Night Lamp (4 page)

Idora Wirtz lacked physical appeal; she was small, thin, energetic, with sharp features and a barbaric ruff of brick-red ringlets. She wore garments of gaudy, purposely discordant, colors and always a dozen or more jangling bracelets, often on both arms. She had achieved the Parnassians, a society of the middle range, but could not escape; despite her most earnest efforts, she had been denied ascent into the clever Safardips, and the even more avant-garde Black Hats.

One day she took Jaro aside. “A word with you, if you please. I must gratify my curiosity.”

Dame Wirtz led Jaro into an empty classroom; then, leaning against the desk, studied him a moment. She said, “Jaro, you must be aware that you do excellent work—in fact, sometimes it is truly elegant.”

“Thank you,” said Jaro. “I like doing my best.”

“That is evident. Mr. Buskin says that your compositions are very well done, though they always deal with impersonal subjects, and that you never express your own point of view. Why is that?”

Jaro shrugged. “I don’t like to write about myself.”

“I realize that!” snapped Dame Wirtz. “I asked for your reasons.”

“If I wrote of myself everyone would think I was vain.”

“Well, what then? Skirlet Hutsenreiter writes the most scurrilous things imaginable, and doesn’t care a fig whether anyone likes it or not. She lacks all inhibition.”

Jaro was puzzled. “And this is how I should write?”

Dame Wirtz sighed. “No. But you might consider changing your point of view. You write like a proud recluse. Why are you not out there in the swim, breasting the social currents?”

Jaro smiled. “Probably because I truly am a proud recluse.”

Dame Wirtz made a sour face. “Naturally you know what those words mean?”

“I think it is someone like a Clam Muffin who has never paid his subscription.”

Dame Wirtz went to look out the window. When she turned back, she said, “I want to explain something very important. Please give me your attention.”

“Yes, Dame Wirtz.”

“You cannot go out into life without giving your best effort to the striving.”

Jaro remained patiently silent. Idora Wirtz resisted the impulse to ruffle his hair. If she had one like this for her very own, how she would dote on him! She said, “As I recall, your parents are faculty folk at the Institute?”

“Yes.”

“I believe that they are nimps, as well. Mind you,” she hastened to say, “there’s nothing wrong with that! Though I myself prefer the social slope, for all its intricate nonsense. But of yourself? Naturally you do not intend to remain a nimp, and now is the time to set your foot on the ladder. The first rung is usually the Junior Service League. Anyone can join, so the prestige is small. Still, it’s a useful springboard up to more important clubs, and everyone starts somewhere.”

Jaro smilingly shook his head. “For me it would be a waste of time. I intend to be a spaceman.”

Dame Wirtz was scandalized. “What’s all this?”

“It should be an exciting life, looking for new planets at the back of the galaxy. Spacemen don’t need to join clubs.”

Idora Wirtz compressed her lips. A typically boyish ambition, she supposed—if more than a little callow. “That’s all very well, and exciting it might be, but it’s a lonely anti-social life, away from family and all your wonderful clubs! You wouldn’t be able to go to parties, or political rallies, or march in parades with banner held high, and you’d never be elected up-slope to fine new memberships if you weren’t on hand to press your case!”

“I’m not interested in that.”

Dame Wirtz became excited. “You are saying all the wrong things! Reality is communal interaction! Space flight is an escape from the problems of life!”

“Not for me,” said Jaro. “I have important things to do that I can’t do on Gallingale.”

Dame Wirtz seized Jaro’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Go, Jaro! I have heard as much as I can tolerate! You are a maddening person, and will no doubt infuriate every girl unlucky enough to fall in love with you.”

Jaro gratefully went to the door. Here he turned and said: “I’m sorry if I said something to disturb you. I meant no harm.”

Dame Wirtz grinned at him. “I know all about people like you! Now go, and do something nice to surprise me!”

Jaro told Althea of his conversation with Dame Wirtz. “She wants me to join the Junior Service League.”

Althea shook her head in vexation. “So soon? We had hoped to avoid the problem for just a little while longer.” They went to sit at the kitchen table. Althea said, “At Thanet almost everyone strives. A few climb the ladder: from Parnassians to Black Hats to Underwoods, to Squared Circles, then perhaps to Val Verdes or Sick Chickens, to Girandoles and finally to Clam Muffins. Of course, that’s just one of a dozen routes.” She peered sidewise at Jaro. “Does this interest you?”

“Not very much.”

“As you know, your father and I belong to no clubs. We are ‘Non-orgs,’ or ‘nimps,’ and we have no social status. You are the same. Think about it. Then if you feel that you want to mix with the others, you can join the Junior Service League and then, when you are ready, strike for the next level: the Persimmons, for instance, or the Zouaves. You’ll never be lonely; you’ll make many friends and play at a dozen sports, and no one will call you ‘nimp.’ Also, you’ll spend hours being nice to people you don’t like, which perhaps is good training. You’ll pay high subscriptions, wear the club token and speak the club jargon. You may enjoy this; many people thrive on it. Others think it’s easier to be a nimp.”

Jaro nodded thoughtfully. “I told Dame Wirtz that since I wanted to be a spaceman, joining a club would be a waste of time.”

Althea tried to hide her amusement. “And what did she say?”

“She became rather cross. She told me I was running away from the realities of life. I said no, that wasn’t it; that I had things to do which could not be done on Gallingale.”

“Really!” Althea was startled and alarmed. “What things are these?”

Jaro looked away. This was a private subject which he did not want to discuss. He said slowly, “I suppose that I’m interested in learning about where I came from, and what happened during the years I can’t remember.”

Althea’s heart sank. Both she and Hilyer had hoped that Jaro would have lost interest in his past and would never think seriously of it again. Evidently, this was not the case.

Jaro left the room. Althea brewed a pot of tea and sat pondering over the unwelcome news. She definitely did not want Jaro to become a spaceman; he would go off into space and leave Merriehew and the Faths behind, and who knows when they would see him again. It was a dreadfully lonely thought!

Althea sighed. Clearly she and Hilyer must use their best persuasive powers to guide Jaro along the academic career they had planned for him at Thanet Institute.

Dame Wirtz made a final attempt to enlist Jaro into the Junior Service League. “It is the best possible training! And enormous fun! When you march in formation, the slogan that you shout is:

‘UP THE LEDGES! UP!

DON’T BE A NASTY PUP!

BUMBLE DE BUMBLE! HOOT HOOT HOOT

AND A TWEAK IN THE PUNGLE

FOR SCHMELTZERS.’

There! Doesn’t that sound like fun? No? Why not?”

“It’s a bit noisy,” said Jaro.

Dame Wirtz sniffed. “It’s ever so jolly, swinging along in formation! The secret password is ‘comporture.’ ”

“Then what happens?”

“It’s a surprise!”

“Hm. What kind of surprise?”

Dame Wirtz smiled bravely. “A bit of this, a bit of that.”

Jaro shook his head. “Only an idiot would want to find out.”

Dame Wirtz pretended not to hear. “A wonderful magic stuff is comporture, and your stringbooks make it all so easy. You record favors you have done for others against the favors you have received: the so-called ‘Outs’ and ‘Ins.’ Their ratio is your social buoyancy, and you must keep a careful balance sheet. This will help you with your strivings, and you’ll be up the Persimmons in a trice! Just like Lyssel Bynnoc, who stormed up through the League like a spanked baboon. Her father is a Squared Circle. That lubricates many a tight corner and Lyssel is quite a charming creature, but the fact remains that she’s a striver and has comporture in her bones.” Dame Wirtz giggled. “It is said that in frosty weather when Lyssel breathes, instead of steam she blows two plumes of comporture from her nostrils.”

Jaro raised his eyebrows. “Surely that can’t be true!”

“Probably not, but it only goes to demonstrate the temper of her striving.”

Jaro was aware of saucy golden-haired Lyssel Bynnoc, though she had never so much as looked in his direction. Lyssel was already flirting with older boys of upscale clubs and had no time to waste on nimps. Jaro asked: “What about Skirlet Hutsenreiter?”

“Aha! Skirlet was born a Clam Muffin and already commands the full scope of prestige, above all the other aristocracy of Gallingale! Skirlet need never fret about status, and she might not in any case, since she does everything with great éclat.” Dame Wirtz looked away. “Well, well, we can’t all be Clam Muffins like dear little Skirlet, and now we must see about enrolling you in the Junior Service League. Naturally, you’ll start in the Buddykins Ward.”

Jaro hung back. “I have no time for such things!”

Dame Wirtz gave an incredulous caw. “That is absurd! You are almost as bright as Skirlet; she rolls through her schoolwork as if it were a dish of ripe cheese, and then she has time for every caprice that enters her mind. How do you spend your spare time?”

“I study manuals of space mechanics.”

Dame Wirtz threw her arms into the air. “My dear boy, you mustn’t waste your time with fantasy!”

Jaro made his escape as gracefully as possible.

About this time Skirlet was transferred into Jaro’s class, and whether they liked it or not, the quality of their work was constantly compared. It soon became evident that Jaro surpassed Skirlet in basic science, mathematics and technical mechanics; also he was rather more deft at draughting, where his hand was fluid and accurate. Skirlet excelled in language, rhetoric, and musical symbolism. They did equally well in Gaean history, the geography of Old Earth, anthropology and biological science.

Skirlet was surprised to find herself inferior to anyone, in anything, to any degree whatever. For several days her conduct was subdued. In anyone other than a Clam Muffin, it might have been said that she sulked. At last she shrugged. The circumstances, though bitter, were real. Had Jaro been a misshapen freak, or a bizarre genius, she would have accepted the situation with no more than an uninterested jerk of the chin. But Jaro was quite normal, clean, nice looking, something of a loner, and even more indifferent to her than she to him—or so it seemed. Too bad he was a nimp, and so could not be taken seriously. She wondered what would become of him. Then, thinking about her own case, she gave a sardonic little grimace. What, indeed, would become of Skirlet Hutsenreiter?

Skirlet at last accepted the presence of Jaro philosophically. After all, it was an excellent thing to be born a Hutsenreiter and a Clam Muffin! Unfair? Not necessarily. Things were the way they were; why make changes?

One afternoon, halfway through the term, Skirlet sat in a group and heard Jaro’s name mentioned by a certain Hanafer Glackenshaw. Hanafer was a large boisterous youth with rich blond curls and emphatic overlarge features. Hanafer considered himself decisive and masterful: a maker and shaper of enterprises. He liked to stand with head thrown back, the better to display his prideful high-bridged nose. He felt himself gifted with great inherent comporture, and perhaps it was so; he had thrust and wheedled and shouldered his way up the ledges, surmounting the Persimmons, up past the Spalpeens and into the Human Ingrates. Now the time had come to re-establish his social buoyancy and make new entries into his stringbooks.

Hanafer was captain of the Langolen School roverball team, which found itself in need of several strong agile forwards ready for a mix-up. A loose-limbed tomboy of a girl named Tatninka indicated Jaro, at the other side of the yard: “Why not him? He looks strong and healthy.”

Hanafer glanced toward Jaro and snorted. “You don’t know what you’re saying! That’s Jaro Fath, and he’s a nimp. Further, his mother is Professor Fath at the Institute and she’s a pacifist, and won’t allow him to wrestle, or box, or compete in any violent sport. So: he’s not only a nimp, but a total and absolute moop.”

Skirlet, on the periphery of the group, heard the remarks. She glanced toward Jaro; by chance their eyes met. For an instant there was communication between them; then Jaro looked away. Skirlet was unreasonably annoyed. Did he not realize that she was Skirlet Hutsenreiter, autonomous and free, who tolerated neither criticism nor judgment, and went where she chose?

It was Tatninka, rather than Skirlet, who bore the news to Jaro. “Did you hear what Hanafer called you?”

“No.”

“He said you were a moop!”

“Oh? What’s that? Nothing good, I suspect.”

Tatninka giggled. “I forgot; you’re really off in the clouds, aren’t you? Well, then!” She recited a definition she had heard Hanafer use only the week before: “If you come upon a very timid nimp who wets the bed and wouldn’t say ‘peep’ to a pussycat—you have found a moop.”

Jaro sighed. “Very well; now I know.”

“Hmf. You’re not even angry,” said Tatninka in disgust.

Jaro reflected. “Hanafer can be carried off by a big bird, for all I care. Otherwise, there is no return message.”

Tatninka spoke with annoyance, “Really, Jaro, you should not act with such insouciance when you can’t show an itch of status, nor so much as a place to scratch it.”

“Sorry,” murmured Jaro. Tatninka turned and marched off to join her friends. Jaro walked home to Merriehew.

Althea met him in the downstairs hall. She kissed his cheek, then stood back and inspected him. “What is wrong?”

Jaro knew better than to dissemble. “It’s nothing serious,” he growled. “Just some of Hanafer Glackenshaw’s talk.”

“What kind of talk,” demanded Althea, instantly brittle.

“Oh just names: ‘nimp’ and ‘moop.’ ”

Althea compressed her lips. “That is not acceptable conduct, and I shall have a word with his mother.”

“No!” cried Jaro in a panic. “I don’t care what Hanafer thinks! If you complain to his mother, everyone will laugh at me!”

Althea knew that he was right. “Then you’ll just have to take Hanafer aside and explain in a nice way that you mean him no harm and that he has no reason to call you names.”

Jaro nodded. “I may do just that—after punching his head to attract his attention.”

Althea uttered a cry of indignation. She went to a couch and pulled Jaro down beside her. He became stiff and uncomfortable, and wished that he had guarded his tongue, for now he must listen while Althea explained the tenets of her ethical philosophy. “Jaro, my dear, there is no mystery about violence. It is the reflexive act of brutes, boors and moral defectives. I am surprised that you use such words even as a joke!”

Jaro moved restlessly and opened his mouth to speak, but Althea seemed not to notice. “As you know, your father and I think of ourselves as crusaders for universal amity. We are contemptuous of violence, and we expect you to live by the same creed.”

“That is why Hanafer calls me a ‘moop.’ ”

Althea spoke serenely, “He will stop as soon as he sees how wrong he is. You must make this clear. Peace and happiness are never passive; they are flowers in a garden which must constantly be worked.”

Jaro jumped to his feet. “I don’t have time to work in Hanafer’s garden; I have other things on my mind.”

Althea stared at him, all thoughts of Hanafer dismissed, and Jaro saw that he had made another mistake. Althea asked, “What ‘other things’ are these?”

“Just things.”

For perhaps half a second Althea wavered, then decided not to pursue the matter. She reached out and hugged him. “Whatever the case, you can always discuss it with me. We can straighten things out and I’ll never urge you to do anything harmful or wrong! Do you believe me, Jaro?”

“Oh yes. I believe you.”

Althea relaxed. “I’m glad you’re so sensible! Now then, go make yourself look nice; Mr. Maihac is coming for dinner. As I recall, you and he get along well together.”

Jaro gave a guarded response. “Yes; well enough.” As a matter of fact he liked Tawn Maihac very much, which caused him to wonder about his parents, since Maihac was not typical of their usual set of acquaintances. Maihac was an off-worlder who had evidently traveled far and wide across the Gaean Reach and had known many odd adventures. He had made an immediate impression upon Jaro though, from the Fath’s point of view, for all the wrong reasons. Maihac was neither a pacifist nor a savant nor yet the exemplar of an avant-garde art form.

Tawn Maihac’s adventures had not left him unscathed. His face displayed a broken nose and his neck was marked by a scar. Otherwise, Maihac lacked conspicuous characteristics, and on first acquaintance seemed placid and mild. He was younger than Hilyer; lean and strong, with a weathered dark skin and a black mat of hair. Althea thought him almost handsome, since his features were well shaped. Hilyer, who was more critical, found these same features graceless and hard, perhaps by reason of the broken nose, which suggested violence.

Hilyer took little pleasure in Maihac’s company, suspecting that Maihac might have been a spaceman, which brought him no credit in Hilyer’s eyes. Spacemen were customarily recruited from the ne’er-do-wells and vagabonds at the fringes of society. As a class, their values and patterns of behavior were incompatible with Hilyer’s own, and those which he wished to sponsor in Jaro.

From the first Hilyer had felt deeply suspicious of Maihac. When Althea scoffed, Hilyer claimed darkly that his instincts were never wrong. He felt that Maihac, if not a blackguard, had much to hide, to which Althea said: “Oh piffle. Everyone has something to hide.”

Hilyer started to declare, “Not I!” in a decisive voice, then thought of one or two shrouded episodes in his past and merely gave a noncommittal grunt.

During the next few days he took the trouble to make discreet inquiries, then went triumphantly to Althea with his findings. “It’s about as I thought,” said Hilyer. “Our friend is using a false name. He is actually someone named ‘Gaing Neitzbeck,’ who for reasons of his own is using the name ‘Tawn Maihac’ ”

“This is incredible!” declared Althea. “How do you know?”

“Just a bit of detective work, and an iota of inductive reasoning,” said Hilyer. “I glanced over his application for admission at the Institute. I took note of his stated date of arrival at Thanet spaceport, along with the ship on which he arrived, which was the
Alice Wray
of the Elder Line. When I looked over the list of arrivals aboard the
Alice Wray
upon the cited date, there was no ‘Tawn Maihac,’ but only a ‘Gaing Neitzbeck,’ who gave his occupation as ‘spaceman.’ I searched the list of arrivals for the entire year and I found no ‘Tawn Maihac’ The conclusion is inescapable.”

Althea stammered, “But why should he do such a thing?”

“I could form a dozen hypotheses,” said Hilyer. “He might be trying to dodge creditors or avoid an importunate wife, or wives. One thing is clear, however: when folk use false names, they are concealing themselves from someone.” Hilyer quoted one of Baron Bodissey’s choicest maxims: “ ‘Honest folk do not wear masks when they enter a bank.’ ”

“I suppose not,” said Althea doubtfully. “What a shame! I did so like Tawn Maihac, or whatever his name.”

On the evening of the next day, Hilyer noticed an air of suppressed excitement, or mirth, or some such emotion in Althea. He ignored the signals, aware that she could not hold her news to herself for very long. He was right. As she served their usual goblet of Taladerra Fino, she burst out: “You’ll never guess!”

“Guess what?”

“I’ve solved the mystery!”

“I wasn’t aware of any mystery,” said Hilyer stiffly.

“Of course you are!” said Althea teasingly. “You’re aware of a hundred mysteries! This one concerns Tawn Maihac.”

“I suppose you are referring to Gaing Neitzbeck, and, truly, Althea, I’m not interested in the man’s peccadillos, or whatever has caused him to deceive us.”

“Very well! I promise: no peccadillos! What happened was this: I went to the telephone and put in a call for Gaing Neitzbeck. I reached him at his place of work, the machine shop at the space terminal. His face appeared on the screen; it was definitely not Tawn Maihac. I told him that I was calling from the Institute in regard to Tawn Maihac’s application, in which he stated that he had arrived at Thanet aboard the
Alice Wray
.”

“Well what of it?” said Neitzbeck.

“He arrived on the same day as you did?”

“Certainly.”

“Then why does not his name appear on the terminal records?”