Lurulu (19 page)

After a pause, Wingo asked delicately: “So then; are you staying with the Mouse-riders?”

Hunzel thought for a moment, then gave an ambiguous grunt. “We face some hard choices. We are in a state of flux.”

Siglaf amplified the remark. “In effect, we are open to any propitious offers.”

5

Moncrief, meanwhile, had embarked upon adventures of his own. In front of the port offices he commanded the services of a motorized rickshaw, operated by a weedy hollow-cheeked youth with long varnished mustachios. Before consenting to activate his vehicle, the operator looked Moncrief up and down, then asked: “What is your destination?”

Moncrief said grandly: “You may take me to the Trevanian, at best speed.”

The operator nodded curtly, to indicate that he found the destination acceptable. “Climb aboard. The fare is ten dinkets; I will not move a man of your bulk for less.”

Moncrief did not care for the operator’s manner which, so he thought, verged on the disrespectful, the more so when he found fault with Moncrief’s method for climbing aboard the vehicle. “Briskly now, Grandfather! The day is for jumping and running; sleep somewhere else if you are tired.”

Moncrief, using all dignity, scrambled onto the narrow seat of the vehicle; the operator engaged the gears and the taxi set off across the field, careening dangerously through puddles, while Moncrief held on for dear life. The taxi trundled off the field to the street, and presently arrived at the Trevanian. Moncrief alighted stiffly and for a moment gazed in awe at the great Blenk entertainment hall.

The operator tapped his hooter impatiently. “Come now, old toddler! Pay the ten dinkets at once, or I will charge a waiting supplement.”

Moncrief hurriedly paid over the fare, which the operator accepted without comment. Cutting a final curvet through a puddle, the rickshaw departed.

Moncrief crossed to the Trevanian. A massive door of iron and glass slid aside at his approach; he passed through the opening into a short hall which took him into a large octagonal foyer, notable for the corridors which led away from each of the wall-segments. He stopped short; a multiplicity of choices confronted him. Which corridor led to the office of the Director of Production? On the opposite wall he noticed a long white panel printed with lines of informational text: a directory? He crossed the room and studied the panel. The printed text was not immediately clear. Aha! A reference to Overman Murius Zank, the Director of Production! Moncrief read the associated text, and came upon the phrase: ‘To reach the office, use the orange indicator.’ Moncrief frowned; the words were cryptic indeed! What was an ‘orange indicator’?

Moncrief stood back and searched the chamber for indicators, of any color whatever. He was enlightened at once. Each corridor exhibited a distinctive colored stripe along its centerline. Moncrief looked here and there and found a corridor marked by an orange stripe. Without hesitation he followed the orange stripe into the bowels of the Trevanian.

The corridor and the orange stripe receded into the distance. At intervals, numbered doors appeared to right and left.

Moncrief presently arrived at a pair of doors with a plaque, reading:

OVERMAN MURIUS ZANK

D
IRECTOR OF
P
RODUCTION

Moncrief touched the latch and the doors swung aside. He entered a large high-ceilinged room. A counter separated him from an office area where a dozen clerks worked with remarkable diligence. Moncrief advanced to the counter, where he assumed a posture of importance and waited for a clerk to approach and inquire his needs.

While he waited Moncrief took occasion to assess the office. On the far end of the section where he stood, a carved wooden balustrade created what seemed to be a special waiting area, perhaps for the use of dignitaries. At the moment the area was vacant.

Moncrief noticed a door in the back wall of the business office. A panel read:

OVERMAN MURIUS ZANK

D
IRECTOR OF
P
RODUCTION

Enter at the Green Light
.

Moncrief noticed that a red light now glowed above the door. He turned his attention back to the office. He became impatient and thumped on the counter with his knuckles. The signal went unheeded.

The desk nearest the counter was occupied by a fresh-faced young man, a trifle plump, dressed in natty garments. A sign on his desk read: ‘Bayard Desosso’. Like his colleagues, Bayard worked so diligently as to be oblivious to all else. Moncrief stared at him, trying to compel his attention by sheer force of will. He met no success; if anything, Bayard exerted himself even more energetically.

At this moment a sudden tumult issued from the inner office: enraged voices, pounding and stamping, outcries and catcalls. Bayard, startled, looked up, and his gaze met Moncrief’s insistent stare. Moncrief instantly pointed his finger. “You there, Bayard! Come here at once!”

A sad expression crossed Bayard’s face, altering at once to resolute courtesy. “Certainly, sir! By all means!” He strode to the counter. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I am Master Moncrief, director of the famous Mouse-rider troupe. I am here to see Director Zank; he will wish to fit the Mouse-riders into his schedule. Time is of the essence.”

Bayard looked over his shoulder. The red light still glowed. Bayard said regretfully: “The Director may not be disturbed at this time.”

Moncrief cocked his head to listen. “He is either rehearsing a very frolicsome act, or he is being soundly thrashed.”

“Such a liberty would be unthinkable!” cried Bayard, but he turned an apprehensive look toward the inner office.

“Nevertheless,” said Moncrief firmly, “I suggest that you at least announce to him that Master Moncrief of the famous Mouse-riders is on hand. It is important that he see me at once!”

Bayard smilingly shook his head. “You propose an enormity.” He paused, to hear the sound of stamping feet. “He is now trying to quell the Futin Putos; as you will note, they are emphatic.”

Moncrief inquired: “Who are the ‘Futin Putos’?”

“They are a troupe of acrobats from the Dark Forest,” replied Bayard. “Overman Zank is disgusted with their brutish antics. Still, they are popular with a certain segment of the audience, and he feels obliged to use them from time to time.”

The sounds from Zank’s office had subsided, except for a murmur of voices which suddenly waxed in anger, then went quiet.

Minutes passed, while Moncrief drummed his fingers upon the counter. Then a back door into Zank’s office flew open, and out to the area behind the balustrade came a tumble of ten hairy men, jostling, shoving, struggling for places on the upholstered benches intended for the comfort of visiting dignitaries. After squirming, elbowing, grumbling and growling, the Futin Putos began to stare across the balustrade at the office clerks with the curiosity of visitors to a zoo.

Moncrief looked with disfavor at what he considered the most uncouth group of individuals of his experience. They were of ordinary stature, but so burly as to seem squat. Lank black hair hung down to join heavy black beards, cut off square under the chin. They wore leather vests and short leather pantaloons, dank with soil and grease.

“Not a savory group,” said Moncrief with a sniff, and turned away.

“Don’t show them overt disapproval,” Bayard warned quickly. “If they perceive an insult, they will take a vicious revenge! On the stage they perform spectacular feats, but if someone makes a mistake, they knock him sprawling, then kick him until he crawls away in humiliation.”

“In front of the audience?” asked Moncrief in disbelief.

“Definitely! Their audience eggs them on.”

Moncrief studied Bayard, without approval. “When I entered the office and came to the counter, you ignored me as if I were made of air! How do you explain this conduct?”

Bayard put on a stubborn face. “We must act according to our new regulations.”

“Do I hear you aright?” asked Moncrief. “Is it your policy to ignore patrons? This would seem eccentric, to say the least!”

“That is not our affair. In the main, our regulations are not unreasonable.”

Moncrief glanced across the room, but the green light was not yet visible. He turned back to Bayard. “Tell me of your new regulations.”

Bayard, becoming bored, responded mechanically. “Article One defines the need for punctuality, and correlates a scale of penalties with degrees of tardiness. Article Two bans conversation, song, banter, gossip, and the like. Article Three establishes work quotas for all office personnel — these quotas are considered stringent! Article Four curtails an old custom; in the past, when a client arrived at the counter, four or five clerks might greet him, to inquire after the health of his family and to chat and learn the details of his business. After that the client might be sent to a new department, or advised as how best to conduct himself before Overman Zank. The new rule has changed this procedure; when a client appears, the first clerk to notice him must hurry to the counter and help the client alone, with crisp efficiency. Unfortunately, the clerk who helps clients will never make up his work quota. But we have found a solution to the dilemma; nowhere is it specified that clerks are required to keep a vigilant watch on the counter; hence if the clerk focuses upon his work, he cannot be faulted for neglect.”

“Ingenious!” declared Moncrief.

Moncrief was distracted from further comment by the light over Zank’s door, which had turned green. “The green light has appeared!” called Bayard. “Come, if you wish to see Zank!”

Adopting a stately posture, Moncrief pushed through the gate in the counter and passed into the business office.

The Futin Putos suddenly became quiet, then crowded the balustrade, where they hooted and jeered. “Hoy there, old tumper! Why do you trot so briskly?” called one.

“Tell old Zank that our memories are long!”

“If you forget, we will pull your nose, or whatever it is that dangles between your legs!”

Moncrief ignored the raillery and followed Bayard across the room.

Bayard stopped at the door. “I will go in first and announce you. After the Futin Putos, Director Zank’s sang-froid may be frayed.”

The Futin Putos continued to call advice; Moncrief waited outside the office with as much aplomb as he could muster.

After a time, the door opened and Bayard stood in the opening. He spoke, somewhat self-importantly: “I have mentioned the Mouse-rider troupe to Overman Zank and I gather that he is favorably impressed. You may now enter. Be polite, but not ebullient. Come, if you will.”

Moncrief followed Bayard into a large chamber, sparsely furnished and unoccupied except for a thin old man who sat motionless behind a massive semi-circular desk.

Bayard assumed a formal posture and performed introductions. To Moncrief he said: “You are in the presence of Overman Murius Zank, Director of Production.” To Zank he said: “This gentleman is Professor Moncrief, master of the Mouse-rider troupe. He hopes to present one or more programs at the Trevanian, if circumstances permit.”

Zank stared at Moncrief briefly, then dismissed Bayard with a flicker of his fingers. Bayard bowed with punctilio and left the chamber.

The men surveyed each other. Moncrief saw a small gaunt man with a bald bony head. Zank’s eyes were round; his nose was a small rapacious hook; his mouth was thin and without color. If he ever felt emotion, his features gave no indication.

After a moment, Zank spoke. “If you wish to sit, you may do so.”

Moncrief gingerly lowered himself onto a straight-backed chair of rather fragile appearance, which creaked under his weight.

“In regard to your programs, you come at an inconvenient time,” said Zank. “The schedule for the week is booked solid, except for a few slots in the after-midnight ‘graveyard’.

“There is, however, a single slot the day after tomorrow, which the Futin Putos claim as their own in a most raucous manner. I do not agree with them, and this has been the source of some contention. My preference would be to send them hopping back to the Dark Forest. I hesitate only because they are popular with a segment of the audience which I cannot ignore; I have not, though, conceded them their desired slot.”

“Hm,” said Moncrief. “They seem a most intemperate group.”

The ghost of a grim smile twitched Zank’s thin mouth. “They hope to intimidate me, but it is a vain hope.”

Bayard had failed to close the door fully upon leaving the office. Through the crack, a number of glittering eyes peered.

Moncrief and Zank continued their discussion unaware of the inspection. Moncrief said, somewhat sententiously: “As a stranger at Cax, perhaps I should restrain my opinions, however, they seem to me a gang of sadistic thugs, lacking all charm.”

“It is a fair appraisal,” said Zank. “Now, tell me something of the Mouse-riders.”

“With pleasure! I need not explain that our programs contrast notably with the grotesque capers of the Futin Putos. The Mouse-riders are inspired by a different vision; our sequences combine gallant adventure, romance and mystery. We are known for our creative imagery, so that every sequence is a mix of music, beauty and the glamour of far places.

“I have in mind three sequences, joined by one means or another into a unity. If I may say so, the slot on the day after tomorrow would suit us well, since our stay at Cax will be brief.”

“That is reasonable,” said Zank, after a moment of consideration. “Especially since it accords with my own inclinations. The Futin Putos shall play the graveyard; if they protest, they may chase each other back to the Dark Forest.”

The door slammed open and the Futin Putos burst in a tumbling rush into Zank’s office.

Zank muttered to Moncrief: “Stand behind me, and say nothing.”

Moncrief obeyed with alacrity.

Zank spoke harshly: “What are you up to? Leave at once; you trespass my office.”

The chief shuffled a step forward. “But you are to blame! You have called us ‘stinking brutes’, and mocked our artistry! You have schemed with that fat Mouse-rider and have given him our good slot; you have shifted us far and late past the midnight slot, to when the hall is empty! That is betrayal and someone shall pay the price!”