Night Lamp (9 page)

“I now understand your interest,” said Jaro. “For a time I suspected that you had fallen in love with me.”

“Oh no,” said Skirlet airily. “I have no interest in that sort of thing. In fact, I don’t even like you very much.”

Jaro gave a rueful grimace. After a moment he said: “May I offer you some valuable advice?”

Skirlet’s expression became haughty. “From a nimp? Of course not.”

“I’ll do so anyway. If you hope for a successful career in psychotherapy, you must learn to be charming and sympathetic. Otherwise you’ll annoy all your clients and they won’t come back for a second session.”

Skirlet laughed scornfully. “That’s sheer doodle-whisker! Have you forgotten? I am a Clam Muffin; I plan no career! The idea is a vulgarity.”

“In that case,” Jaro began, but Skirlet interrupted.

“The facts are simple. I am interested in human personality and its deviations. This is a casual interest—what the Clam Muffins call ‘dancing with toys.’ When the chance arose, I decided to make a quick survey of you and your abnormalities.”

“Good thinking,” said Jaro. “There’s just one flaw. I am not crazy.”

Skirlet stared at him with eyebrows lifted. “Then why did you visit the psychiatrists?”

“That is my own affair.”

“Ha hah! Perhaps you are crazy, after all—what the trade calls a ‘croque-couvert.’ ”

Jaro decided to reveal at least part of the truth. “The first six years of my life are a mystery. I know nothing of my father or mother or where I was born. The psychiatrists were trying to recover some of the lost memory.”

Skirlet was impressed. “Did they succeed?”

“No. The first six years are gone.”

“Odd! Something terrible must have happened to you.”

Jaro nodded somberly. “The Faths found me during one of their off-world expeditions. I had been beaten so severely that I was dying. They saved me but my memory was gone, and no one could tell them where I had come from. They brought me back to Thanet, and here I am.”

“Hmm. This is material for the start of a really unusual case history!” Skirlet reflected a moment. “I expect that the trauma has loomed large in your life?”

Jaro agreed that this was probably so.

Skirlet asked, “Would you care to hear what I think?”

Jaro opened his mouth to reply, but Skirlet took his interest for granted. “You tell a pathetic tale—but, whatever your distress, it is no excuse for self pity! This is a crippling emotion! In the worst cases comporture is reduced to a stagnant puddle. You should take stock of yourself, even though you may not like what you find. You are still a nimp while others storm past you, up the ledges into the Zouaves or even the Bad Gang! The contrast causes inner shame, which degenerates into a truly defeatist loop, and ultimately takes you up Buntoon Hill to the psychiatrists.”

Jaro considered the analysis then nodded. “I see what you mean. It is a very sound judgment—though I can’t imagine whom you are judging; certainly not me.”

“Oh?” Skirlet scowled. This was not the abject murmur she had expected. “Why do you say that?”

Jaro laughed—an impolite, mocking laugh, thought Skirlet. “Isn’t it clear? I don’t care a twitch for all your clubs: Clam Muffins, Lemurians, Sasselton Tigers or nimps. They are all the same to me! I’ll be off into space as soon as I can, and you’ll never see me again.”

Skirlet’s jaw dropped. Jaro had disparaged herself, the Clam Muffins, and the whole gorgeous panoply of cosmic order in one fell swoop! His insolence was amazing! She finally found her voice, but before speaking paused to select words of proper impact. The job must be done well and truly, but no fear as to that: she was Skirlet Hutsenreiter; using no instrument other than her glorious intelligence, she would overwhelm this prideful though rather nice-looking youth! She would conquer him and befuddle him until he stood before her abject and submissive, and there could be no thought of clemency until he had cried for mercy. After that—well, she would see, and might even consider a kindly pat on the head.

So then: these were the goals. How to proceed? She must establish a foundation of irrefutable logic, so as not to alarm him. She made herself speak gently. “You just can’t go off into space by yourself. You need passage vouchers. They are expensive. Do you have money?”

“No.”

“What of the Faths? Will they give you money?”

“Never, nor would they tell me where to start looking.”

“But that’s unkind!”

Jaro shrugged. “They’re afraid that I’ll become a vagabond, searching forever across the back worlds of the Reach. They don’t want to pour money into a wild goose chase, and they are quite right. If I can’t pay my own way I’ll ship out as a spaceman.”

“That’s still no solution. If you’re a spaceman you go where the ship takes you.”

“I agree that it’s a problem. My only solution is to marry someone with money. What about you? Can you finance a quest for six lost years? If so, I’ll marry you this instant. I’m sure you are wealthy, being a Clam Muffin.”

Skirlet could hardly speak for outrage. The joke was cruel and vindictive, and one which she would not have expected from Jaro. She said frigidly: “Apparently you have heard the rumors. Your jokes are in poor taste.”

“I’ve heard no rumors, and I’m not joking.”

Skirlet saw that she had made a mistake. “If you don’t know, you’re the only one who doesn’t.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Why do you think I’m enrolled at that grubby Langolen School instead of Aeolian Academy? Have you wondered why we lack fine gardens at Sassoon Ayry?”

Sassoon Ayry, on Lesmond Hill, so Jaro knew, was home to the Hutsenreiters. He said: “By preference, I suppose.”

“Right! The bankers prefer not to lend my father more money. The gardeners prefer to be paid for their work. We live on the edge of poverty!”

“Strange!” said Jaro. “I thought all Clam Muffins were wealthy.”

Skirlet laughed. “My father considers himself a brilliant financier, but his speculations are always too early or too late. He still owns a few bits of property, all more or less worthless, including Yellowbird Ranch, out near where you live. He thinks he can sell it to Mildoon the promoter, but Mildoon won’t offer more than the land is worth, and my father is too vain to sell at a loss. He took the money from my trust fund to buy shares in a traveling menagerie. The animals died and my money is gone.”

“Too bad.”

“Very much so. I can’t finance your quest, and you are liberated from your proposal of marriage.”

Jaro studied her sidelong. She sounded almost serious—which of course was most unlikely.

Skirlet now corroborated his thinking. She rose to her feet. “All else to the side, the idea is tasteless—even if you intended no more than a jocularity.”

“Quite correct,” said Jaro. “My sense of humor is coarse. A space vagabond has no need for a wife.”

Skirlet turned and looked off over the balustrade, and away down the long Flammarion Prospect. Jaro watched her in fascination, wondering what she was thinking.

The sun had drifted down upon the hills. The light was already fading. A puff of wind ruffled Skirlet’s hair. For a fleeting instant the world seemed to shift into a new mode. Jaro thought to see a thin-cheeked waif: a lost trifle of tragic humanity.

Skirlet moved; shadows shifted; the illusion broke; she was as before. Slowly she turned and looked at Jaro. “Why are you blinking so foolishly?”

“It’s hard to explain. For an instant I saw you as you might have been, if you were not a Clam Muffin.”

“What an odd thing to say! Was there any difference?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Poof. There’s no difference. I’ve tried both ways. No difference whatever.” She set off across the court, ran up the wide stone steps beside the library and was gone.

A week passed. At school Jaro saw Skirlet but kept his distance, and she took no notice of him. One evening Jaro asked Althea why they had seen so little of Tawn Maihac. Althea pretended absentmindedness, but the effort was unconvincing. “Who? Tawn Maihac? Oh yes, of course! The funny froghorn man! He is no longer in my class. He told someone that his new work kept him much too busy, and he could find no time for social occasions.”

“Too bad,” said Jaro. “I liked him.”

“Yes, he was quite a talented fellow,” said Althea vaguely.

Jaro went to his room and tried to call Maihac on his telephone, only to learn that Maihac was not listed in the exchange.

On the following day Jaro left school early and rode out to the space terminal by public transport. To the right of the terminal building a long high hangar flanked the field, protecting a row of space yachts from the weather; many were for sale. Jaro had come this way before with Maihac, and they had discussed the yachts along the line in loving detail. The least expensive were for the most part the evolutionary versions of the ancient Model 11—B Locator, now produced by numerous builders and sold as Ariels, Cody Extensors, Spadway Hermits and the like. They were broad-beamed craft of compact contour, all about fifty feet long, with only cosmetic differences from their rugged if spartan prototypes. Prices for such craft started at something over twenty thousand sols,
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depending upon age, condition and furbishments. Maihac had told Jaro that sometimes at remote spaceports such craft could be had for ten thousand, or five thousand, or even two thousand sols, depending upon exigencies of the moment. Often, said Maihac, title to such vessels passed across the gambling tables of spaceport saloons.

“I don’t know much about gambling,” Jaro had said wistfully.

“I know enough to avoid it,” said Maihac.

Other vessels ranged the gamut in size, quality, elegance and price, culminating in a magnificent Golschwang 19 and a Sansevere Triumph, neither for sale, though each, according to Maihac, would probably command a price of over two million sols. The Golschwang 19 belonged to a Tatterman banker; the other to a Val Verde magnate whose source of income was obscure. Jaro’s special favorite was a splendid Fortunatus of the Glitterway series, named the
Pharsang
, currently offered for sale by a Kahulibah banker. The sign at the bow explained that the owner lacked the time to give this fine yacht the utilization it deserved, and so he might sell at the right price to a buyer of appropriate status; no others need apply. The asking price was unstated, but Maihac had suspected that it was well over a million sols. The craft was enameled a lustrous black, with trim of scarlet and mustard-ocher. Jaro was entranced with the vessel, as was Maihac. “I know where I will spend my first million sols,” Maihac had said. “It is exactly the right size, either for living aboard or for hauling passengers out on excursions or to unscheduled ports. It would pay for itself in five years.”

Jaro had said that it must cost a great deal to operate.

“It all depends,” Maihac had continued, “the present owner probably uses a full crew: captain, chief mate, first and second engineers, cook, two stewards and perhaps a spare hand. First class cuisine for owner, guests and crew could be very expensive. In short: large outlay. On the other hand, a single man could operate the yacht. His expenses would be negligible.”

As Jaro passed down the line on his way to the machine shop, he came to the
Pharsang
Glitterway, and as usual paused to admire its massive yet graceful lines. The “For Sale” sign was no longer in evidence; had someone of adequate status purchased the vessel? Jaro noticed movement in the forward saloon. A girl passed by the observation pane. Jaro instantly recognized the flowing blond hair of Lyssel Bynnoc. She seemed to be talking and laughing with great animation, which of course was her normal style. Jaro rather admired Lyssel, who was very pretty, but he did not want her to see him staring with what she would think to be envious longing at the
Pharsang
. Too late! She turned and looked down at him where he stood staring at her. She turned away; Jaro suspected that she had failed to recognize him, which was more annoying than if she had done so.

Jaro had the grace to laugh at himself. He had encountered her years before at Langolen school in a science laboratory. Even then he had been favorably impressed, though with detachment, since at the time he had been preoccupied with his own affairs. Lyssel, in her turn noticed the tall dark-haired youth with the pensive expression. She felt his attention and turned away, expecting him to approach on one pretext or another, but when she looked around he was busy with his work.

Hmm, thought Lyssel. She appraised him covertly. In a quiet and unobtrusive way he was quite attractive. His features were well shaped, even rather aristocratic. She wondered whether he might be an off-worlder. It was quite possible, she thought. Rather a romantic notion! Lyssel liked romantic notions. Of course, like all the other boys she knew, he’d be putty in her grasp—once she got her hands on him. It seemed a good idea; Hanafer Glackenshaw would be annoyed.

Hanafer was indeed irked when she mentioned Jaro and described his virtues. “He has a very interesting look, as if he were a landed grandee, or perhaps one of the Overmen from Dambrosilla. There’s some sort of mystery about him. At least, that’s the rumor.”

“Bah!” sneered Hanafer, a large, rather heavy youth with bold features, including a long nose which, in his opinion, lent him a commanding profile. He wore his blond hair after the new and daring fashion, sweeping over his fine broad forehead then back and off to the side. He scoffed at Lyssel’s reference to Jaro. “That’s sheer bullypup. There’s no mystery about the fellow! First of all, he’s a nimp!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really. His parents are nimps; they are academic types at the Institute, and pacifists to boot. So in the future, confine your rapturous theories to me! Let’s take up where we left off.”

“Stop, Hanafer! Someone will see us.”

“Would that bother you?”

“Of course!”

“I wonder. Did you hear what Darsay Jechan said about you?”

“No.”

“It was down by the fountain. He was rhapsodizing that you were like the pure and delicate flower of the legend, which fades and collapses after pollination.”