Ratta-ta-tum,
ratta-ta-tum, swayed the train as it hurtled back towards Dranl. Midax’s head
rocked from side to side on the cushiony rest. The sun-drenched prairie flowed
past the window. Peace was in his soul.
He
had committed himself at last. There is nothing, he thought, like the
satisfaction you get from standing up for your beliefs. Full-throttled
satisfaction – I’m going to use myself up in the right way. That must be why I
slept so soundly last night, in the Thilparan hotel.
After
that nourishing sleep and a breakfast fit for a happy simple soul, he had
walked through warm bright streets to the station to catch the early express
which was now speeding him home. Henceforth, why should he not keep the Vow
during the rest of his little life? As far as love was concerned, he could live
on memories. A much easier life it would be, with his ideals at last made
official, in a manner which others must recognize. The Vow, in short, was his
announcement, once and for all, of life-long allegiance to a vision, and an
opt-out from “relationshipping”.
Certainly
there need be no regrets, since he had done right. What else could there be to
live for, other than the best ideal? What could compete with the glory of the
vow? Second-best “relationships” were far too sad a compromise, for anyone who
had tasted the greater thing. It had to be romance or nothing. Romance
Supernal, ratta-ta-tum, ratta-ta-tum… But wait a moment…
Life-long
allegiance? His?
Not
quite true…
His
memory probed, with extra-scrupulous honesty, far further back, to before those schooldays when he had met Pjerl - right back to his pre-school
childhood. Those were days before he could have ever met or heard or understood the word
“romance”.
Infrequent,
this most distant kind of memory. Yet when it did come it was strong, always strong. Strong enough, indeed, to force him now to admit a huge fact. The vision of glory in those far-off days had already existed, but it had shone not in any
beloved person but in the sunset clouds. That had been its true residence then: not in a woman’s face but in the apricot glow of clouds in a
twilit sky, a tremendous beauty and grandeur beckoning him outward to some
other, incomparably greater world. Such was his first romance, and occasionally he still remembered it, like,
for instance, now... though it was now a very long time since his mind had been flung into
those shining fields and mountains of light. And they glimmered more weakly with every passing decade. Yet still, after all, they remained strong
enough, while the special moment lasted, to make him forget everything that had
happened since!
So
what in heaven was love? What was it, really? Prickles of recollection of past glory,
focused on – a cloud?? Hmm... Additional rare occasions from down the years, when the oldest vision had fleetingly
returned, again returned to his mind
to puzzle him now. It wasn’t a thing you could actually grasp – that primal, earliest allegiance. But evidently you
couldn’t completely let go of it, either. So what was going on? All glories
must be linked. Otherwise, nothing made sense.
Midax blinked back a tear of stress and excitement and hope. He
must be on the right track. His mind embarked upon a tenacious plod. He must stick
with whatever Glory was. Whatever one might call it, it couldn’t
really be argued with. The thing to do was to trust it. One must simply trust
that to follow it was bound to be right. Ratta-ta-tum, ratta-ta-tum, the
carriage lurched along jubilantly. He shook his head to clear it. Just then, he
had received an odd impression, from beyond the window-glass.
He
opened the window, and leaned out, with the roaring wind whipping his hair into
his eyes. He stared, baffled. His eyes were telling him something which could
not be. He must be more stressed than he realized. What seemed to be true, but
could not be true, was that the train had begun to zig and zag. Of course – he
realized as he drew back and shut the window – he had really seen nothing but
the same straight line of carriages, ahead and behind; there couldn’t be any
zig-zags along the route of the Continental Express. The notion was absurd. No
way could there be corners or junctions on the prairie; nothing existed out
here which could possibly make it necessary for the train to meander. Illusion,
daydream, hallucination, that’s all it was.
He
reclined, relaxing, and told himself that the cure for daft hallucinations was
more rest. And the good news was that he was going to get plenty of healthful
rest from now on. His entire life henceforth was going to be a restful run,
shorn of stupid striving, up to his last day.
And
after that, what?
Then
he’d find out whatever there was that comes after life. Same as everyone else
must do.
That would be his door to the unknown, to the greatest adventure. In that respect,
thought Midax, everyone is his own Monto deRoffa, everyone must become an
explorer when faced with his last hour and the privilege it brings, to discover what has never
been told…
He
sat back and managed to enjoy the rest of the journey.
Late
that evening, in his lounge back home in Dranl, there came the neighbourly
knock on the door.
“Coming
for an ellipsiteen?” said the voice which, as usual, melted his heart.
“Thanks,
Jerre,” he said warmly. Might as well appreciate what’s left, he thought as he
followed her. Across the corridor as usual, into her own lounge as usual.
“Did
you have a good day?”
“A
very good day. In Thilpar, no less. I went to the Shapers’ College.”
“So!”
Her face lit up with some degree of interest. He could tell, though, that most
of her mind was far away.
“And
I took the Shapers’ Vow.”
“Wow!”
she said uncertainly.
“No,
not ‘wow’ – vow.”
“Ah-hah-hah.
Um – that’s a big thing, isn’t it? Er – congratulations. But – sorry to be so
ignorant – what did you have to say, exactly?” While she spoke she opened the
cupboard door and rooted around for the jar of ellipsiteen. Midax, aching at
the sight, felt his vision blur. It was as if a thickening glass wall were
tinting the space between him and her.
“I
can give you the wording,” he said, and did so: “…for every human being there is one true love per life, and the decision
of romance is final.”
She
hummed, thoughtfully. “I get some of that.” She handed him his mug of drink. “Here
y’are.” They went and sat down. In separate armchairs, as usual. Midax
wondered: ought he perhaps to welcome her preoccupied manner? As a diversion? It
was making it easier for him to report what he had done, after all. For
suppose, on the contrary, she had showed enough interest to question him
closely – suppose she asked him point black who his Other Half was! – what
would he do then? He simply did not know.
“Hmmm,”
she continued. “I don’t quite get how it works. Can you tell me (if this isn’t
too stupid a question) how people are supposed to know if someone breaks the vow?”
“The
vows are recorded.”
“Ah.”
“Yes,
I spoke into a recording machine.”
“But I mean, what happens from now on? You spoke a promise
to be faithful – to whom?”
“To
an idea. One does not have to give a name.”
“So
– it’s up to you and no one else, to check whether you keep the Vow?”
“Yes,
so long as I stay single.”
“Ah.”
“The
situation changes,” Midax went on helpfully, “when the ideal becomes manifest,
publicly, in mutual recognition between two conscious Halves. At which point,
the connection is called by its proper name, ‘Romelding’. And as such it is
recorded. So there it is. I’ve satisfied your curiosity.”
“So,”
she mused again, as if unaware of the edge to his tone, “the College makes
sure, that you can’t ‘romeld’ with a person who’s already ‘romelded’ with
someone else…”
“It
would be meaningless.”
“Meaningless
– and not allowed.” She sounded relieved. “And the reason it’s best to take
vows… can you shed light on this?” she added with a hesitant, coy smile.
I get it. She’s about to hand
herself over to someone. And of course that someone is certainly not I, and of
course I know who it is.
“Ah
yes, why take vows – well, the point is, it’s a demonstration of freedom.”
“Goodness
me!”
“Yes
it is – freedom. We show we’ve got it, you see, by spending it.”
“On
– ?”
“Commitments.”
“Umm…”
“We
do this in little ways every day,” Midax continued. “But when it comes to
making solemn vows, well, that is rather a conspicuous consumption of freedom,
I admit, but then, what’s the point of wealth of you don’t splurge it once in a
while?”
“But
suppose someone makes a mistake – melds with the wrong person?”
“Then,
tough. It can’t be put right in this life.”
“Divorce
–”
“Sure,
you can divorce to end a civil
marriage…”
“That
I know,” she sighed.
“…but
you can’t un-romeld.”
Jerre
took a deep breath. “Guess what Inellan and I did yesterday.”
“Congratulations,
Jerre,” said Midax simply.
“You
mean you know?”
“I’m
just guessing. Tell me officially.”
“We
had our betrothal day.”
“You
fixed a date for the romelding?”
“We
fixed a date, and I have loads of questions, and I’d rather ask you them than
ask him; odd, isn’t it? That’s why I’ve been talking like this.” Her eyes fell
momentarily and then re-aimed, searching Midax’s face.
The
news thudded in his mind, So now it’s
official. Well, what’s the difference if it’s announced today instead of
tomorrow or the day after? Theoretically, no difference. But the glass wall
thickened. If Jerre and Inellan were right, that they were each other’s Other
Halves, then he, Midax Rale, had made a pitiful mistake. Or if he had been right, they were making the mistake. Or maybe they had both been wrong and
the only rightness was his own childhood vision of the clouds… Anyhow, he did
not regret taking the Vow. The elation of that Vow – the irrational trust in
the move for which the universe must reward him – kept him balanced above the
pit of despair.
Besides,
he’d seen this engagement coming. They obviously believed they were destined
for each other as Halves, so his own hopes had been dashed anyway. That, after
all, was what had pushed him off to Thilpar. Not to save a situation which was
beyond saving, but to create a new situation. To affirm…
Jerre
was talking again. He strove to concentrate.
“…Now
that you’ve Vowed, what next?”
Maybe
this was her indirect way of asking, who’s your
Other Half? As if she didn’t even suspect it was herself. Maybe she didn’t,
at that. Just as well.
“As
a matter of fact… Skies, I’d forgotten! I’m supposed to travel to Serorn in
four weeks, for an Entrants’ confirmation… That’s the weekend of your birthday.
Do you remember, I had been meaning to ask you to a restaurant…”
“It’s
very sweet of you,” smiled Pjerl, “but your trip to Serorn must come first. Besides,
Inellan might not like it.”
The
clarifying thing. It showed Midax well and truly where he was. And besides, his
suggestion had been a useless echo of the past. Hadn’t he now taken a Vow, and
hadn’t she? Meanwhile her tone brightened and she said: “Changing the subject
somewhat, are you doing anything for this Quincentennial?”
“The
deRoffa celebrations? Ah yes,” Midax smiled. “I believe so. I think there’s
going to be a local meeting about it tomorrow. Wadd’s asked me to attend. Sounds
as though it might be interesting.”
“Inellan
will envy you,” she remarked vaguely. “He’s mad keen on the Quincentennial… Talks
about it as though one of his ancestors had been on deRoffa’s voyage.”
“So
that’s a hobby-horse of his.”
“Yep.”
“Well,
the journalists are talking about ‘deRoffa-fever’ gripping the country. Perhaps
I’ll catch it too.”
As
a matter of fact he was ambivalent about the Quincentennial business.
On
the one hand, it was an unwelcome reminder of the melancholy contrast between
past heroes like deRoffa and present pen-pushers like himself.
On
the other hand, any reminder of great things was like a kind of air-tube,
giving oxygen of the spirit to one who would otherwise suffocate in a dead-end
job such as his.
If
there had been no Quincentennial, and no Shapers’ Vow, he would have felt an
urge to make some other anachronistic assertion, joining or starting some other
kind of frustrated idealists’ or adventurers’ club – anything to heave a brick
through the plate glass window of modern life.
In
the office, the next morning, he was shuffling papers at his desk when the
perception blossomed in his mind more clearly than ever before:
What
an oddly cute business this deRoffa quincentenary was!
He
put the papers down. He hunched forward as though he were examining them, but
his mind was hopping around.
Normal
life, for one of Midax’s type, meant a perpetual tug-of-war between the gold in
the mind and the grey in the view. A feud that never ends. A defeat that never
ends. The defeat of hope by the implacable fixtures of everyday. Career-structures,
time-tables, tax-forms, office-routines. All the plonk of existence.
Yet
the funny thing was, recently, the poor beleaguered romantic imagination had
found a possible ally in – of all things – the government! Spending money by
the bucketful, on a huge celebration which was intended to remind the
inhabitants of Dranl that their pavements had once been trod with glory –
The
Quincentennial, of course, was merely a commemoration, and therefore an admission
that the real glory was gone. And of course the government was not going to
alter that fact, any more than an individual could. The humdrum was far too
strong. But it was oddly heartening, to have any kind of ally at all… Made one
pick up funny little splinters of courage. Pricked one into thinking up a
course of action.
In
the newspapers recently, quite a few times, Midax had noticed the growing habit
among the small minority of Shapers of a protest called “underlining”.
It
had long been customary for the vast majority of men and women to avail
themselves of the titles “Rmr.” and “Rms.” which were literally supposed to
mean “Romancer” and “Romanceress”, and this was usually done without any
intention of committing oneself to the strict meaning of the words. Real
Shapers, for whom the titles implied adherence to a sacred vow, naturally had
always resented this trivialisation of them, but they could take no action
about it; nothing, in this lax age of the world, could prevent their terms
being misused. Now, however, they were starting to make their point by underlining
their own Rmr. and Rms. on letters and envelopes, as if to say,
each time they signed, when we say it we mean it.
Now
why shouldn’t he, Midax, likewise sign his correspondence that way? For he had
taken the Vow. He was fully entitled. Literally.
His
pen hovered over an internal memorandum…
No, he couldn’t do it at this point, not precisely here –
he wasn’t brave enough to allow the signature “Rmr. Midax Rale” to
circulate to all departments.
Did
this mean he was a moral coward too afraid of ridicule to do what he thought
right?
Not
quite, for it was not so much fear of the ridicule, as a practical doubt that
his belief could hold out against it. He doubted that he could maintain his
faith in the integrity of his own action while everyone was laughing at him. In
short, he suspected he was plain weak. Weak in the head and in the guts. Anyhow,
he did have a different option.
A
more feasible option.
Not
a memo but a letter. Something to an outside address: to a shipping company. One
such document awaited his signature now. He could scrawl: Rmr. M. Rale. There – done.
Send
it off, quick. Into the out-tray it goes. Ready for despatch. And here comes
the lad from the despatch department to empty the tray; off he goes, taking
your letter with him; you’ve done it, Rmr.-and-I-mean-it Midax Rale.
Now
the only thing left to do is to keep your nerve.
A
few hours passed.
Midax
became discontented with himself. Deeply scornful – what was so brave about
what he had done? Big deal – he had signed an underlined “Rmr.” on a
letter which none of his colleagues would probably ever read.
Admittedly
a copy must be kept in his files, so his stand was on record, but the
correspondence was so routine and boring and uncontroversial that no reason
could be imagined for anyone to consult it. After six years it would be thrown
away, probably unseen by anyone. So he could not fool himself: he had done
nothing at all brave.
He
should have had the guts to underline his signature on that internal memo,
instead.
The
chance soon came again. He had to send a memo to Public Relations on the
subject of his page proofs for the Annual Register. This time, while the craven
part of his mind squeaked protest, frantically composing disclaimers or
pretences that it was all a joke, he signed, and underlined, and put the
paper in the despatch tray, wondering, Will
my bowels turn to water next time the internal phone rings?
The
answer to that was Probably.
For
the universe, he had noticed, didn’t let you off. Do you really think the universe is going to say, “This chap Midax Rale
has done the brave thing, therefore the least I can do, as a decent universe,
is to back him up and see that he doesn’t suffer”?
Not very likely.
So don’t rest on your laurels, hero.
Let’s have none of your usual habit of letting courage dry up after the deed. You’ll
have to do better this time. Time you understood that a brave act requires follow-through or it’s wasted.
Nevertheless
he hoped that there would be no reaction to what he had done. And yet why, in
that case, had he done it? Didn’t he want
to make waves? Wasn’t that the whole point?
Then
the internal phone did ring. Acid on the guts! Wincing, he picked up the
receiver.
It
turned out that the call wasn’t from PR. No comment about his underlined
signature. Routine stuff, that’s all.
His
mind lurched to the opinion that there was no point in what he had done since
it wasn’t possible to make waves anyway. By lunchtime he was concluding that
the world was so deaf, he might say or do what he liked, no one would listen.
The
internal phone rang again.
“Thanks
for your memo with the stats proofs for the Register,” said a girl’s voice
which held – so Midax feared – a breath of irony; the voice of Sapra Hing,
second-in-command at the PR desk. “All the pages are fine… I think we’ll be
able to fit them all in.”
“Great,”
said Midax. “Thanks for telling me.” And that was all.
This
was the worst possible outcome. A brief exchange, with a complete absence of
allusion to his Rmr. signature. Worse than a scoffing remark would have
been: for then he’d have known where he stood, whereas now he must fear tones, he must spend hours wondering if
he had belched out some unmentionable gaffe… and you can’t retaliate against
words spoken on the phone by any efficiently sardonic eyebrow-lifting
bet-hedging expression. You can’t evade embarrassment that way, on the phone.
More
time passed. He found some relief, a drugged sort of relief, in the routines of
his work. Besides – he told himself philosophically – he should not be
surprised at having to suffer some fear and anxiety. What else could he expect,
if he was so rash as to introduce something a bit special into office life? Finally
he rose from his desk. Time to get a lunch-hour sandwich at his usual bar on
the street corner.
As
he emerged into the front hall of the office building his overstrained nervous
system suffered another shock. By coincidence, at that very moment, coming down
the stairs towards him, the moderately attractive forty-year-old blonde, with
the two girls behind her, was none other than Clsarmwa Zoonth, Head of Public
Relations. Clsarmwa always seemed to have a patronising fondness for Midax
based on their total disparity of opinions. Midax always reciprocated. Each
considered the other’s views amusingly hopeless. Today, Clsarmwa gushed:|
“Hi,
Romancer Rale! I see you’ve taken the plunge. Who’s the lucky girl?!
And
from behind her there came a trilling noise he did not like; he could not
identify its source, for gigglers giggle without moving their lips much.
“Not
a plunge,” he denied. “Sticking my neck out, more like.”
“But
what moved you to stick your neck out today?”
To
avoid starting a lot of rumours he would have to think of something, fast. Not
a flat denial. Nor a flat affirmation: to say “High time I stood up to be
counted” would simply cause derision. He must this instant pitch a reply that would do several jobs at once. It
must: provide some of the truth; leave people guessing just a little beyond the
categories they were trying to box him into; and give the opposition an “out”
which would allow them an honourable draw –
His
speeding thoughts skidded to a stop at what suddenly seemed just the right
place.
He
replied: “Put it down to Quincentennial Fever.”
She’s got to see the connection. The
oldness and oddness of Boalo, and the oldness of deRoffa. It’s always been a
joke between us, she the progressive, I the reactionary –
“Ah,”
said Clsarmwa. “One anachronism leads to another, eh? Getting into the spirit
of it, I see.”
“I
try,” agreed Midax, giving a little bow.
She
laughed and walked out of the lobby, followed by her two staff, all grinning,
but not too widely, he hoped.
But
you don’t feel safe just because you’ve won a skirmish. Midax felt entitled to
breathe, but only on the understanding that he used this breathing-space. He
must find a tenable position and secure it against… well, against whom? What
exactly was the enemy?
The
enemy was anything and everything that might conduce to the miserable social
defeat and humiliation of a rash man called Midax Rale, who had taken the very
grave risk of seeming like a prig by adopting the ostentatiously prestigious Rmr.
title in a signed memo.
Not
only that. The enemy was also anything that might turn him into a traitor in
his own eyes. Anything that might frighten him into denying or abandoning his
idealistic stance.
Hence
his own bumbling was part of the “enemy”. As were the incomprehension of his
colleagues, the hostility of society to strict Boalonian romanticism, and the
tendency of brute bad luck to spring up at the wrong moment.
Lastly
– and here he smiled to himself – his tendency to regard his own pitiful little
problems as being of cosmic significance was also part of the same
many-tentacled afore-mentioned Enemy, the persistent monster of crud or spoilation.
I’m like those characters in farce
who try to cover up one verbal gaffe by even more verbiage, and so get
entangled in more and more coils of embarrassment. Probably, quite soon, I
shall not be able to resist trying once again to prod the environment into
reacting to me, simply because I can’t accept the previous outcome. And so it
goes on.
In
the past few weeks several meetings had been announced on the notice boards,
regarding the coming Quincentennial. The most recent declared:
Discovery
Voyage across the Zard Ocean
The
QuinCen Committee is looking
for
volunteers to man Rinka II !
Meeting
to be held in the Conference Hall.
All
available staff are invited to attend.
“Why us?” had been Midax’s naïf reaction at first. But
then he remembered: the Quincentennial Committee was manned largely out of
Dranl Port Authority employees. The Maritime Museum and Archives with their
libraries of relevant data were owned by the Authority, which therefore had
been given the Committee’s contract to build Rinka II, the replica of Monto deRoffa’s ship.
It was all quite interesting for Midax, though not as
exciting as it might have been had he been three decades younger, so as to
experience all this as a boy. Life, for him, from now on, was something to sit
back and watch, rather than live. His quiet love of history would always
remain, but it would remain without the hot-blooded zeal of one who hopes to
share his projects and dreams.
Yet
when, the next day, he entered the crowded conference hall, he felt his heart
thud inexplicably. What’s this? Maybe my
child self is not yet dead. He smiled to himself as he sat down next to Taz
Murnat, the Commercial Director. “Do you get the impression,” he murmured to
Taz, “that Wadd’s jumpy about something?”
“Rumour
has it,” replied the corpulent Taz, “that we’re going to be given first options
on manning the ship… Wadd’ll confirm this, I imagine.”
“Do
you want to get on it? Shall I pull strings for you?” asked Midax with a
twinkle in his eye as he imagined Taz rolling around on the deck of an ancient
caravel.
As
he spoke this jest, his serious assumption was that it would be next to
impossible to secure a place; but Taz’s reply showed him that he had not
thought it through.
“I
doubt that much string-pulling would be necessary. They’d snap me up quick if I
were daft enough to volunteer. You won’t get many people fool enough to sign up
for a ceremonial voyage lasting months, without pay.” He turned a serious face
to Midax and added, “But you could
volunteer – if you belong to the idle rich, or the die-hard nautical enthusiast
confraternity…”
Midax
held his stare for a couple of seconds, and then both men laughed, but not too
loud. The meeting had begun. Rersh Wadd, up on the platform, was holding up his
hands for silence.
Wadd
began, “Ladies and gentlemen, I realize that these details may not interest
most of you, but our remit is to put it all to you before we take it to a wider
audience, so bear with me and let’s get it over with.” He sounded rather
apologetic as he went on to announce, one by one, the vacancies offered.
The
few “plum” jobs, as expected, had already been earmarked for the experts who
were suited to them – and who, as Taz had pointed out, could afford to take
time off for them. For example the captaincy of Rinka II was reserved for the Port Authority’s figurehead Chairman,
who as an ex-actor was especially suited for this ceremonial part. Most
vacancies, however, had not been taken up by anyone. And weren’t likely to be,
thought Midax – at any rate not at this meeting. The jobs weren’t suitable for
this crowd who were by and large not models of physical fitness or of
sufficient athletic prowess to clamber up the rigging in a tempest…
An
island of certainty began to appear amid the fluctuating waves of thought in
Midax’s head. A conviction that he must sit carefully and listen. Some outside
speakers were making themselves heard, and they and Wadd were relapsing into
the well-worn Authenticity Debate: should Rinka
II rely wholly on its sails, and risk being blown off course and off
schedule by the unpredictable gales of the Zard, or should the ship carry an
auxiliary motor which, together with computerised navigation, would ensure that
deRoffa’s original route and timing were kept?
In
other words, which kind of authenticity do you give priority to? But why are they discussing this just now? wondered
Midax. Since it was vital that the ship’s arrival at Heism – its destination –
must coincide with the celebrations there, the helmsman on Rinka must turn the wheel, if at all, only in accordance with
instructions fed to him on a small hand-held screen which he must consult
discreetly and regularly during the voyage, so that job must go to someone prepared to endure long hours standing
on deck as a mere cypher. A costumed actor, a pretence, this ‘helmsman’ would
watch the ship’s progress on a blip-chart and allow the silent
computer-controlled motor to do his work for him the whole time, except for
when the TV crew turned its attention to the wheel; then and only then would
the computer allow itself to be over-ridden for a few minutes, a bit of real,
showy manual control, immediately compensated for afterwards.
The
whole enterprise in fact was going to be very high-tech. The helmsman would
have all the discomforts of his ancient role and none of the satisfactions, it
seemed to Midax. The task would be the most boring job of the entire
Quincentennial, and, not surprisingly, no one seemed to want it.
Whether
(at some level) Midax knew what he was doing, or whether he was blindly
stirring the pot of circumstance, an idea came to him in pictured strength, an
inner dazzle which blinded his awareness while he put up his hand. It was the
precise moment of the official call for volunteers for the post of helmsman. He
heard himself give his own name. A Committee official wrote down the name,
looking pleased.
Pleased to find someone mug enough
to take this on, no doubt. The
hall was quiet – too quiet? The meeting continued, and now it wasn’t the quiet,
it was the noises, every sound awakening Midax to a stew of suspicions that
boiled in his head – hesitations about his own motives, contempt for the
vapourings which made him ask himself such questions at all. For heaven’s sake,
he had made a decision – he had made a move and that was that. Enough! Stop
chewing it over, brain!
One
consolation: he had spoken in a steady voice. Now he stared straight ahead, not
wanting to see the too-straight face of Taz Murnat beside him.
The
rest of the meeting was soon over. The staff began to cluster into chatting
groups. The drift canteenwards got underway – it was lunchtime.
Midax
and Tas and Silm Roh (Taz’s secretary, a blandly beautiful young woman) and
Silm’s friend Haizi (plumper, kinder, but even less interesting than Silm)
annexed a table. “Well, our Midax certainly surprised us all today, didn’t he?”
began Haizi.
“I
surprised myself,” muttered Midax.
“What
made you do it?” wondered Silm.
“What
the heck,” said Midax, “I thought I might as well do something.”
“Not,”
remarked Taz crisply, “the sort of thing that tempts me. But why should I
worry? So long as a replacement is found to do your work while you’re gone…”
Silm
glared in reproof at her boss. “We’ll worry about Midax too, won’t we? Lashed
to the deck in all weathers…”
“He
evidently doesn’t care,” shrugged Taz.
“He
looks fey,” added Haizi.
Midax
looked at her in surprise. ‘Fey’ was not the sort of word he had expected this
girl to know, let alone use. He suddenly, briefly wondered if he had misjudged
many people.
“I
see what you mean,” said Taz. “That enigmatic smile…”
Their
teasing had small effect. But on the way home he was troubled. In discussing it
all with Pjerl/Jerre, how was he going to avoid sliding into the stereotype of
the mid-life-crisis man, frustrated, scatty, humiliatingly self-driven to a
ludicrous adventure?
Yet
when the moment came and he was faced with her question, “How did it go at the
meeting?”, it turned out that he hardly had to talk about himself at all.
They
were in her lounge drinking ellipsiteen, just like the old days, as far as
outward appearances were concerned. “Oh,” he replied to her, “I did manage to
get involved with the Quincentennial…”
“Another
enthusiast,” she smiled tightly. “Inellan’s off somewhere at the moment, on
something to do with the Quincentennial.” She sighed. “Even on our betrothal
day, you know, he left me alone for several hours while he went scooting off…”
“No,
you never told me that.”
She
nodded. “He just had to look at a lot of old artefacts in some local museum
somewhere, that he’d read about a few days before. Our day-trip turned into an
excuse for him to look at all this stuff.” She was almost crying. “One of
deRoffa’s officers’ suits of armour, and an astrolabe and globe.”
Midax
stared unseeing, as the happy thought blew into his mind, Why worry about someone as stupid as Inellan?
Not
– he reminded himself smartly – not that the betrothal could be forgotten. She
was Inellan’s, and that was that. She’s
lost to me for ever, and by her own choice. But the comforting thing was,
Pjerl’s complaints, about the stupid fellow who had won her, proved that she
realised the truth about him. And so? How did that help matters? Well, it was
just very nice to have the truth shared. Even if the sharing was tacit only.
At
his workplace, in the days and weeks that followed, Midax felt healthier in
spirit. The atmosphere at work had a new tang to it: ordinary Port Authority
tasks went ahead as usual but they were mingled in the broader context with
extraordinary preparations both there and at various sites throughout Dranl
City. Midax was required to take time off normal pen-pushing in order to
undergo some hours of briefing and training, to satisfy the authorities that he
would adequately perform his duties as “pilot” in the great re-enactment.
“Not
much to it,” repeated his instructor, a civil servant from the Q-Committee. Midax
silently agreed: only a moron could fail in this job. He must simply stand at
the wheel for hours until the relief pilot took over; then he’d eat and sleep
and take his turn again. But trivial though it all was – and childish in the
make-believe that he would be a real pilot – he, and others, breathed more
largely in these days of preparation. Everyone’s pulse quickened at the
prospect of the great international celebrations which were to take place on
both the western and the eastern shores of the Zard. All of Dranl seemed
devoted to the planning of the commemorative voyage and the connected
activities: films, speeches, festivities, publications, lectures, manufactures
of souvenirs and toy ships. Midax could not help but feel temporarily braced
and sustained by the bittersweet echo of second-hand glory, especially since
(for once in his life) he had the feeling that others were interested too.
Yes,
he and the world were absorbed in something big; he and the world, for the
first time, were at least partly on the same wavelength! Come to that, his
volunteering as a Rinka pilot had
given him a sort of excuse for his otherwise priggish insistence on signing
himself "Rmr." How convenient, that his two eccentric actions had sort of
cancelled each other out! He was getting away with it. He went about with more
confidence, though still a largely isolated, lonely man. Keep ’em guessing; give the potential jeerers pause. Oh, they’ll say,
it’s only Midax’s way of getting into the spirit of the Re-enactment. He only
signs himself Rmr. in order to give things some period flavour. He’s not
really a stuck-up reactionary prig.
At
least, he hoped that was what they were thinking.
He
could hardly hope for more. He could not expect anyone to understand what
taking the Shapers’ Vow really meant. For he was belatedly understanding how
much society had changed in the past couple of decades.
From
novels, newspapers, magazines, TV and ordinary conversation he was getting the
message: vows were laughably quaint. Vows were out-of-date things. They weren’t
taken seriously any more by anyone; as far as Midax could tell, the idea of
them wasn’t respected even on the rare occasions when vows were still made and
kept.
Midax
himself was tainted with this backsliding, insofar as he was bound to find his
mental reactions swept in the tide of fashion towards the modern contempt for
the Shapers’ Vow – not so far as to express contempt himself, but far enough to
feel embarrassed at his own beliefs, and to sense a false note if the Vow were
mentioned seriously. Old-fashioned things inevitably became incongruous, ludicrous,
as if, for example, the coming Quincentennial trip were to claim (laughably) to
be a real voyage of exploration…
Besides,
the ideals of the Vow weren’t working very well in real life, were they? He
found it more and more easy to side openly with Pjerl as she complained to him
about her Other Half’s antiquarian pursuits and neglect of herself. The idiot
had been spending more and more time on various Q-Committee affairs and less
and less time with his betrothed. Almost every day Midax heard amazing new
details from Pjerl’s lips about the behaviour of the man who ought by rights to
have been in a state of constant and attentive bliss. The idea that any man
could win such a woman and not appreciate her, boggled Midax’s mind. How could anyone be so stupid?
Then
Pjerl’s worries took a turn for the worse.
“He
keeps talking about the Year Troth,” she said tearfully one evening.
Midax
looked blank.
She
prompted him, “All about staying away from your betrothed for a year.”
“But
why?” – his voice now close to unbelieving laughter.
Her
lip curled, “To prove that our love is ‘not propinquity but destiny’. If you
can believe the excuse.”
“But
I thought… the Year Troth isn’t really thought of as necessary to the Vow, if,
er…”
“If
the Vowers are of sufficiently mature age,” said Pjerl drily. “Or if either
partner has been married before, even if only by a civil marriage. I thought
Inellan knew all that as well as you or I. But during the past few days he has
been praising the idea as though he were quite enthusiastic about doing it
himself – in order words, leaving me for a year.”
Midax
sighed, “I just don’t understand him at all.” (He didn’t mean to say this. The
risk was, if he let himself go he might say too much – )
Then
came words which seemed not to live in this world. He heard her say:
“Don’t
be alarmed, but I would have preferred someone like you, Midax, instead of all
this mystification I’m getting from him.”
“I
feel that way about you too, Pjerl,” he answered simply.
It
was the first time he had used the proper form of her name since they had known
each other at school.
“It’s
a pity,” she smiled, “that polygamy isn’t allowed.”
“It
certainly is.”
Then
she went serious and said hurriedly, “Of course I would never have dared to say
this, if we didn’t know where we were.”
A
reminder that the decision of Romance is
final. Even though Jerre had just confessed a conditional would-have-been
love for him, it was Inellan whom she had vowed herself to; she and he were
engaged, the romelding was for them, and that was that.
Besides,
what had she just said? “I would never have dared to say this.” Not something
she would have said, if there had been any chance for Midax. Mustn’t forget that I’m out forever; that I
have no chance. He knew this was still true, despite being thrilled by what
he had heard her say.
>>>next chapter>>>