Night Lamp (12 page)

Skirlet ignored his qualms. “Please listen carefully. The Mediators are an exclusive club, whose members enjoy a very high prestige. By comparison, the Sempiternals seem inept and insipid, though we acknowledge their existence. Our goals are inspiring. We explore regions of grandeur and beauty, which others have ignored, and we right wrongs whenever they lie within our scope.”

“All very well,” said Jaro, “but doesn’t this take up a great deal of time?”

“Just so,” said Skirlet. “For this reason the Mediators occasionally recruit new members.”

“How many members are now active?”

Skirlet frowned, as if calculating. “Up to this moment, the Mediators have been fanatically exclusive. In fact, the only member is myself All other applicants have been rejected.”

“Hmf The standards must be strict.”

Skirlet shrugged. “To some extent. Persons of free spirit are not excluded on that basis alone. Applicants must be clean, polite and intelligent. Also, they should not be sluggish, vulgar or talkative.”

Skirlet went on to say that, while musing over admission requirements, the name ‘Jaro’ had surfaced into her mind and he was welcome to apply for membership, if he so desired. “Prestige, of course, is automatic,” she told him, “since I am involved and we are fearfully exclusive.”

Jaro agreed that there was nothing to lose. He applied for membership on the spot and was accepted.

To celebrate the occasion, Skirlet went to a cupboard and returned with a bottle of Dean Hutsenreiter’s most expensive liquor. She poured out two tots. “This liquor, so I am told, is over two hundred years old, and in mythical times was used to appease the Gods of Thunder.”

Skirlet cautiously tasted the dark red liquor. She winced. “It is strong but palatable. Well then, to our agenda. The Mediators on hand make up a quorum, so that we can get about our principal business.”

“And what is this business?”

“The most immediate problem concerns half the membership, which is to say, me. My father is soon to be off on a grand junket, first to Canopus Planet, and then to Old Earth. He will be gone at least a year and he always travels first class. In order to conserve funds, he wants to close up Sassoon Ayry, and bundle me off to my mother on Marmone. I prefer to stay at home, even if it means that I must attend Lyceum. He says this is impossible. I said in that case he could send me to Aeolian Academy at Glist. This is a very enlightened school. The students are lodged in private suites, where they are served their meals to order. They study topics of their own choosing, at their own pace and are encouraged to cultivate social relationships as they see fit. The academy overlooks the Greater Kanjieir Sea, and the city Glist is nearby. I explained to my father that I would be happy to attend Aeolian Academy, but he said that it was far too expensive, and that it was time my mother took responsibility for my education, I said that at Piri-piri I would be taught more than I wanted to learn, and that I would be happy either at Sassoon Ayry or at the Aeolian Academy. He became quite short, and told me that I could apply to the Clam Muffin Committee and they would put me into what is called ‘supervised habitancy,’ which would be depressing. Money, of course, is the main problem and this is the deficiency which the Mediators must repair.”

Skirlet rose to her feet. “Another half-gill or so of this liquor
might stimulate our thinking.”

Jaro watched in fascination as Skirlet replenished his goblet. “You have thought how best to acquire these funds?”

“Blackmail may be best,” said Skirlet. “It is quick and easy and special skills are unnecessary.”

There was the sound of footsteps. The door opened; Dean Hutsenreiter burst into the room: a thin man, wearing a natty suit of pearl-gray silverstrack. He was pale, with skin stretched taut over the angular bones of his face; soft brown hair flowed back from a receding forehead and down to the nape of his neck. He seemed in a state of nervous emotion; his eyes darted about the room and finally came to rest on the bottle which Skirlet still held poised over Jaro’s goblet. Hutsenreiter cried out in a fury: “What is going on here? Some sort of drinkfest, with my priceless Bagongo?” He snatched the bottle from Skirlet’s grip. “Explain yourself, if you please!”

Jaro gallantly stepped forward and spoke with formal politeness. “Sir, we were engaged in a calm and interesting conversation; your agitation is out of order!”

Dean Hutsenreiter’s jaw dropped. Then he threw his hands wildly into the air. “If I must accept insolence in my own house, I might as well go out and lie in the street, where the cost is less.” He turned to Skirlet. “Who is this fellow?”

Jaro again responded. “Sir, I am Jaro Fath. My parents are members of the Institute faculty, in the College of Aesthetic Philosophy.”

“Faths? I know them. They are nimps! Is this your license for entering my house, sorting through my papers, drinking my choice liquor, and preparing to seduce my daughter?”

Jaro started to protest, but Dean Hutsenreiter became more agitated than ever. “Do you realize that you are lolling in my favorite chair! Up with you and out! Never return to this house! Out with you, this instant!”

Skirlet said wearily: “You had better go, before he becomes angry.”

Jaro went to the door. He turned, bowed to Dean Hutsenreiter and departed.

A week passed, during which Jaro heard nothing of Skirlet. One afternoon Dame Wirtz dropped by Merriehew to recruit Althea’s help at a horticultural exhibition. Jaro chanced to pass through the room. He greeted Dame Wirtz and during their conversation, he asked in regard to Skirlet. Dame Wirtz was surprised. “Didn’t you hear? Dean Hutsenreiter found it necessary to close his house for the summer, so he sent Skirlet off to a private school: Aeolian Academy at Glist, on Axelbarren, I believe. It’s a fine school, and Skirlet should consider herself lucky. I wish the best for her, but the Reach is wide and we may never see her again.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Jaro. “Here she is a Clam Muffin; anywhere else just a Hutsenreiter.”

During the summer recess Jaro worked at the space terminal machine shop. Trio Hartung posted him as assistant to the squat and burly machinist, with a stubble of gray hair, weather-darkened skin and an evil leer, named Gaing Neitzbeck. Jaro recalled that Tawn Maihac had introduced them.

Hartung took Jaro aside. “Don’t be deceived by Gaing’s appearance. He is not as kind and patient as he looks.”

Jaro glanced dubiously toward Gaing, who, so he thought, looked anything but kind and patient. His face was a tragic mummer’s mask, with glinting eyes and a heavy low nose which had been broken either so badly, or so often, that it splayed first one direction, then the other. Gaing’s shoulders and chest were deep; his arms long; his legs heavy and strong. He stood at a crouch and moved by hops and lurches.

Hartung said: “For a fact, Gaing is an ugly lump, but he knows all there is to know about spaceships and space. Just obey orders, speak only when necessary, and you’ll get along well enough.”

Jaro approached Gaing. “Sir, I am ready to work whenever it is convenient.”

“Very well,” said Gaing. “I’ll show you what needs to be done.”

Jaro discovered that Gaing’s procedure was to assign work, then go away and leave Jaro to his own devices until the job was done, and then subject the work to careful scrutiny. The procedure left Jaro untroubled and even grimly amused, since he already had determined to do the work perfectly if not better. Jaro therefore incurred few reprimands, and these were perfunctory grumbles, as if Gaing were disappointed not to find real reason for complaint. Jaro gradually relaxed. He meticulously followed instructions and spoke only when Gaing spoke first, which obviously suited Gaing well. Jaro was assigned all the dirty jobs Gaing himself wished to avoid. Jaro set upon each new job with energy and zeal, trying to complete it both efficiently and well, if only as a challenge to Gaing to do his worst.

Jaro found Gaing impossible to dislike. Gaing was neither small minded nor unfair, and when necessary he spared himself no more than he did Jaro. Further, Jaro began to discern complex traits in Gaing’s character which Gaing did his best to conceal.

Jaro soon understood that if he attended to business and learned whatever Gaing could or would teach him, he would ultimately become a most excellent and versatile mechanic.

Halfway through the summer Trio Hartung chanced to meet Jaro in the corridor. Halting, he asked how affairs were going.

“Very well,” said Jaro.

“And how are you getting along with Gaing?”

Jaro grinned. “I do my best not to annoy him. I’m beginning to understand what a remarkable man he is.”

Hartung nodded. “He is that, well enough. He has led an eventful life, traveled far and wide: Beyond, and who knows where else? I’m told that he worked for the IPCC, teaching combat skills to recruits, but I think that IPCC neatness and order wore him down.”

“That’s amazing,” said Jaro. “I would not like to come upon him in the dark if he were annoyed with me.”

“Small chance of that,” said Hartung. “Gaing likes you. He says you are a good worker, that you don’t shirk and are more stubborn than he is himself; also, that you don’t bother him with foolish talk. From Gaing, this is high approval, and he’d never tell you himself.”

Jaro grinned. “I’m glad at least to hear the news from you.”

Hartung started to turn away, then paused. “You are starting Lyceum, I think you said?”

“In about a month.”

“If you like, I’ll find part-time work for you, whenever it fits your schedule.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Hartung.”

Jaro’s first two years at Lyceum passed in relative tranquility. He opted for a basic curriculum, emphasizing the sciences, mathematics and technics. During his first year he also undertook three electives, which he hoped might please the Faths: Elements of Harmony; A Historical Survey of Music, and instruction in the playing of the suanola. This was an instrument based upon the ancient concertina, with a pump supplying the air flow and toggled keys controlling both upper and lower registers. The Faths considered the suanola a trivial, or even vulgar, instrument but refrained from criticism, so as not to demean Jaro’s efforts to please them. Jaro, however knew his limitations: he was accurate but over-meticulous in his phrasing and lacked the wild, slightly discordant, passion which distinguished musicians from practitioners. His skills were adequate to playing with a small orchestra, the Arcadian Mountebanks, where he wore the costume of a Gitanque sheepherder. The group played casually at parties, picnics, fiestas and riverboat excursions.

The Faths, in general, approved of Jaro’s schedule, which was challenging; they could almost hope that he verged toward the Institute and the College of Aesthetic Philosophy. This hope was diminished when Jaro, by dint of early rising, was able to work at the spaceport terminal four hours each weekend morning.

As Jaro had expected neither Hilyer nor Althea was pleased. Hilyer adopted his most pedantic manner: “The time you waste in that shop could be put to more constructive use.”

“I’ll be learning how to repair and perhaps operate a spaceship,” said Jaro mildly. “Don’t you think that’s useful knowledge?”

“No. Not really. It’s a job for specialists. Space is the void between civilized environments. Space is not a destination in itself. Any romance you apply to this sort of work is factitious.”

Jaro grinned. “Don’t worry; if I can’t keep up with my schoolwork, I’ll let the job drop.”

Hilyer knew that Jaro would do all that was required without apparent effort. Still, he was not defeated. “From what you tell me, they are fobbing off the most menial jobs upon you: sorting out bits of this and that, cleaning up slops, running errands for a surly mechanic.”

“Unfortunately this is true,” said Jaro. “Still, someone must do these jobs. Since I’m new, I do them. Also, Gaing’s not so bad when you get to know him. He likes me well enough; when he sees me now he grunts instead of pretending I don’t exist. Meanwhile, little by little, I’m learning what makes a spaceship fly.”

“I still don’t understand it,” said Hilyer peevishly. “What good is that sort of knowledge to someone with your prospects! Nor can you be attracted by the wages, which are not excessive. You don’t even spend your allowance, according to your mother, but scuttle it away in a jam jar.”

“True! But I want to earn money for a special purpose.”

“What purpose is this?” demanded Hilyer coldly, though he already knew.

Jaro nevertheless answered politely. “I want to learn the truth about myself It’s a mystery which I can’t get out of my mind, and I won’t rest until I unravel it. But I won’t ask you to finance what might be a wild goose chase. I’ll try to earn money of my own.”

Hilyer made an impatient gesture. “For the present you must ignore this mystery; a degree at the Institute is prerequisite to a secure life. Without it, you are a will-o’-the-wisp or a vagabond.”

Jaro remained silent and Hilyer continued, his voice stern: “I strongly urge that you postpone this quest—which in any event is likely to be futile. First things must come first. Your mother and I will help you without stint to gain a proper education—but we will resist any other course as being against your better interests.”

Althea came into the room. Neither Hilyer nor Jaro wished to pursue the subject and it was dropped.

For Jaro the first three years at Lyceum slipped by so smoothly that, later, when he cast his mind back, they merged indistinguishably, one with the other. They were the last of the halcyon times, and never again would life be so tranquil.

Still, the years were not without event; there were a hundred gradual changes. Jaro grew several inches, to become an erect square-shouldered youth, moderately muscular, though lacking in bulk through chest, flanks, arms and legs, quiet and self-contained in manner. When girls gathered to discuss their affairs, they generally agreed that Jaro was handsome, in an austere way, like the fairy barons of romantic legend. How distressing and sad that he was a nimp!

During the recess following Jaro’s third year he was allowed to work full time at the terminal machine shop. One day he undertook an especially complicated job. Things went right for him and he finished in what he considered good time. He tested the mechanism with meters and field gauges; all seemed well and he signed the worksheet. Turning, he found Gaing standing nearby, his corded face unreadable. Jaro could only hope that he had performed the procedures properly. Gaing glanced at Jaro’s worksheet, then spoke, using a soft husky voice Jaro had not heard before. “That’s a nice bit of work you’ve done, lad. You did it nice; you did it fast, and you did it right.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jaro.

Gaing went on: “From now on you may regard yourself as ‘assistant mechanic,’ and there will be a corresponding increase in your salary.” He reached up to a shelf and brought down a gnarled jug formed of lavender-gray stonemelt. He pulled away the stopper and poured dollops of amber liquid into a pair of squat stoneware cups. “The occasion calls for a taste of the Old Particular, which you may be sure is not offered around freely.” He pushed one of the cups toward Jaro. “Let us salute your new status!”

Jaro eyed the sultry liquid dubiously. The sharing of Old Particular had the force of a ritual, so he understood, and he must play his part properly. He turned to face Gaing. Joining valor to stoicism, he raised the cup and said: “Your good health, sir.”

Gaing lifted his own cup, nodded and drank from it. Standing stiffly, Jaro lowered the draught to his mouth, swallowed a goodly portion. Now then! Fortitude and calm! He must neither strangle nor cough; he must show only polite gratification.

The liquid finally reached his stomach, where it subsided. Jaro slowly exhaled. He knew that a comment was expected of him. But first things first, as Hilyer would say. He raised his squat cup and in a single gulp drank what was left of the Old Particular. He blinked and put down the cup and tried to speak with decision: “I am not an experienced judge, but I would think this to be of superior quality. My instinct, at least, tells me as much.”

“This instinct has served you well!” intoned Gaing. “You have discovered an important truth, and your candor is refreshing. One can learn much of a fellow by heeding the way he drinks his drop. Folk speak of what is closest to their hearts, and the variety is as endless as the Gaean race itself! I have heard grief and bereavement; also, songs of joy, sometimes in the same quarter-hour. Some men speak of their pedigree and the grandeur that is rightfully theirs; others confide secrets. Some talk of beautiful women, while others recall a kindly mother.” Gaing raised the jug and looked inquiringly at Jaro. “Would you care for another half gill? No? Perhaps you are right, since we have work to do. Tomorrow, incidentally, we will be giving the black Scarab yonder its final checkout.” He referred to a sleek black spaceyacht, somewhat more compact than the
Pharsang
, but still an imposing vehicle.

Jaro could hardly find his voice. “Just you and me?”

“Correct! This job has now been assigned to us. It is time that you should start learning the checkout procedures.”

Jaro returned to Merriehew in happy excitement. His new level of employment represented a large increase in status; he could now legitimately speak of himself as a spaceship mechanic, and presently he would learn to operate as well as repair a spaceship.

Three weeks later, at the end of his shift, Jaro walked along the line of dormant spaceyachts. As he approached the
Pharsang
Glitterway, he came upon Lyssel Bynnoc waiting restlessly beside the ship, while a pair of elderly gentlemen examined a map which they had spread out upon the starboard sponson. The older and more vigorous of the two dominated the discussion. He uttered terse stipulations, jabbed at the map with a stiff forefinger, while the other’s comments went ignored.

Both gentlemen wore expensive garments and carried themselves with the assurance of high comporture. The eldest was tall, spare, with a long pale face, a mane of white hair and a pointed white goatee. His manner was crisp, and serene. The second gentleman was portly and sleek, with a powdered pink complexion and dog-brown eyes.

Lyssel leaned against the
Pharsang
’s port sponson, tapping her fingers against the glossy black surface. She noticed the approach of a personable young man; here was a possible relief from boredom. She arranged herself in a posture of lazy indifference; not until the young man drew near did she turn her head and fix her melting blue gaze upon him. To her surprise she recognized Jaro, whom she remembered from Langolen School. The acquaintance had been distant, since Lyssel always had more prestigious fish to fry: earnest strivers such as Hanafer Glackenshaw, Alger Oals, Kosh Diffenbocker and others of the same up-ledge ilk. Great things were predicted for such as these, and some had already been seconded into the Squared Circle Junior Auxiliary. Lyssel herself had been then and was now an energetic striver, with secret techniques of her own, which had gained her the black and silver clip of the important Jinkers. She liked prestige, but she enjoyed the functioning of her natural instincts even more, and was pleased to see Jaro, though she remembered little about him.

Jaro’s reaction to Lyssel was more direct and similar to that of other healthy young males. He wanted to approach her, pay his respects and, after a minimum of polite preliminaries, carry her off to bed. Over the years, Lyssel had changed little. Fine dusty-golden hair flowed almost to her shoulders, the locks waving and swinging as she moved. Her eyes were round, innocent, and blue in a rather thin face, where a wide mouth continually jerked and altered to the butterfly flicker of her thoughts—smiling, pouting, pursing, twisting askew, sagging at the corners in comic remorse, or with teeth clenched over her lower lip, as if she were a child caught out in a naughty act. Her body was slight and flexible, and when she was excited it squirmed with the unruly energy of a small affectionate animal. Girls were wary of her and in her company felt like frumps. The boys, however, were fascinated and she was the topic of endless speculation. Was there fire behind the smoke? No one, so it seemed, had ever learned the truth, though many had given the problem their serious attention. She spoke with a gay lilt: “You’re Jaro, aren’t you?” Then she waited, as if expecting his sheepish grin of gladness at being noticed.

Jaro responded politely: “I’m Jaro. I’ve seen you at the Lyceum.”

Lyssel nodded, thinking that Jaro seemed just a bit pompous, or perhaps even dull. “What are you doing around here?”

“No mystery; I’m working at the machine shop.”

“Of course! I remember now! You’re the brave boy who wants to become a spaceman!”

Jaro detected the tinkle of mockery, which Lyssel sometimes used to relieve boredom, much as a kitten sharpens its claws on the best furniture. He gave a disinterested shrug. The gibe had caused no reaction; Lyssel became nettled. She blew out her cheeks and wrinkled her nose to imply, in a sophisticated way, that she found Jaro rather tiresome. But Jaro had been looking over her head toward the
Pharsang
, and failed to notice. Lyssel scowled. Jaro was a nimp, hence dull and sober. Sober? She eyed him narrowly, and asked, “Why are you smiling?”

Jaro looked at her innocently. She went on: “It’s not flattering to find you laughing at me.”

Jaro, now grinning openly, said, “If the truth be known, I was admiring the view.”

Lyssel’s delicate jaw relaxed so that her mouth sagged open. Mystified, she asked, “What view?”

“The
Pharsang
, with you standing in front. It’s like a page from an advertising brochure.”

Lyssel’s annoyance diminished. “So even a nimp can be gallant.”

Jaro raised his eyebrows, started to speak, checked himself, then asked, “Who are your friends?”

Lyssel glanced toward the two elderly gentlemen. “They’re persons of extremely high comporture: a Val Verde and a Kahulibah.” She looked to see if Jaro were impressed, but discovered only mild curiosity. She indicated the plump gentleman: “That’s my Uncle Forby Mildoon. The other, with the satanic goatee is Gilfong Rute. He owns the
Pharsang
, curse him!” Lyssel directed a disrespectful grimace against Rute’s back. Noticing Jaro’s startled expression, she explained, “He’s absolutely exasperating, and irrational, to boot.”

Jaro looked toward the gentleman in question. “He seems rational enough from here.”

Lyssel could not believe her ears. “You can’t be serious!”

“I’m just judging by the look of his backside,” Jaro admitted.

“That’s not the best way.”

“Well then: what does he do from the front that is irrational?”

“He has owned the
Pharsang
for five years and has taken her up into space only once. Does that sound sane?”

“He might be troubled with space sickness, or vertigo. Why do you care?”

“I care very much and so does my Uncle Forby! Mr. Rute promised to sell him the
Pharsang
at a very low price, but now he backs and fills, and quotes first one price, then another, all absurdly high.”

“It sounds as if he’s not ready to sell.”

Lyssel glowered toward Gilfong Rute. “If so, it’s most inconsiderate of him.”

“How so?”

“Because my Uncle Forby has promised to take me on a yearlong cruise as soon as he buys the
Pharsang
. But I’ll be old and wrinkled before that day comes!”

“Don’t fret,” said Jaro. “As soon as I get my own spaceyacht, I’ll take you out behind Wiggs’ Wisp for a year or maybe two.”

Lyssel haughtily raised her eyebrows. “You’d be required to bring my mother along as chaperone, and she might not want to go. She’s a High Bustamonte and is intolerant of the lower ledges. If she knew you were a nimp, she’d call you ‘schmeltzer’ and put you off the ship.”