Throy (26 page)

yards offshore; a dinghy was dropped into the water. Into the dinghy stepped a large woman heavy of chest and bosom, massive of hips and upper legs with disproportionately small ankles and feet. It was Smonny, born Simonetta Clattuc, now Madame Zigonie of Shadow Valley Ranch. She wore a coverall suit belted at the waist, black boots with stylish pointed toes and block heels. Her taffy-colored hair had been twisted into a rope, then wound tightly into an impressive pyramid, under the control of a black net. She was followed into the dinghy by four Oomps. They were handsome men of early middle age, golden-skinned, golden-haired, wearing neat uniforms of white, yellow and blue.

          The dinghy grounded in the shallow water ten feet from dry land; heedless of pipe-fish two of the Oomps splashed through the shallows and pulled the dinghy up on the beach. Smonny stepped ashore, followed by the rest of her retinue. She stood a moment looking about the area, then was met by four of Barduys’ crew. They apprised her of what must be done and she drew herself up in outrage. At last Barduys joined the group. Smonny snapped: “These demands are demeaning! I see no need for this sort of thing!”

“It must be done,” said Barduys. “It is a formality, no more. The group from Stroma also protested, but I explained that everyone must feel at ease. The conference cannot proceed until everyone acquiesces to the rules.”

Smonny scowled and submitted to the search, which produced a compact hand-gun from her sash and a dagger from her boot. The Oomps were deprived of their side-arms and directed to the pavilion designated for their use.

Meanwhile, Smonny had gone to the center table, where Dame Clytie and Julian also stood. The two women acknowledged each other’s presence with curt nods, but remained silent while adjusting themselves to the atmosphere of the island. Their differences were fundamental. Smonny intended to transfer all the Yips from Lutwen Atoll to the Marmion foreshore, using whatever transport was available - preferably that provided by Barduys. The Yips would then swarm down the coast and overwhelm Araminta Station. Smonny would sit in state and administer dreadful justice upon the folk who had hurt her feelings so badly. After that, the Yips could do as they liked – under her supervision of course.

Originally Dame Clytie and other LPFers had endorsed the basic principle of moving the Yips to Deucas, and then establishing a true democracy which would give the vote of the lowliest Yip fisherman equal weight to the vote of the arrogant Bodwyn Wook. This had been the basic thesis of the LPF party in the early innocent days, when progressive intellectuals and excited students met to drink tea and debate political morality in the tall drawing rooms of Stroma. The passage of years had brought many changes. Innocence had disappeared. The ideal of pure democracy had been replaced by plans for a more manageable – and useful - system of kindly paternalism, to be administered from a network of fine country estates. When asked how the system differed from manorial feudalism, the LPFer said that the comparison was sophistry of the rankest sort. Serfs were serfs, and Yips were free spirits who would be trained in the arts of folk dancing and choral singing, and who would enjoy many gay festivals, while others would learn to play the guitar.

As for Smonny’s chaotic and bloody-handed plan, it must be rejected, smartly and definitely, for a number of reasons. In the first place, the program offered no clear benefits to the LPF and the Yips might well learn bad habits. Smonny’s rage must be tempered and diverted into useful channels.

Dame Clytie set herself to the task at hand. With Julian Bohost at her elbow, beaming graciously, she turned to Smonny. “How nice to see you again; it’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. I am becoming impatient. Waiting is very hard.”

“True! But our time is approaching, and we must carefully mesh our plans.”

Smonny gave Dame Clytie a quick indifferent glance, then looked away.

Dame Clytie felt a tingle of annoyance. She spoke on, pitching her voice so as to convey intimacy and assurance, and still give Smonny a hint as to how events must go and who was in charge. “I have been hard at work, and I have prepared a schedule which I hope will guide our operations. Only the first step is sensitive. When the supply ship goes up to the monitor over Lutwen, our men will be aboard, and we will quickly overpower the crew. Thereafter the operation should proceed smoothly.”

Smonny listened in contemptuous silence. So far, the plan was as she herself envisaged it. She gave a small curt nod and turned away. Dame Clytie stared at her a moment, then shrugged and became quiet.

The group waited in silence, broken only by muttering among the LPFers.

Barduys came forward and signaled to the occupants of the two pavilions, who filed out into the area and stood in two silent groups.

“This is an important occasion,” Barduys told the company. “I am anxious that it succeed. Let me define my position. I am a businessman, not a party to the discussion; my opinions, had I any, would be irrelevant. You may regard me and my staff as neutral observers. However, we will maintain order. The two groups will keep to their pavilions and refrain from unsolicited admonitions, advice, or any interference whatever. The reason for this restriction will be clear to all.

“In passing, I would like to call your attention to my crew. Some of you may recognize their uniforms, which are Scuters, the platoon of heroes who served the fabulous King Sha Kha Shan. My Scuters are not so prone to beard-pulling and ear-lopping as their namesakes; still, it is well to accept their guidance.

“So now, if you will return to your pavilions, we will start our conversations.”

Julian, who had been idly chatting with Dame Clytie during Barduys’ remarks, turned now and surveyed the table. He started toward one of the chairs, but Flitz came from the
Rondine
pavilion and seated herself with her back to the lagoon. She carried several books, portfolios and other works of reference which she placed on the table. Julian halted, nonplussed. Dame Clytie and Smonny seated themselves opposite each other; Barduys went to stand by his place at the end of the table.

Julian asked petulantly: “Where am I to sit? There must be a mistake; no chair has been set out for me.”

“The seating is purposely limited,” said Barduys. “You are entitled to sit in the pavilion with the others of your group.”

Julian hesitated, then fretfully turned away, muttering under his breath. He marched across the area to the pavilion and plumped down beside Roby Mavil, to whom he made a series of disgruntled observations.

“Ladies,” said Barduys, “notice these buttons. If you want your group to hear the proceedings, press the red button. To solicit their advice, press the yellow button.” He looked from the tight-lipped Dame Clytie to the surly Smonny. “Meetings of this sort often fail because they lose their focus. I hope that we will avoid this pitfall. A plan may already exist; it would be foolish to come here unprepared, even though minor differences remain to be reconciled. Since I am not one of the principles, I can make no substantive suggestions, nor do I wish to do so.”

Dame Clytie had become increasingly annoyed with Barduys’ manner, which she felt to be disrespectful and even autocratic. She spoke shortly: “You are beating a dead horse. No one is looking to you either for advice or intercession. What we require is transport capacity; no more no less.”

“Then we are of the same mind.” Barduys seated himself.

“Let us get down to cases.” He looked from Smonny to Dame Clytie. “Which of you is the spokesman?”

Dame Clytie cleared her throat. “I am in a position to elucidate our program. The operation must proceed with what I shall call ‘massive precision.’ Our goals are altruistic and philosophically correct: we wish to bring democracy to Cadwal; and here, of course, I use the word ‘democracy’ in its new, extended sense.

“As good LPFers, we are non-violent and hope to avoid bloodshed. The ruling clique at Araminta Station will be helpless in the face of so much power and must submit to the facts, as gracefully as they are able, and no doubt there will be tasks for all in the new order.

“Now, as to practicalities. We will transport only thirty thousand Yips to Deucas: this number is both adequate and desirable. In its full scope, the plan is elaborate -”

Smonny, speaking in a sharp quick voice, interrupted. “There is no elaborate plan and no need to dance in circles, or otherwise confuse the issue. The single and basic plan is to transport all the Yips to the Marmion Foreshore on Deucas. There are about one hundred thousand people; all must be put ashore as rapidly as possible, in order to paralyze the Station authorities. With this in mind, you may declare how many transports will be needed, and what it will cost.”

“Certainly,” said Barduys. “I can supply such an estimate in half an hour or less. But certain conditions must be met. First of all, I need a firm commitment. With whom am I dealing?”

Dame Clytie said coldly: “I think that I can explain this bit of confusion. My colleague, as always, has produced an accurate analysis, except in one or two small respects. She still adheres to the tenets of a youthful idealism, in which democracy is equated to nihilism. All of us, of course, have known the bliss of these romantic dreams, but when they exploded around our heads, we were forced to meet the world on its own terms. Now we deal in practicality.”

“All very well,” said Barduys, “but I can work only with a coherent organization using a single voice.”

“Just so,” said Dame Clytie. “We must now, each and all of us, unite behind the system which maximizes benefits for the most people. That system exists. It is a program which we call ‘Structured Democracy.’ Simonetta, of course, has an important part to play, and her talents will definitely be put to good use, perhaps as -”

From Smonny came harsh laughter. Dame Clytie’s eyebrows raised in irritation. “If you please -”

Smonny cut short her mirth. “My dear lady, really! You misread every portent! Events have bypassed no one, and why? Because nothing has changed. Araminta Station is still a citadel of greed and jealous cruelty; everyone scrambles up the golden ladder, pausing only to kick at the faces of those below, while the good and the worthy are cast aside! Those are the realities which we are addressing!”

Dame Clytie spoke ponderously, as if resolved to be patient despite all incitement to the contrary. “That is, perhaps, a trifle overstated. The Chartists are dour and pompous, but in the end they will see that our way is best. As for the Conservancy in a modified form -”

“‘Conservancy’? What a joke! It conserves privilege and unspeakable selfishness! You are living in a dreamcloud if you expect gratified welcome from the patricians! You will meet only their horrified resistance. They are as stern as iron statues, and must be humiliated and punished!”

Dame Clytie frowned and held up her hand. “I urge that we insulate our personal grievances from aspects of official policy.”

Smonny’s dog-brown eyes glittered. “The grievances go far beyond my own small tragedies. The Yips have been exploited for centuries; now they will avenge themselves upon this stinking hive of privilege; they will root out the vile Offaws and Wooks, the Lavertys and the Diffins, the Veders and the Clattucs; they will chase their ancient lords south to Cape Journal, over the rocks and into the sea. Why should we interfere? Their way is final and definite.”

Dame Clytie closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Once again, I ask for temperate judgments. Too much fervor is not truly helpful, and only makes the official plan of ‘Structured Democracy’ the more difficult. We have calculated that for the new counties, a population of thirty thousand happy country folk is enough, since we wish to maintain the sylvan charm of this wonderful environment! The remaining Yips will be transported to new homes off-world. These thirty thousand can be kept under strict discipline and will be allowed no looting or pillage, which only destroys property.”

Smonny spoke offhand: “The plan is ill-conceived, useless and unacceptable, in all forms and phases. This plan is now defunct. We need not refer to it again.”

Dame Clytie forced herself to smile. “My dear lady! You are issuing fiats and manifestos as if we were your subalterns!”

“Well, what of that?”

          “It is not appropriate to the occasion. But let it go by. There are crucial developments which compel us to a policy of moderation.”

“I know of no crucial developments. I doubt if such exist.”

Dame Clytie, ignoring the remark, spoke ponderously. “Recently there has been a large migration of old-time Naturalists from Stroma to Araminta Station. These folk are our own kin; my sister and her two children now live near Riverview House. Every LPFer is in the same position. We cannot endorse the unbridled acts you suggest. They are tantamount to savagery.”

Standing in the shadows, Glawen and Chilke observed the interchanges and tried to predict the outcome.

“They are playing by different rules,” said Glawen. “Each of them thinks she is winning.”

“Both are very tough,” said Chilke. “Dame Clytie is probably the more versatile. Listen to her now! She is lathering Smonny up and down with the essence of sweet reason. It soaks into Smonny like water soaking into a rock.”

The two stood in sober contemplation of the scene: Dame Clytie, with head lowered, her heavy jaws corded with sinews; Smonny, sitting half-turned away, watching with insulting disinterest.

Conditions were changing in some subtle fashion. Dame Clytie’s narrow gray eyes were widening and starting to bulge; a tide of pink crept up Smonny’s burly neck. The voices rose and became strident; Dame Clytie’s control broke; she rose from her chair and gripped the table with both hands. “I have explained it, and this is how it must be!” She leaned forward and struck the table. “‘Structured Democracy’ is the way!”

Smonny cried out “You belching old cow; you shall not roar in my face! Vex me no further!”

Dame Clytie uttered a guttural croak. “Intolerable creature!” She struck out and buffeted Smonny across the face; jerking back, Smonny fell sprawling from her chair. Dame Clytie bellowed: “Hear me and hear me well ...” Before she could continue Smonny heaved herself to her feet and attacked.