Night Lamp (15 page)

Jaro finished his evening shift at the space terminal and started home. The inter-urban bus, discharged him where Katzvold Road entered the Nain Woods, with Merriehew still half a mile north. The night was warm and heavy, with the blue-green moon Mish drifting among high clouds.

The bus vanished toward town, leaving silence behind. Jaro set off to the north through the Woods, moving soft-footed along the road, as seemed appropriate on such a night as this one.

The moon drifted behind a cloud, the road disappeared into darkness, and Jaro slowed his pace, to avoid straying into the roadside thickets. Tonight for some odd reason, the road seemed unfamiliar, as if Jaro had missed the way and now wandered an unknown part of the woods. Foolishness, of course—still, something seemed amiss. Was that a sound? He stopped to listen. Silence. Dubiously he continued along the road. After a few yards he stopped again; no mistake this time! From high in the trees, came a soft doleful sound, stiffening the short hairs at the nape of Jaro’s neck. He listened, but silence had returned to the woods.

Jaro went on slowly, feeling the way with his feet.

A moment passed. Again the quiet sound floated down from above. Jaro raised his head to listen; it must be the hooting of a night bird, though like none he had heard before.

Jaro stirred himself and proceeded, step after step. Clouds parted; the moon drifted out into open sky. Wan moonlight spread down through the foliage, to lay a pattern on the road. Again the sound: an eery clucking. Jaro stopped short, and searched the high foliage. A fluting voice cried out: “The Black Angels fly down from the back of the moon!”

Something stood in the moonlit road fifty feet ahead. It was seven feet tall, draped in a flowing black gown, with black wings lifting high from the shoulders. Under a black cowl eyes like disks of jet in a gaunt white face stared down at Jaro, holding him transfixed.

From right and left came four masked shapes in grotesque costumes: capes draped over abnormally wide shoulders, from which wings raised high, like those of the figure in the road. To his sick surprise, Jaro found that he had become a rag doll, helpless either to run or to fight.

Moving with ponderous deliberation, the four Angels set upon Jaro; they bore him to the ground and struck him with long flexible truncheons. Jaro held up his arm; down came the truncheon; a bone broke. Jaro toppled, and the blows continued. Old memories flooded into his mind: The glare of the hot sun on the Wyching Hills, the taste of roadside dust; the thud-thud of cudgels pounding his thin ribs. He groaned, more from pain than the agony of recollection.

On this night in Nain Woods the truncheons measured blows meant not to maim, but to punish. A deep voice spoke, its utterance grave and stately: “The Black Angels of Penitence once more do their duty! Let schmeltzers beware, now and forever!”

From the others came a rumble of antiphony: “It is always thus! Let the schmeltzers beware! It is thus, and thus, and thus!” The truncheons rose and fell in emphasis.

The deep voice spoke: “You have been adjudged a schmeltzer: now you must make amends. Say you are sorry!”

Jaro struggled feebly, but was thrust back down and kicked heavily in the ribs.

The voice intoned: “Declare your falsity! Say you are sorry and will keep to your place! Will you speak? Or do you need further correction? Aha, you will not speak! Well then, so be it, and it’s all your own fault!”

Down came the truncheons. The Black Angels, affronted by Jaro’s silence, worked with righteous zeal to correct the intransigence of their victim; they struck with heavier arms, their truncheons held high, until Jaro lay passive. Amazing! Even while Jaro’s flesh cringed to the blows, deep inside his head sounded a gust of mocking laughter, as if somewhere, something took joy in the event, and Jaro felt even a deeper fear.

The Black Angels stood panting. One of the towering figures kicked Jaro heavily. “Speak now! Recite your apology!”

Another Angel muttered: “It is useless. He is stubborn as bangdong stink.”

“Stubborn or dead.”

The four bent over Jaro. “He has had a smart lesson, no more. It will moderate his vanity.”

Jaro’s senses drained away. He felt almost at peace. It was good, this receptivity! It functioned like a reservoir, into which emotion and purpose drained and were collected, so that none was wasted. His mind went dim, and he lay still.

The Black Angels performed their other work. They clipped away Jaro’s hair and glued a ridiculous cock’s-comb of white feathers to his scalp. They painted his face black and tucked a long bushy white plume into the waistband at the back of his trousers. They loaded him into the bed of a van and drove off toward Thanet.

An hour before midnight a group of students leaving a late lecture discovered Jaro in the forecourt of the Lyceum, where he had 21 been lashed upright to the stanchion of a yardlight. A placard hung from his neck. It read:

I WAS A SCHMELTZER! I APOLOGIZE. THE BLACK ANGELS OF PENITENCE HAVE ORDAINED IT SO!

An ambulance conveyed Jaro to the hospital, where his hurts and broken bones were treated. He was concussed. Ribs, arms and clavicle had been broken. He was lucky, so it was said, to have escaped a fractured skull. It seemed that the Black Angels had conducted their punitive measures in a frenzy of excitement. The police made routine efforts to identify the Angels, but there was little popular indignation at the punishment of a schmeltzer. Such a creature was no better than a leech, and since the police could not control schmeltzing, then society was forced to protect itself. In general, the deed was considered a students’ lark and a salutory example for everyone concerned.

Jaro remained in the hospital for two weeks. The Faths came daily to visit him, but found it hard to seem cheerful and optimistic. The police had been casually polite. They claimed that diligent inquiry had produced no clues.

One day, as if by afterthought, Hilyer asked Jaro if he could put names to any of the Black Angels.

Jaro seemed surprised. “Of course! There were four: Hanafer Glackenshaw, Kosh Diffenbocker, Aimer Culp, Lonas Fanchetto.”

“Then we will prosecute.”

Jaro would not hear of it. “I could prove nothing. There were no witnesses. The Justiciary would never be allowed use of the Truth Machine. Even if they were found guilty, they would only be censured, and I would be warned to avoid future provocation. They emerge with dignity; I look feeble and foolish.”

“But we cannot let this outrage pass! It would be shameful!”

“Yes; indeed it would.”

Hilyer compressed his lips. “You are cold as a fish; you show no emotion! Aren’t you angry?”

Jaro smiled. “I am angry, no fear as to that. When the time comes, the anger will be there and ready.”

Hilyer grunted. “I don’t think that I understand you.”

“No matter.”

Hilyer studied the pallid face. “Surely you don’t intend to take the law into your own hands!”

Jaro gave a painful chuckle. “Certainly not at the moment.”

The response failed to satisfy Hilyer, and he left the hospital in an unsettled mood.

Jaro was visited by a half dozen fellow students, with whom he had become more or less friendly. All expressed sympathy for both the beating and the humiliation of the feathered headpiece and the rear plume. They were surprised to discover Jaro’s extraordinary sangfroid. “There’s no humiliation, if a person does not feel humiliated,” said Jaro. Basil Krom, who studied sociology, argued the point. “That is as may be. Here at Thanet humiliation is almost a thing in itself Why? No mystery. The competitive social system makes them vulnerable to ridicule. At all costs they must maintain face. This is why your friends are baffled by your unconcern.”

“First of all,” said Jaro, “I have no reputation to destroy.”

“And second?”

“Since I am indifferent to ridicule, there is no fun in it, and it will soon stop.”

“And thirdly?”

“Thirdly is not yet projected.”

Lyssel failed to include herself among the visitors, nor had Jaro expected her. Gaing Neitzbeck, however, showed himself as soon as visitors were permitted. At the sight of the battered face Jaro felt a surge of comfort and relief. He had not realized how much stress still weighed upon him.

Gaing, not a demonstrative man, still gave Jaro a pat on the shoulder, then seated himself. He said gruffly, “You might as well tell me the whole thing.”

Jaro described the events of the dreadful evening. “I am not proud of myself I heard a weird sound from the tree; I saw the effigy with the high wings and I became paralyzed. I stood numb, like a hypnotized chicken. Now I feel weak and ineffectual.”

Gaing considered Jaro a moment. “Evidently you want to make changes in yourself.”

“Yes,” Jaro muttered. “I’ll find some way to cure the weakness, or flaw—whatever it is.”

“Such an episode is hard on the pride,” Gaing agreed. “But don’t suffer on that account. Pride is intellectual self-judgment. It’s a mixture of hope and fantasy, and should be put aside. ‘Assurance,’ which is a measure of competence, is a more useful standard.”

Jaro said hollowly, “That’s a very fine remark, but lacking competence, I might as well look for my poor bedraggled pride, nurse it back into shape.”

Gaing grinned amiably. “You have a few odd competences, but none will protect you from another good beating.”

“True. But I hope to make changes. Perhaps you can advise me.

Gaing nodded. “I can indeed. The skills are like any other. They must be learned, then practiced, until they become second nature. However, you are in luck. The skills can be taught and there is a qualified instructor at hand. I refer to myself. At one time I thought to make a career with the IPCC, but events interfered. If you want to know the truth, they ejected me, on grounds which were almost trivial. They claimed that I was unconventional and obeyed orders only when it suited me.”

“Preposterous,” muttered Jaro.

“I also had occasion to contend with probably the most vicious race extant in the Gaean Reach, or—as in this case—Beyond. I learned and I survived. Today I am slow and lubberly compared to myself of twenty years ago, but my mind is still adroit and what I know you shall learn, if you are so motivated.”

Jaro said in a voice thin and reedy by reason of emotion, “I am motivated, and I wish to learn so badly that I am sick in the stomach.”

Gaing smiled. “I know your persistence. As soon as you are able to walk, we shall start. Meanwhile, read.” He laid a parcel of books on the bedside table. “Start with the compendium.”

Jaro delayed several days before informing the Faths of his plans. There seemed no gentle way of breaking the news. Jaro said, “I’ve decided to undertake lessons in self-defense. I hope that you’ll approve.”

Althea raised her eyebrows in pained surprise. “Have you really thought the situation through?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not the way of conciliation! It’s the same thing as equipping yourself with an arsenal of weapons, and surely someone will be hurt! Is it worth putting yourself into this position?”

“Ha hah,” said Jaro. “What of the position I’m in now?”

Hilyer, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean by ‘self-defense.’ ”

“It’s simple enough. If I am attacked again, I want to be able to protect myself.”

“That sounds reasonable, on the face of it. But aren’t these tactics a form of bellicosity, and don’t they seriously injure your opponent?”

“No more than necessary, or so I should hope.”

Althea cried out, “That’s a vain hope, when someone lies crippled on the ground.”

Hilyer asked, “Where will you learn such skills?”

“I think you have met Mr. Gaing Neitzbeck, who works with me at the terminal?”

“I remember him well,” said Hilyer with a sniff.

Althea said, “He doesn’t seem a very cultured person.”

Jaro laughed. “Don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s intelligent and well informed. More than that he is competent. At one time he served with the IPCC and can teach me whatever I need to know.”

Hilyer was silent for a moment, then blurted, “Perhaps this is the wrong time to make careful ethical distinctions. You have been hurt. Make no mistake; I am as angry as you! But I want to take revenge through the designated channels of social accommodation. These are proper and permitted; in short, they are civilized.

I don’t want you to do violent deeds, as if you were a space vagabond or a pirate of the Beyond.”

Jaro said stonily, “I was attacked. I could not respond. I lay helpless on the ground. I would be wrong to let it happen again.”

Hilyer made a small gesture of defeat, and turned away.

Upon returning home from the hospital, Jaro continued to study the manuals which Gaing had brought him, and in due course undertook some of the exercises, gradually extending himself as his strength returned.

“At the start go slow and easy,” Gaing told him. “Work no more than ten minutes on any one exercise; otherwise your nerves go slack. Confine yourself to about six routines every session. Try first for accuracy, then speed. Do not become bored and ease up. Each routine is the basis of a combination, and must be practiced until it becomes reflexive. There is a long pull ahead of you; don’t lose heart.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Jaro. “In fact, I don’t know how best to thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Still, I wonder why you spend so much time with me. I am grateful. Is there any explanation? If so, what?”

“The questions are reasonable,” said Gaing. “I can’t give you any single answer. At the moment I have nothing better to do. You badly need the training, and it would be a shame to waste good raw material. Then, self-interest is involved. I’d like to think that I am laying up credit for the future. Someday you might be able to return the favor. Also, in all the Gaean Reach I count only two friends. You are one of them.”

“Who is the other?”

“You know him. His name is Tawn Maihac.”

During the same week Jaro returned to school. His hair had not grown out evenly. He brushed it back as well as possible, but still could not subdue tufts or conceal pallid spots where the hair had been slow in growing back.

No matter, he told himself and went to his classes oblivious to the stares of the other students. In a day or two their attention would shift, and they would no longer notice him. In the meantime, he must accept the notoriety with detachment.

Jaro took his lunch in the cafeteria, then went out to sit on a bench at the side of the forecourt. Lyssel appeared and, after seeming not to notice him, changed her mind and came to look him over. “Hm,” she said. “They did a fine job on you.”

“They were thorough,” Jaro agreed.

Lyssel studied him carefully. “You seem quite debonair! It’s baffling! Aren’t you upset?”

“Such things happen. It’s best to be philosophical.”

“Don’t you understand? They made an example of you.” Lyssel’s voice was light and amused. “They took all your pride and now you are shamed.”
[11]

Jaro shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Lyssel was aggrieved. “It affects me as well. My plans are now a muddle.” She turned him a crafty sidelong look. “Unless you are still willing to help me, as you promised.”

Jaro looked at her in disbelief. “What are you saying? I made no promises. You must be thinking of someone else.”

Lyssel said angrily: “You told me that you were fascinated and hypnotized! You showed me how your hands shook with emotion. That was you, Jaro Fath, so don’t deny it.”

Jaro nodded sadly. “I remember something of the sort. But the past is gone and done with.”

Lyssel’s face had become frozen, so that she no longer looked pretty. “Then you won’t help me?”

“Probably not, even if I knew what you wanted.”

Lyssel appraised Jaro as if she had never seen him before. Then her mouth became contorted and words seemed to erupt from her throat. “You are unique, Jaro Fath! You strut around school smirking and bland, as if you were nursing coy little secrets. You are like a whipped dog, smiling and cringing and curling its lip to beg for tolerance.”

Jaro grimaced and sat erect on the bench. He said, “I expect that someday I’ll find all this amusing.” Lyssel seemed not to hear. Her voice rose in pitch. “You gain no sympathy, showing yourself like this; in fact, no one can understand why you’re here! You’d be wise to pick up your books and leave.”

“That would be sheer folly! My next class starts in ten minutes; I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Lyssel said scornfully, “You don’t care who sees you? You don’t care what anyone thinks?”

“Something like that.”

Hanafer Glackenshaw came out on the forecourt. He stood a moment in a majestic posture, shoulders thrown back, legs apart, arms clasped behind his back, tight golden curls glinting in the sunlight. He turned his head slowly, first to the right then to the left, allowing everyone a view of his noble profile. He saw Lyssel and Jaro and his brow clouded. He crossed the forecourt, his stride slow and portentous. Halting, he stared down at Jaro. “I see you are back and busy as a bee.”

Jaro said nothing. After a meaningful glance toward Lyssel, Hanafer said, “Rumor has it that you’d been warned against grazing in forbidden pastures, where you hadn’t been invited.”

“Rumor is correct,” said Jaro. “That’s what happened.”

Hanafer jerked his head toward Lyssel. “Yet here you are, back again, snooping and sniffing around places where nimps aren’t welcome. Do you get my meaning?”

Lyssel spoke. “Hanafer, please don’t be unpleasant. Jaro means nothing wrong.”

“Bah!” said Hanafer. “He means nothing whatever. He smiles meekly; he licks his lips; he is not even annoyed. If he values my good opinion, he’ll do his socializing with the other nimps.”

Lyssel spoke with disgust. “Hanafer, you are really offensive!”

“Pah! What difference does it make? He doesn’t care.”

“Wrong,” said Jaro. “I am annoyed, but I don’t want to waste it just now. There’s no hurry.”

“You talk foolishness, and you’re probably mad. Well, that’s quite all right; be as mad as you like, just as long as you don’t come schmeltzing, because it won’t be tolerated.”

A bell sounded. Hanafer took Lyssel’s arm, but she jerked away and ran off across the forecourt, with Hanafer marching glumly behind.

Jaro watched them go, then picked up his books and went off to his own class.

Two months later the term ended. During the winter recess Hilyer and Althea went off on a short expedition to the Baneek Isles of the world Lakhme Verde, in order to record and document the so-called “Tymanghese” orchestras, which produced a music of tinkling waterbells, sound-spangles, quavering gongs controlled by a flexible reverberatory rhythm: a music which some compared to the surge and retreat of silver surf, others to “daydreams in the mind of Pasiphae the goddess of music.” On Lakhme Verde each village supported one or more orchestras, and almost everyone either crafted or played one of the exquisitely flexible instruments.

The music had long been intractable to the analysis of musicologists, and the Faths were determined to apply certain new theories upon the gorgeous textures of a sound which not even the musicians of the isles claimed to understand completely.

Jaro, meanwhile, worked to the limit of his energies, training himself in the techniques demonstrated to him by Gaing. He was impatient and constantly demanded new routines, new moves, new tactics. Gaing refused to yield until Jaro had perfected every phase of the old material. “You are advancing fast enough. I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”

“No chance of that,” said Jaro. “I feel that this is what I was made for; I can’t get enough of it; I won’t stop until I learn it all.”

“You won’t do that, for sure,” said Gaing. “Some of the systems are thousands of years old, and everyone thinks he has quicker and better moves than the old masters. I used to think that myself. I was probably wrong.”

“So—how far have I come?”

“You’ve done well. So far we’ve been keeping to relatively basic material—no acrobatics, no exotic combinations.”

“When do we start those?”

“When you develop the musculature and the body. By the time I’m done with you—or even before—your assurance index should be quite high. Meanwhile, we shall proceed methodically. After all, there is no hurry.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Jaro. “This will be my last term at the Lyceum. After that, I don’t know what will happen. The Faths won’t tell me where they found me until I graduate from the Institute.”

Gaing asked, “Don’t they keep journals which describe their expeditions?”

“I think so, but they’ve put them away, out of my reach. They say they’ll tell me everything once I get my degree, but I don’t care to wait so long.”

Gaing shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Let’s get back to the drill. That’s definite and real.”

The spring term at the Lyceum began. Jaro’s academic record was such that he was placed in a special classification, and allowed wide latitude in the scheduling and conduct of his courses. Jaro chose to study at home, reporting to his instructors weekly via the screenwriter. He was thereby freed to concentrate upon the ever more taxing exercises prescribed by Gaing. He began to notice changes in his body. His shoulders and chest deepened; his flanks, thighs, and haunches became hard as leather; his forearms, wrists and hands seemed belted over with sinew and the bones themselves had become dense and heavy. He had started to learn complicated combinations and exotic exercises, which could seriously injure an opponent unless controlled. Gaing insisted on speed, accuracy and balance above all else; as always, Jaro was not allowed to proceed into new routines until the old material had become as automatic as walking.

One day Gaing told Jaro: “You are now well into the third level of proficiency, which is solid achievement. Other levels are still ahead, and the field branches out into a hundred specialities, which are not relevant at the moment. I refer to horrifying sounds, illusions, powders and mists, photic adjuncts, miniature weapons, and the like; there is no end to the field. At the moment, it’s best that you continue with the fundamentals. You still have far to go, although you need no longer consider yourself a tyro. Increase your index of assurance, if you like.”

Jaro only grinned and continued his exercises.

On the same day Hilyer brought home an item of news which he had gleaned at the Office of Land Registry. As he sat down to his afternoon tea, he imparted the information to Althea and Jaro.

“You’ll recall that the old Yellowbird Ranch to our south at one time belonged to Clois Hutsenreiter?”

“Of course,” said Althea.

“Just so. A few years ago he sold the property to a syndicate, the Fidol Combine—for rather a low price, as I remember. Today, I happened to be in the land office, and out of curiosity I looked up Fidol in the registry. I found that most of Fidol is owned by Gilfong Rute, who is an eccentric millionaire and a Val Verde. Twenty percent of Fidol is held by Forby Mildoon, a real estate developer, or something of the sort. This is the same Forby Mildoon who tried to sell us the Catterline House. It all gave me pause to wonder. I asked a few questions and learned that Rute is a flamboyant type, with a penchant for imaginative investments, both on Gallingale and off-world.”

Althea asked, “Why should he want the Yellowbird land? It’s just wild country, much like our own, only not as pretty.”

“There are always rumors, but they never come to much. I’ve heard talk of a luxury development on the property, where only Sempiternals would be allowed. Rute wants to be a Sempiternal, but none of the three clubs will take him. He’s too unconventional for the Clam Muffins, and too domineering for the Tattermen. The Quantorsi have applications across three generations. Apparently he hopes to snoozle his way into the Sempiternals by means of the exclusive development.”

“That sounds strange to me,” said Althea. “How could he become a Sempiternal if none of the three will accept him?”

Hilyer shrugged. “Osmosis, or something of the sort. In short, I don’t have a clue, and it’s probably all a mare’s nest.”

Jaro said suddenly: “Forby Mildoon? He is Lyssel Bynnoc’s uncle. Rute has a beautiful yacht at the spaceport which he never uses; Lyssel told me that Forby Mildoon wants to buy it, but Rute quotes him all manner of fancy prices.”

“Evidently he doesn’t really want to sell,” said Hilyer.

Jaro went off to his schoolwork, while Hilyer and Althea looked in their reference works to learn something of the world Ushant, where during the summer break they would attend a Grand Conclave of Aesthetic Philosophers. Over dinner they asked Jaro if he cared to accompany them. “Ushant is a fascinating world in itself,” declared Althea. “The folk are said to support a philosophy which elevates awareness to its maximum sensitivity. The tactics of consciousness in themselves becomes a creative art.”

Hilyer added: “Don’t forget, that if you study for a degree in aesthetic philosophy as we advise, the Conclave should be of great help to you.”

“If nothing else, you’ll make valuable contacts,” said Althea.

Hilyer nodded sage agreement. “We’ll be mingling intimately with authorities in many fields: anthropologists of all kinds, aesthetic analysts, cultural philosophers, savants of comparative art and parallel development, symbologists such as ourselves, and even Dean Hutsenreiter will be on hand. It should be an inspiring occasion.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Jaro. “At the moment I’m so busy I can focus only on schoolwork and my exercises.”

“Hmf,” said Hilyer. “How long do you intend to keep up these exercises?”

Althea said with a sniff: “Until he can maim some poor innocent person with a single touch of the finger.”

Jaro laughed. “I can do that now. Who do you want maimed?”

“Please be serious,” said Hilyer. “Certainly there must be a term in view.”

“I agree,” said Jaro. “But at the moment I’m just halfway into the subject, and the more I learn the more I want to know.”

Hilyer used his most sardonic voice. “I hope you’ll have some of that remarkable zest left for your work at the Institute.”

The fall semester ended. There was a two week break, then Jaro entered his final semester at the Lyceum.

Time passed swiftly. The most important social event of the year, the Dombrillion, a grand ball for the graduating class, would take place a week before commencement. The Dombrillion, an official school function, disregarded social difference, so that in theory everyone, from the lowliest nimp to the strivers clambering the high ledges might mingle in good fellowship; in practice, each club made plans for its own tables and ordained a special costume for its members.