathematics instructor, who found Jaro a charm and a delight. Jaro was so handsome, so clean, so innocent that she could barely restrain herself from seizing him and hugging him until he squeaked like a kitten. Jaro sensed her inclinations and kept out of reach.

  Idora Wirtz lacked physical appeal; she was small, thin, energetic, with sharp features and a barbaric ruff of brick-red ringlets. She wore garments of gaudy, purposely discordant, colors and always a dozen or more jangling bracelets, often on both arms. She had achieved the Parnassians, a society of the middle range, but could not escape; despite her most earnest efforts, she had been denied ascent into the clever Safardips, and the even more avant-garde Black Hats.

  One day she took Jaro aside. “A word with you, if you please. I must gratify my curiosity.”

  Dame Wirtz led Jaro into an empty classroom; then, leaning against the desk, studied him a moment. She said, “Jaro, you must be aware that you do excellent work—in fact, sometimes it is truly elegant.”

  “Thank you,” said Jaro. “I like doing my best.”

  “That is evident. Mr. Buskin says that your compositions are very well done, though they always deal with impersonal subjects, and that you never express your own point of view. Why is that?”

  Jaro shrugged. “I don’t like to write about myself.”

  “I realize that!” snapped Dame Wirtz. “I asked for your reasons.”

  “If I wrote of myself everyone would think I was vain.”

  “Well, what then? Skirlet Hutsenreiter writes the most scurrilous things imaginable, and doesn’t care a fig whether anyone likes it or not. She lacks all inhibition.”

  Jaro was puzzled. “And this is how I should write?”

  Dame Wirtz sighed. “No. But you might consider changing your point of view. You write like a proud recluse. Why are you not out there in the swim, breasting the social currents?”

  Jaro smiled. “Probably because I truly am a proud recluse.”

  Dame Wirtz made a sour face. “Naturally you know what those words mean?”

  “I think it is someone like a Clam Muffin who has never paid his subscription.”

  Dame Wirtz went to look out the window. When she turned back, she said, “I want to explain something very important. Please give me your attention.”

  “Yes, Dame Wirtz.”

  “You cannot go out into life without giving your best effort to the striving.”

  Jaro remained patiently silent. Idora Wirtz resisted the impulse to ruffle his hair. If she had one like this for her very own, how she would dote on him! She said, “As I recall, your parents are faculty folk at the Institute?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe that they are nimps, as well. Mind you,” she hastened to say, “there’s nothing wrong with that! Though I myself prefer the social slope, for all its intricate nonsense. But of yourself? Naturally you do not intend to remain a nimp, and now is the time to set your foot on the ladder. The first rung is usually the Junior Service League. Anyone can join, so the prestige is small. Still, it’s a useful springboard up to more important clubs, and everyone starts somewhere.”

  Jaro smilingly shook his head. “For me it would be a waste of time. I intend to be a spaceman.”

  Dame Wirtz was scandalized. “What’s all this?”

  “It should be an exciting life, looking for new planets at the back of the galaxy. Spacemen don’t need to join clubs.”

  Idora Wirtz compressed her lips. A typically boyish ambition, she supposed—if more than a little callow. “That’s all very well, and exciting it might be, but it’s a lonely anti-social life, away from family and all your wonderful clubs! You wouldn’t be able to go to parties, or political rallies, or march in parades with banner held high, and you’d never be elected up-slope to fine new memberships if you weren’t on hand to press your case!”

  “I’m not interested in that.”

  Dame Wirtz became excited. “You are saying all the wrong things! Reality is communal interaction! Space flight is an escape from the problems of life!”

  “Not for me,” said Jaro. “I have important things to do that I can’t do on Gallingale.”

  Dame Wirtz seized Jaro’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Go, Jaro! I have heard as much as I can tolerate! You are a maddening person, and will no doubt infuriate every girl unlucky enough to fall in love with you.”

  Jaro gratefully went to the door. Here he turned and said: “I’m sorry if I said something to disturb you. I meant no harm.”

  Dame Wirtz grinned at him. “I know all about people like you! Now go, and do something nice to surprise me!”

  Jaro told Althea of his conversation with Dame Wirtz. “She wants me to join the Junior Service League.”

  Althea shook her head in vexation. “So soon? We had hoped to avoid the problem for just a little while longer.” They went to sit at the kitchen table. Althea said, “At Thanet almost everyone strives. A few climb the ladder: from Parnassians to Black Hats to Underwoods, to Squared Circles, then perhaps to Val Verdes or Sick Chickens, to Girandoles and finally to Clam Muffins. Of course, that’s just one of a dozen routes.” She peered sidewise at Jaro. “Does this interest you?”

  “Not very much.”

  “As you know, your father and I belong to no clubs. We are ‘Non-orgs,’ or ‘nimps,’ and we have no soc
ial status. You are the same. Think about it. Then if you feel that you want to mix with the others, you can join the Junior Service League and then, when you are ready, strike for the next level: the Persimmons, for instance, or the Zouaves. You’ll never be lonely; you’ll make many friends and play at a dozen sports, and no one will call you ‘nimp.’ Also, you’ll spend hours being nice to people you don’t like, which perhaps is good training. You’ll pay high subscriptions, wear the club token and speak the club jargon. You may enjoy this; many people thrive on it. Others think it’s easier to be a nimp.”

  Jaro nodded thoughtfully. “I told Dame Wirtz that since I wanted to be a spaceman, joining a club would be a waste of time.”

  Althea tried to hide her amusement. “And what did she say?”

  “She became rather cross. She told me I was running away from the realities of life. I said no, that wasn’t it; that I had things to do which could not be done on Gallingale.”

  “Really!” Althea was startled and alarmed. “What things are these?”

  Jaro looked away. This was a private subject which he did not want to discuss. He said slowly, “I suppose that I’m interested in learning about where I came from, and what happened during the years I can’t remember.”

  Althea’s heart sank. Both she and Hilyer had hoped that Jaro would have lost interest in his past and would never think seriously of it again. Evidently, this was not the case.

  Jaro left the room. Althea brewed a pot of tea and sat pondering over the unwelcome news. She definitely did not want Jaro to become a spaceman; he would go off into space and leave Merriehew and the Faths behind, and who knows when they would see him again. It was a dreadfully lonely thought!

  Althea sighed. Clearly she and Hilyer must use their best persuasive powers to guide Jaro along the academic career they had planned for him at Thanet Institute.

  Three

  1

  Dame Wirtz made a final attempt to enlist Jaro into the Junior Service League. “It is the best possible training! And enormous fun! When you march in formation, the slogan that you shout is: