Midax stepped into the street,
pulling shut his front door behind him.
Without looking back he set off,
glad that he had a bit of distance to walk in this unique transitional hour
when Purpose beckoned, Freedom lingered… He reached the end of his street and
entered the succession of crescent ways which curled alongside the parks. This
was an area in which he was likely to come across some people he knew:
ex-comrades, the fitter ones, sauntering in the crisp morning air. Mile-droppers
he was wont to call them in friendly mockery, from the care they took to
bring into conversation the extent, in miles, of their morning exercise. His
joke was harmless, yet now he was tired of it, tired of cleverness in general….
he hoped he would not meet any of that bunch. Not on this day which meant so
much to him. Though if he did, he’d deal with them effectively, using the
flippant arrogance which went with the title of Splasher…
He probably would not be able to
avoid a glimpse of one massive pear-shaped saunterer, full of inexhaustible
physical energy, name of Arrepleed, who was fond of organising hikes that began
about here…. Sure enough, on the other side of the road Midax glimpsed this particular
“mile-dropper”, apparently about to veer towards a route that led through the
suburbs to the hills.
Swinging a cane (which he did not
need), Arrepleed flourished it at Midax and shouted across:
“And where are you off to today,
M.R.?”
Midax spread out his hands and
yelled back, “Oh – saving the world, perhaps.”
“Sounds like work!” roared
Arrepleed, following the first rule of Splasher conversation, which was: never
admit that you do not understand.
Midax roared back carelessly:
“So I’ll join the Olamic and get
’em to show me how!”
The other man’s options were
limited. He had a split second in which to decide whether to appreciate Midax’s
far-fetched wit. Indeed there was nothing else to be done, without breaking
one’s stride, if one wished to look smooth. So, Arrepleed’s head rocked back
with a laugh and he waved again as he turned away.
End of that problem,
thought Midax with grey satisfaction.
A minute or so later he encountered
another ex-crony and dealt with him the same way: telling the truth as if it
were a joke.
It was natural for them to
suspect nothing. Midax’s shoulders still flaunted the same rich cloak as usual,
and his manner the same flippant veneer. In no way did he visibly offer any
sign of his new life. Thus he avoided delays, explanations, justifications; he
let the bubbling chatter of town life sink out of earshot as he reached Rheddon
Avenue and the long gradual climb towards the Olamic building.
Now, with mind cleansed of
distraction, he could enjoy the tingling silence in which abstract beams of
Promise and of Memory poured their spiritual cones from fore and aft, to bathe
him in their glows of greeting and farewell as he hiked across their common
frontier, the exquisite, transient Present: a blossom of awareness, its
short-lived petals of unspecified hope blooming between fixed Past and
committed Future. And other pedestrians walked the same road, as quietly as he. Increasing
numbers of them turned into it from their branching roads. Uniting himself with
this early stream, he thought to himself: I am one fleck among
the many private mysteries pushing past me; but it is possible, for these few
minutes, that I am the only spark of conscious freedom among them, the only
person who does not yet possess responsibilities, worries, or any precise
knowledge of what is to come; but then again, perhaps not... Either way, it
can’t last… The Institute looms, the bulk of Purpose shifts the balance, and
Freedom must bow under the weight of the occasion.
With a sudden flight of fancy he
pictured the Olamic’s magnificent double doors as a ticket window, and himself
as walking up to it with the shiny coin of freedom held out in his hand.
Here it comes, the coin is paid
over; or rather, the threshold is crossed, the action taken.
Midax shook his head and gathered
his wits.
The entrance hall seemed brighter
now than yesterday. At first he did not understand why.
It was the uniforms. A dozen people were in the hall
and they were wearing bright silver. Midax realized, guiltily: I caused this.
The famous silver suits – worn in the past only on rare state occasions – must
be worn continuously by all Institute personnel once the coming of
Sparseworld had been authenticated.
And I made the discovery. And now
heads are turning. They are staring at me already.
Suppressing the riot in his skull he strode
to the reception desk.
At the desk, again, sat feckless young Ervar. Well, this time he'd learn that the boot was on the other leg, but should he, Midax,
gloat in his hour of victory? Of course not – but on the other hand, if that
fantastic idiot should try any further obstruction….
But the smile which spread on the
youngster’s face seemed wholly positive.
“Good morning to you, Discoverer
Midax Rale!” Spoken ironically? No – obsequiously, and the flow of words
continued in respectful murmur. “If you would care to wait just a few moments,
guides will be here to show you to your quarters. Then you will be taken to
meet your fellow-trainees, and after that you will be taken on various
introductory tours. Would you care to be seated meanwhile? You will not have to
wait long, I promise you. Perhaps you may care to examine some of our new
publicity material. Some images of your discovery site have already been laid
out….”
“Thank you,” said Midax gruffly, rather overwhelmed by this deference. He headed for the waiting area, an alcove
occupied by three leathery armchairs around a low table; but before he got
there, he heard his name pronounced by another voice. Turning, he saw an older
man and woman who were approaching him: two more faces on which to read excited
welcome! This pair were similar to each other in middle age and stocky shape;
the man he recognized as Ultrisk, the thickset fellow with a tanned skull, who
had seemed so dour the evening before. Now he projected calm and satisfaction –
as
smooth as a Splasher, with purpose thrown in. The woman walked close beside him, as if to
emphasize that they were partners. Midax found himself immediately
trusting both of them.
“Bright and early, Midax Rale?”
“Early, at any rate.”
But the woman interjected:
“We wondered, we wondered…
whether you had had second thoughts and had come just to cancel.”
“This lady,” remarked Ultrisk,
“is Kmee, my colleague from Admissions.”
Midax felt straightaway drawn to
Kmee as though to a cushiony cloud of gentleness and kindness, a personified
projector of warm rays. He was baffled by her relevance, her link to him. He
could not comprehend this sudden bonding; after all, he had never seen her
before, never heard of her. What sort of emotional event was this? Certainly not
the usual disturbing woman-effect. The warmth in which her voice and manner
enveloped him was an entirely reassuring thing, extraordinarily protective. It
gave him – for the first time in his life – the sense of being a small, snug,
sheltered and valued being.
Remarkable! If the Institute are this
good, they may be right about all sorts of stuff. They may know what I’m
good for. If so, I hope they tell me what it is.
“No, I’m certainly not backing
out,” he said aloud. “The reason I came early, Kmee, was to get some help with
this.” He extracted the application form from his pocket.
Ultrisk took the papers from him.
They settled in the armchairs.
“Well, is it all in order?” asked
Midax.
Kmee leant over to watch as
Ultrisk unfolded the sheets of the form. Mildly she commented, “You’ve left all
of it blank.”
Midax nodded, “That’s what I mean
– is it all in order? Seeing as I’m being admitted only as the great Discoverer
– not for my own sweet self, which was rejected a few hours before – is it all
right for me to treat the form as a joke?” His tone was bright, powered,
however, by a burst of severity. This is
telling them. Right now, this moment, is the best time to find out how much I
can trust them to get along with me.
Ultrisk stretched back in his
chair. “You’re determined to start off on your chosen footing, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” agreed Midax,
coldly riding the flare within him, and hardening his heart against the others’
charm. For it was vital to find out once and for all whether he was here just
as some token publicity mascot, or whether he would be valued for himself.
“All right,” Ultrisk’s smile was
brisk and unperturbed, “I get the picture. Your previous application was
rejected, and then suddenly you become the Discoverer and we immediately change
our minds about you; we want you in here for all sorts of prestige reasons –
whereas you are wishing you were valued for your talents. Right?”
“Right.”
“Wrong,” Ultrisk pronounced. “You’d
have got in eventually, discovery or no discovery – provided that your Splasher
pride allowed you to persist in the attempt.”
“I want to believe you,” was Midax’s
muttered concession.
“Besides,” continued Ultrisk,
“think: what is talent?”
“Uh…” blinked Midax.
“Talent is a characteristic, an
attribute, not an achievement! Of course it can lead to achievement, but
did you, Discoverer Midax Rale, really deserve to be at the right place
at the right time yesterday evening? Any more than I deserve to possess
my consummate ability to deal with difficult people?”
The fury within the Discoverer
was dying, dispersed in the infinite promise of this special day.
“So….?” and Midax matched the
twinkle in the older man’s eye.
“So, the application form is
quite in order, Midax the Mascot Rale. Now let’s go and have a look at your
room.” Ultrisk heaved himself up.
Kmee rose likewise, handing the
form back to Midax, saying, “Keep it as a souvenir!” He smiled back with the
feeling that the contest had been won by all sides. In amazed contentment, he
followed the pair as they set off down the hall. That strong sense he had of
being protected, as though it were Kmee’s function or destiny to be his shield:
what a strangely groundless feeling! Supposing he ever did need a shield – what
could this woman do?
They passed through a checkpoint
into a grid of corridors.
Kmee looked round, dropped back a
bit to walk beside Midax and laid a hand on his arm.
She said: “I expect it must have
been hard for you to say good-bye to your friends.”
“I haven’t told my friends where
I have gone.”
“Ah,” she nodded, “so you’ve bid
no fond farewells.”
With an edge to his voice he
replied, “What matters more, is that I’ve said goodbye to my enemies: that’s to say the annoyances,
the discontents, the texture of purposeless life…”
She laughed, “Congratulations. It’s
good, I know, to give all that the final slip. And do you know what you’ve
gained instead?”
“Not yet, but I’m sure it can’t
be worse.”
She gave his arm a sympathetic
squeeze.
Busy sounds came at them through
the walls of the corridor, walls which, according to signs on doors, concealed
offices, lecture theatres, laboratories… One door was ajar, and as they strode
past it Midax glimpsed pulses of light through the jamb.
He probed, “I seem to remember,
this area was sealed off during the Open Day.”
“We don’t want tourists gaping
into the main tank,” replied Ultrisk.
“Because it interrupts your
research?”
“ – And besides,” Ultrisk added
to finish his statement, “some tourists are such cowards.”
Patience, thought Midax, is
something I can afford, now that I am safely in; so let all cryptic remarks
rain down on me as they will. A downpour of omens is all right with me. All
that matters is that I’m in, I’m safely in...
They reached
the trainees’ living quarters. Ultrisk and Kmee showed Midax into a compact
study-bedsit, neat and plain, with curtains open to reveal a fine view over
Serenth and the hills beyond. Just outside the window, tilted mirrors –
operable by levers from inside – directed the zenith sunlight into the room and
onto the bed, where it sparkled upon a silver uniform laid out.
“We’ll leave you to get ready,”
Ultrisk said.
They gave him a plan of the
building. They instructed him that when he had got changed he was to go to the
room marked A143 where he would meet his fellow-trainees.
Midax asked, “Ah – how many are
they?”
“Fifteen in the current intake,
including yourself. You’re naturally wondering what they’re like, aren’t you? Nine
are ex-trancers who broke trance yesterday to join us. The rest have
transferred here from other institutions or from private vividian concerns. Quite
a mixture. You’re the only Splasher among them. So that’s something they’ve all
got that you haven’t – to whit, a solid work-record!” He gave Midax a jovial
slap on the back. “See you soon.”
Kmee echoed
warmly, “See you soon. And don’t look nonplussed, Midax –”
They left him standing in the
middle of the room.
He remained for some seconds
gazing at the silver jacket and trousers which he must now put on. He thought
of how carefully it and all the other uniforms must have been stored in
readiness for this historic day. Long-planned, the counterstroke against
Sparseworld! An age-long project, the
defence against the Winter of Being! But considering the inescapable nature of the doom, what could such a defence entail? He was as
yet in no position to guess any possible answer to this huge question, but he
felt the size and weight of it on his soul. Certainly he had already
contributed something, he had discovered the harbinger, and had given the great
warning, but henceforth what could he be but a cog in some mighty process? Well,
he had wanted meaning in his life. Here was meaning.
He dressed himself in the silver
gear. Now uniformed, and keyed-up, his sophisticated poise no more than a thin
screen against palpitating excitement, Midax considered how vital it was that
he make adequate first contact with those who were going to be his companions
in the days ahead. He must channel his tension positively, into clarity and
alertness. That was what tension was for.
If he could do that, he’d make a
good enough impression.
Taking his own advice, by the
time he reached the entrance of Room A143 he had slid into the best manner of
approach: outward ease, trust, optimism based on the knowledge that these
people (fortunately) weren’t going to resemble his former set at all. And as he
came in sight of the group that stood conversing around a low drinks-table, his
hopes were encouraged by the first fragments of chit-chat which he overheard. No
trivia-minded Splashers here. Here, idle talk was meant to be interesting
rather than “smooth”. He heard stuff which at first he didn’t understand but
which definitely held a tone of promise. A woman was saying, “Relevance is
irrelevant. Static-fed discharge, too far off to affect our bodies, can still
inspire our artists,” and a man reply, “At a time like this, we’ve got closer
stuff to focus on, than pretty atmospheric phenomena.” The apparent gibberish
became comprehensible when he guessed that they were discussing the “wilderness
lights”, the transient glows or brief flashing points occasionally seen at
cosmic distances against the upward curving surface of Korm. A civilized topic.
Like a hungry desert wanderer who at last comes upon a feast, Midax crossed the
threshold of Room A143, avid to join an intelligent debate.
Quick, pick the right trajectory!
Mustn’t acquire that fatal hovering look.
Of the three chatting groups, he
chose to head for the standing group of four in the centre, which included
those who had been discussing the wilderness lights, and he walked forward in a
style which signalled to them: open up, I
want to join you; without a doubt
you’re going to let me in.
“Have you no soul, Waretik?” the
woman was saying.
“Certainly, Sennwa, I have a
soul. Else I would not wonder if I had.”
“Well, then! Poem after poem has
been written about those lights, and all you lot do is ascribe them to
atmospheric phenomena.”
“What – the lights or the poems?”
asked a third voice.
Midax, edging
closer, saw Sennwa, a plump woman with orange hair, look up accusingly at
Waretik, an immensely tall, serious-faced man. The third speaker was a younger,
thinner woman with a lopsidedly attractive twist of the mouth, who shifted her slight
weight once or twice with an impatient dancing motion.
This was the sort of scene he was
meant for. Not the empty wit of the Splashers, but the right
interplay between lightness and depth.
Waretik had knit his heavy brows and
began to reply to the original charge. “Not merely
atmospheric phenomena, no. My bet would be on some kind of reciprocal action
between meteorological disturbance and traces of volatiles on the ground….”
“Well, you’re the surveyor,
Waretik,” spoke up a stockier man, in a cocksure tone; “you should organize an
expedition to find out.”
Waretik took the comment
seriously, Midax could tell. It was as though it really were up to him,
Surveyor Waretik, to find a way to traverse the cosmic distances. With a cornered
downward look like a giant at bay, the big man retorted: “Well now, Stid, before
venturing that far, we’d first better
check with Sennwa, as to what effect that intrusion might have.”
“On what?”
“He means,” said Sennwa, the
orange-haired woman, “the literary scene.” She persisted amid the smiles, “Maybe
it’d hardly matter; there’d always be the next light further on, still
un-debunked, still imaginable as a beacon – Waretik could hardly reach them
all, to spoil their romance with his Survey reports.”
“I couldn’t live long enough to
reach one,” Waretik remarked. “Not even if I needed no sleep or breaks
for meals. But some of you younger ones might make it. Let’s see…. Stid, how
about you? You look like a strong young fellow; you could manage twenty miles a
day easily enough, assuming you could carry enough ration pills…. That would
mean…. hmm…. 22,500 days or so to the closest ‘beacon’…. well, maybe you’d
better make it thirty miles a day – when you start considering the size of the
universe…”
Midax chose this moment for the
last half-step to nudge him into the ring.
Would he be let in? Yes! The
others edged round – space was made for him! The group had shifted without
strain to accommodate him! He had not even needed to say, “Excuse me”. This was so wonderful, this sense of
belonging. I’m home. I’m home. Casually he remarked: “Sounds like
an expedition is being planned.”
“Not quite,” replied Waretik
dryly, “as I suspect that Stid Orpen here” – he indicated the stocky man – “may
not have all the logistical problems ironed out.”
“Yep,” admitted Stid, “maybe the
dawn of the Matter Age will have to be postponed awhile.”
“Besides,” the younger of the two
women intervened again, “available resources are probably tied up right now.” She
uttered this understatement with a grimace, rolling her eyes. “But don’t worry,
Stid, as soon as we’ve sorted this little Sparseworld business out, we’ll see
if we can find backers for your Matter Programme.”
“Trust you, Mezyf Tand, to remind
me why I’m here,” Stid grumbled. He turned to Midax. “Mean of her, don’t you
think?”
“Sounds as though she’s a
realist.”
Stid nodded at that and said to
Mezyf, “Let’s face it, you’re a mere realist, whereas I am a visionary.”
Midax – really in his element now
– suggested, “Why not combine the two concerns?”
Waretik said, “How could that
be?”
“I mean, for example, we could
arrange for an expedition to take us all far Out There, out of range, while Sparseworld does its worst to an empty city; and then we come back when it’s
all over.”
“I see,” nodded Waretik. “Use a
Matter Exploration Programme to evade Sparseworld.”
“Great!” gasped Stid.
“It just popped into my head,”
shrugged Midax modestly.
“I know who you are,” cut in
Mezyf Tand, her voice suddenly sharp.
Midax’s heart prepared to sink. “Oh?”
“This lot,” Mezyf continued, with
a jerk of her head at her companions, “made straight for the drinks, but I,”
and she waved at a stack of leaflets, “saw what was on the newsletter.”
Sennwa said: “Ah.” Whereupon she,
too, went to fetch a leaflet. She stared at it and then at Midax. “So you’re the
Discoverer. The Splasher.”
“Ex-Splasher, if you don’t mind –
”
As the Discoverer, I’m level with
them, despite my idle background. I’m accepted by them; absolutely equal, they
and I. That’s what their gazes seem to be saying. ‘Midax Rale, Olamic trainee’.
At last.
The other introductions were
made.
Sennwa Axan, ex-teacher. Mezyf
Tand, ex-econometrist. Stid Orpen, ex-courier, ex-trancer. Waretik Thanth,
ex-Surveyor.
“Or maybe not ‘ex’,” Midax
suggested.
Waretik murmured, “Perhaps,”
glancing around the suddenly silent group, all of whom faced the uncharted
territory of the future.
Then a voice at the door: Ultrisk
calling them, interrupting all the conversations in the room.
“All right, you people! Time to grab some minutes in the Surveillance Tower.”
Midax could not imagine any other
day ever being as good as this.
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