Redworld, page 10
“You start,” said Gard. He laid his hand on my head.
“Siris forgive me for my sinful attitudes,” I said woodenly.
“A little more expression.”
I took a deep breath. I made my voice go up and down, in the approved public manner. I warmed to my work. I paused for effect. I speeded up. I changed pace. I catalogued my sins. I promised to reform. I commended to Siris this good man who had made clear the error of my ways.
When I came to an end, I wondered whether my inventory of errors might not actually be true.
“Amen,” said Gard. “Well, Pol, that ought to about do it. You can stay in the temple in good standing.”
Chalk one up for the old pro, I thought.
We got up together.
As I trod heavily down the stairs, I listened to the faint sounds of paper being ripped and shredded.
For nothing.
I PLODDED HOME feeling shamed, guilty, defiled. Within me a crystalline hatred was forming toward myself, toward Gard, toward the temple, and toward organized religion. And if Siris existed, I had no particular fondness for him, either.
As I went through the park, I stepped off on one of the side paths and vomited copiously. Then I felt a little better. As I returned to the main path I saw a skirted figure pause at the intersection, then turn and run across the meadow. Girls oughtn’t to be out here alone at this hori, I thought. Never know what might happen. Something familiar about this one, though. Running back toward the collegia. Jeil? And how much had she heard? Damn nosey yed-bitch.
But from then on, things began looking up.
When I got home, Mother told me that Captain Kertor had sent me a personal written message by mounted courier. (The racing borch had ridden right up to the stairway and had eaten three ripe totoes while the rider was delivering his envelope to a very frightened woman. No matter!)
There was an opening in the Damaskis Militia. They were accepting applications, but they had to decide soon. “They need,” continued the careful flowery script, “a young fellow in the Investigators to take dactylographs (fingerprints), write letters, print up records on the type-machine, that kind of thing. It pays four hundred solati per sextile. Interested?”
I stared at the piece of paper in amazement. Four hundred solati? Was it possible? That was more than twice what I got at Magna.
“What are you going to do?” asked Mother fearfully.
“I’m going to apply,” I cried. “Money … money … money.” (Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!)
15
Coronel Dite
I STOPPED BY the Department of Militia early the L next morning, which was a Cinqueday.
The militia and gaol occupied the basement and part of the first floor of the ancient City Building. The rest of the structure housed sundry administrative offices.
A barely legible sign on one of the basement doors said “Investigators.” A pot-pourri of faint, rather unpleasant smells hit me as I went deeper into the basement area. Sort of an antiseptic unbathed dankness. Inside, Coronel Dite was waiting for me. We shook hands and studied each other briefly.
The coronel was a solid man, not as tall as I, but obviously strongly built. He had a grip like a vise. He wore his plain serge uniform like armor. His holstered crossbow swung at his side. His eyes were dark, cold, hard. He explained the situation with quick precision. “We have a vacancy. We want someone who can take over the night shift and operate here alone. The vacancy exists because our prior clerk was discovered to be a homosexual.” He looked at me accusingly for a moment. I felt my cheeks coloring, as though I were the guilty party. He continued. “He was caught in the act, by none other than Dean Gard, of the collegia. With one of the students, in the gym.”
I gulped. Son-of-Siris! I had witnessed the opening and closing moments of the very minidrama that had created this job opening. I had made brief eye contact with one of the two participants. Which one? No way to know.
The coronel looked at me curiously. Then he continued. “We were barely able to keep it out of the newssheet. The Chief Magister called me on the carpet. This time we are going to be more careful.” He studied me for a full breath. Then he said: “Are you a homosexual?”
Everything now fell into place. The tragicomedy at the gym. Kertor’s questions about girls. Just then I wished I had a province-wide reputation as a rake-hell and womanizer, with three paternity suits pending against me in the ecclesia.
“No,” I said, “I’m not a homosexual.” Come to think of it, it was a stupid question. If I were, did he think I would come right out and admit it? The coronel was probably thinking the same thing.
“Come on,” he said. “Show you around.” He took me across the corridor into a small room, which led into another, larger room, where I could see several men in uniform, including one seated at a message center.
“Life starts here,” said the coronel. “This is the arrest desk. The arresting officer brings his man in here and the suspect empties his pockets on this alumen counter. The desk kemadar itemizes everything on the property envelope, then the prisoner and the officer both sign, and the man is then in the official custody of the turnkey. The kemadar takes the arrest ticket and transfers the data on it to the big arrest sheet. Later in the day we print out an arrest card for each entry. This is done on a machine type setter.
“Next, the turnkey brings the prisoner in for fingerprinting, then back to the cells. Two cell areas: one for men, the other for women.”
I followed him down the hall.
“Down here is the muster room. Lieutenant Leder is assembling the morning shift.”
Thirty officers were lined up at attention in the big room, and the lieutenant, a gray-haired man in puttees, was inspecting each man. He shook his head occasionally, but did not break his slow stride. When he came to the end of the line, a sergeant handed him a clipboard. “At ease, men.” The lieutenant glanced at the sheet, then called over to the turnkey. “Send out San Gallig.”
Metal doors clanged, and an unshaven sad-looking youth in decrepit gray tunic emerged with the turnkey.
The lieutenant read rapidly from his sheet. “San Gallig. Age twenty-three. Provincial Prison two years, insulting priest. Arrest in Vosstown suspicion of heresy released lack of evidence. Dervil assault and battery. Dismissed lack of evidence. Arrested yesterday in Berry possession temple candelabra. Gallig, walk around in this circle, here.”
I noticed a circle marked out with paint on the floor.
“Look at this man carefully,” said Lieutenant Leder. “Whenever you see him, pick him up. If he does anything quick with his hands, sword him.” He called out to the pacing man. “What are you doing in town, Gallig?”
“Looking for a job.”
“Speak up and walk faster.”
“I was looking for a job.”
“They still can’t hear you. You act as though you had never been in a show-up before.”
The man shuffled a little faster. “I was looking for work.”
“He is telling the truth,” observed the coronel dryly. “He was caught with a complete set of sky-metal tools: saw, a cold chisel, and sledge hammer. His current line of work is breaking into strongboxes.” He turned around. “Let’s go back to the print room. Our day clerk is printing a wagonful of hoboes. You can see what it’s like.”
Dite led me into a room full of shuffling silent men, standing patiently in a line terminated by the turnkey, who blocked the only exit from the room. At the other end was the dactylographer, in spotless pink short tunic and black breeches. One by one, he was quickly and skillfully taking the fingerprints of the men.
I watched in fascination as the clerk spread out printer’s ink from a jar onto a glass plate, then rolled a wooden roller back and forth to lay down a uniform film of black ink. Then one by one he “rolled” the hobo’s twelve fingers on the stiff pink card.
All during the tour, I noticed that the coronel was watching me covertly. I did not mind. Dite was entitled to see how a potential employee would react to life in the raw. I was fascinated, but I dared not let it show. I confined my reaction to asking an occasional question.
We returned to the coronel’s desk. The man stood there a moment. “I will be frank, Randol.” His voice held an edge of frustration. “You are only twenty. Our applicant ought to be twenty-one. Also, you are underweight. The work here would involve not only machine printing—you will also be taking fingerprints. Every once in a while you may be called upon to defend yourself physically from somebody that doesn’t want his fingerprints taken.”
I got the picture. There just weren’t that many male machine printers in Damaskis. The coronel had exhausted the possibilities. He was down to probably a couple of applicants, including me. If I were older and weighed more, the job would be mine. He wanted me to help him convince himself I was the man.
I began carefully. “I will be twenty-one in a couple of sextiles. As for being underweight, I don’t think I am, not really. I’m mostly muscle.”
“Really?” Dite sounded dubious. “I exercise half an hori a day at the militia gym. You are a bit taller than I, but we weigh about the same. Let’s see how we make out in stand-wrestling.” He came out from behind his desk. We stood in the middle of the room, put our right feet together, and clasped hands. He was so confident he didn’t even bother to unbuckle his crossbow. Scary!
It was immediately evident to me that this game wasn’t a test of mere strength. It showed skill, training, and experience. A weaker, shorter man with a lot of experience would have a big advantage over an inexperienced opponent. As indeed quickly proved to be the case. After several feints and false lunges, Dite came in suddenly and almost pulled me off balance. I barely had time to figure out what he was about to do, and how to handle it. I recovered quickly, and now I leaned far forward, and to my left, maintaining a very precarious balance simply by clutching the hand of the older man in a sky-metal grip. We would begin to fall together, but Dite would have to drop first, because I would be pushing myself upward by pulling him down. The officer began to yield slowly. I suddenly wondered whether it was smart, beating my possible future boss in a stupid game as this. But it was too late now. Besides, he might never be my future boss if I did not convince him that I could take care of myself in the midst of guests of the city. Either way, I both won and lost.
And now he was falling. And he was trying to bring me down with him. Our feet were still on the stone floor of the station house, but in a matter of a fraction of a breath, one foot had to come up. And that foot would be the loser’s. The farce was ending exactly as I had planned. As Dite attempted to pull me down, I simply increased the pressure on the imbalance between us, and he had to throw out his right leg to avoid dropping on his face. And so I won—or maybe lost.
We broke apart.
A little knob of militiamen had gathered around us. They were grinning covertly.
Dite’s stone face altered subtly. It was a smile, but a smile with malicious hints. “You have a lot of muscle there.” He was breathing rapidly and looked with controlled distaste at the faces about us. “Are you game for another little test?”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t like the way it was going now. Dite didn’t show it, but I was certain I had made him angry. I wasn’t sure what was coming up now, except that I was supposed to get whalloped. I set my jaw. Well, let it come. I was not sorry for grounding the coronel. I would do it again.
The officer turned to a great hulking officer at his left. “Corporal Ballein, meet Pol Randol, an applicant for a position as clerk. If mutually agreeable, could you both favor us with an exhibition of wrist wrestling?”
Now this is totally unnecessary, I thought. This is worse than a tribal initiation. The whole bunch of them are insane. I ought to walk out on them right this minute.
Something clicked.
Borch Ballein!
A once-famous squareman on the scholium sports team. However, in these intervening years Borch had evidently not kept in shape. But the same massive strength was there, in the deltoids and forearms.
“Aw, sir …” Ballein was genuinely unhappy. He obviously did not want to hurt or embarrass me. And beating me could hardly add to his fame as the probable arm-wrestling champion of the Damaskis Militia.
The coronel was adamant. “Go ahead, corporal.”
Ballein sighed and looked at me. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“Well …” Ballein motioned to the table. He sat on one side, I on the other. I did not even have time to wedge my legs against the table leg on my side when Ballein grabbed my hand and began to force it back toward the table top.
I acted by pure reflex. All I could think of was that my hand must not touch the table. I called on my body for one vast surge of power, and it delivered. I did not bother using my elbow as a hinge, in the approved manner. I made no attempt to keep my elbow in contact with the table surface. I thought only in terms of up.
My arm came up. Ballein’s arm came with it. And Borch Ballein (who was twice my weight) came up with his arm. And since Officer Ballein had taken the foresight to lock his left leg around the table leg, he brought the table up with him. And further, since the mass of man and table was no light matter, the whole of it returned as quickly as it had left. But when it returned, it found Corporal Ballein’s foot in the way. In bitter anguish, Ballein jerked his hand away from mine, and lifted the table up again. He got up and pranced around the floor in a tight circle, an object of great mirth to his peers.
I turned a dismayed face to Ballein (who ignored me) then to Dite, who returned what might be interpreted as a grin. “I’m sorry.” I cried, to no one, to everyone, to anyone who would hear me.
“Don’t be,” said the coronel. “He’s not hurt. And you made your point, about being able to take care of yourself.” He became suddenly serious. “But this is all we can do today. We will let you know, one way or the other. We will make a decision very soon.”
As I left, I caught Ballein’s eye for an instant, and held up my arm in a semi-salute. The big officer smiled back at me uncertainly.
AT THE ELEVENTH bell that morning Captain Kertor came over to the mill to talk to me in person. “Boy, I hear you got a problem on that militia job.” The voice blended sympathy and accusation.
My hearts began to flutter in tandem. Problem? What problem? I stopped stacking box blanks on the order cart and looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“You need a certificate that says you’re not a homosexual.”
“Huh?” I stared at him.
“A homosexual, boy,” he said impatiently. “Are you?”
I gritted my teeth. “No, sir. Of course not.”
“Can you prove it? For example, can you prove you like girls? That you’ve been in bed with a girl?”
“No, I can’t prove anything. Look, Captain—”
I listened to a long gasp fashioned of horror and skepticism. “Boy, are you trying to tell me you’re a virgin?”
I didn’t answer this one directly. “Captain, I have to finish loading this order. Could I come up and talk to you a little later?”
“Sure, son. You get off at noon today?”
“In about an hour.”
“Drop by the Tower, boy. Let’s talk some more. I think I see the difficulty. We can fix this thing.”
16
I Am Auctioned
“COME IN, SON,” said Kertor kindly. He and Squire Vys were sitting at the jaq table. Nothing unusual in that. They were there most of the time anyway. The peculiar thing was, four girls were standing around them, looking in my direction, and giggling. Myria. Nana. Felia. And a new one, name as yet unknown.
I hesitated. Kertor beckoned me on toward the group. “I just received a racing message from the coronel.” He pulled a piece of paper from his tunic pocket, unfolded it, and frowned down at it through his alumen-rim spectacles. “The coronel gave me the exact words to put in your certificate.”
“My what?”
“Your certificate. Be quiet, boy.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Listen to this.
Done in the City of Damaskis in the Southern Province.
I, the undersigned, do hereby solemnly affirm and certify that Pol Randol, personally known to me, has normal sexual relations with members of the opposite sex and is not a homosexual.
Signed (x)
Jaim Kertor
Capt., Provincial Militia (Ret)”
By the two faces of SiriS, I thought.
He looked up at me sternly. “You still interested? You still want that job?”
“Of course I want that job.”
“Well fine, then. All I got to do is sign this and get it over to the coronel. They’re talking to another young fellow, but they’d rather have you.”
“I see. Well—?”
“Boy, it’s got to be for real. The coronel and I, we’ve been friends for a long time. I can’t tell him something that ain’t so.”
I looked at the girls, one by one. Then at Squire Vys. He just smiled his crooked enigmatic smile. Then back at the Captain. I was beginning to understand a great deal.
“They’re all clean,” said Kertor. “They’re all just back from theomedic check-ups, and no action since then.”
I realized that my mouth was very dry. I tried to swallow, but Nothing went down. “I don’t have any money,” I said.
“No problem that-a-way, boy. In fact … well, maybe I’d better ask you … you agree in principle?”
“I … well …” What was I supposed to do, pick one of the four, and take her to bed?
The captain waited.
I studied the girls. Myria, with the square, cleanly chiseled face. Those full rich lips. She held her graceful brown body straight and proud. We exchanged even, appraising glances.
