The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (80 page)

A distant rumble caught his attention. Dropping from the
mist came a dull shape: the lighter returning from contact with the
Carina
Cruzeiro.

Thissell once more reread the note, raised his head, studied
the descending lighter. Aboard would be Haxo Angmark. In five minutes he would
emerge upon the soil of Sirene. Landing formalities would detain him possibly
twenty minutes. The landing field lay a mile and a half distant, joined to Fan
by a winding path through the hills.

Thissell turned to the slave. "When did this message
arrive?"

The slave leaned forward uncomprehendingly. Thissell
reiterated his question, singing to the clack of the
hymerkin:
"This
message: you have enjoyed the honor of its custody how long?"

The slave sang: "Long days have I waited on the wharf,
retreating only to the raft at the onset of dusk. Now my vigil is rewarded; I
behold Ser Thissell."

Thissell turned away, walked furiously up the dock.
Ineffective, inefficient Sirenese! Why had they not delivered the message to
his houseboat? Twenty-five minutes—twenty-two now. . .

At the esplanade Thissell stopped, looked right then left,
hoping for a miracle: some sort of air-transport to whisk him to the spaceport,
where with Rolver's aid, Haxo Angmark might still be detained. Or better yet, a
second message canceling the first. Something, anything . . . But air-cars were
not to be found on Sirene, and no second message appeared.

Across the esplanade rose a meager row of permanent
structures, built of stone and iron and so proof against the efforts of the
Night-men. A hostler occupied one of these structures, and as Thissell watched
a man in a splendid pearl and silver mask emerged riding one of the lizard-like
mounts of Sirene.

Thissell sprang forward. There was still time; with luck he
might yet intercept Haxo Angmark. He hurried across the esplanade.

Before the line of stalls stood the hostler, inspecting his
stock with solicitude, occasionally burnishing a scale or whisking away an
insect. There were five of the beasts in prime condition, each as tall as a
man's shoulder, with massive legs, thick bodies, heavy wedge-shaped heads. From
their forefangs, which had been artificially lengthened and curved into
near-circles, gold rings depended; the scales of each had been stained in
diaper-pattern: purple and green, orange and black, red and blue, brown and
pink, yellow and silver.

Thissell came to a breathless halt in front of the hostler.
He reached for his
kiv
[i]
,
then hesitated. Could this be considered a casual personal encounter? The
zachinko
perhaps? But the statement of his needs hardly seemed to demand the formal
approach. Better the
kiv
after all. He struck a chord, but by error
found himself stroking the
ganga.
Beneath his mask Thissell grinned
apologetically; his relationship with this hostler was by no means on an
intimate basis. He hoped that the hostler was of sanguine disposition, and in
any event the urgency of the occasion allowed no time to select an exactly
appropriate instrument. He struck a second chord, and, playing as well as agitation,
breathlessness and lack of skill allowed, sang out a request: "Ser
Hostler, I have immediate need of a swift mount. Allow me to select from your
herd."

The hostler wore a mask of considerable complexity which
Thissell could not identify: a construction of varnished brown cloth, pleated
gray leather and high on the forehead two large green and scarlet globes,
minutely segmented like insect eyes. He inspected Thissell a long moment, then,
rather ostentatiously selecting his
stimic
[ii]
,
executed a brilliant progression of trills and rounds, of an import Thissell
failed to grasp. The hostler sang, "Ser Moon Moth, I fear that my steeds
are unsuitable to a person of your distinction."

Thissell earnestly twanged at the
ganga.
"By no
means; they all seem adequate. I am in great haste and will gladly accept any
of the group."

The hostler played a brittle cascading crescendo. "Ser
Moon Moth," he sang, "the steeds are ill and dirty. I am flattered
that you consider them adequate to your use. I cannot accept the merit you
offer me. And"—here, switching instruments, he struck a cool tinkle from
his
krodatch
[iii]
*—
"somehow
I fail to recognize the boon-companion and co-craftsman who accosts me so
familiarly with his
ganga"

The implication was clear. Thissell would receive no mount.
He turned, set off at a run for the landing field. Behind him sounded a clatter
of the hostler's
hymerkin—
whether directed toward the hostler's slaves,
or toward himself Thissell did not pause to learn.

The previous Consular Representative of the Home Planets on
Sirene had been killed at Zundar. Masked as a Tavern Bravo he had accosted a
girl beribboned for the Equinoctial Attitudes, a solecism for which he had been
instantly beheaded by a Red Demiurge, a Sun Sprite and a Magic Hornet. Edwer
Thissell, recently graduated from the Institute, had been named his successor,
and allowed three days to prepare himself. Normally of a contemplative, even
cautious, disposition, Thissell had regarded the appointment as a challenge. He
learned the Sirenese language by subcerebral techniques, and found it
uncomplicated. Then, in the Journal of Universal Anthropology, he read:

"The population of the Titanic littoral is highly
individualistic, possibly in response to a bountiful environment which puts no
premium upon group activity. The language, reflecting this trait, expresses the
individual's mood, his emotional attitude toward a given situation. Factual
information is regarded as a secondary concomitant. Moreover, the language is
sung, characteristically to the accompaniment of a small instrument As a
result, there is great difficulty in ascertaining fact from a native of Fan, or
the forbidden city Zundar. One will be regaled with elegant arias and
demonstrations of astonishing virtuosity upon one or another of the numerous
musical instruments. The visitor to this fascinating world, unless he cares to
be treated with the most consummate contempt, must therefore learn to express
himself after the approved local fashion."

Thissell made a note in his memorandum book:
Procure
small musical instrument, together with directions as to use.
He read on.

"There is everywhere and at all times a plentitude, not
to say, superfluity of food, and the climate is benign. With a fund of racial
energy and a great deal of leisure time, the population occupies itself with
intricacy. Intricacy in all things; intricate craftsmanship, such as the carved
panels which adorn the houseboat; intricate symbolism, as exemplified in the
masks worn by everyone; the intricate half-musical language which admirably
expresses subtle moods and emotions; and above all the fantastic intricacy of
interpersonal relationships. Prestige, face,
mana,
repute, glory: the
Sirenese word is
strakh.
Every man has his characteristic
strakh,
which
determines whether, when he needs a houseboat, he will be urged to avail
himself of a floating palace, rich with gems, alabaster lanterns, peacock
faience and carved wood, or grudgingly permitted an abandoned shack on a raft.
There is no medium of exchange on Sirene; the single and sole currency is
strakh
. . ."

Thissell rubbed his chin and read further.

"Masks are worn at all times, in accordance with the
philosophy that a man should not be compelled to use a similitude foisted upon
him by factors beyond his control; that he should be at liberty to choose that
semblance most consonant with his
strakh.
In the civilized areas of
Sirene—which is to say the Titanic littoral—a man literally never shows his
face; it is his basic secret.

"Gambling, by this token, is unknown on Sirene; it
would be catastrophic to Sirenese self-respect to gain advantage by means other
than the exercise of
strakh.
The word 'luck' has no counterpart in the
Sirenese language."

Thissell made another note:
Get mask. Museum? Drama
guild?

He finished the article, hastened forth to complete his
preparations, and the next day embarked aboard the
Robert Astroguard
for
the first leg of the passage to Sirene.

The lighter settled upon the Sirenese space-port, a topaz
disk isolated among the black, green and purple hills. The lighter grounded,
and Edwer Thissell stepped forth. He was met by Esteban Rolver, the local agent
for Spaceways. Rolver threw up his hands, stepped back. "Your mask,"
he cried huskily. "Where is your mask?"

Thissell held it up rather self-consciously. "I wasn't
sure—"

"Put it on," said Rolver, turning away. He himself
wore a fabrication of dull green scales, blue-lacquered wood. Black quills
protruded at the cheeks, and under his chin hung a black and white checked
pom-pom, the total effect creating a sense of sardonic supple personality.

Thissell adjusted the mask to his face, undecided whether to
make a joke about the situation or to maintain a reserve suitable to the
dignity of his post.

"Are you masked?" Rolver inquired over his
shoulder.

Thissell replied in the affirmative and Rolver turned. The
mask hid the expression of his face, but his hand unconsciously flicked a set
of keys strapped to his thigh. The instrument sounded a trill of shock and
polite consternation. "You can't wear that mask!" sang Rolver.
"In fact—how, where, did you get it?"

"It's copied from a mask owned by the Polypolis
museum," declared Thissell stiffly. "I'm sure it's authentic."

Rolver nodded, his own mask more sardonic-seeming than ever.
"It's authentic enough. It's a variant of the type known as the Sea-Dragon
Conqueror, and is worn on ceremonial occasions by persons of enormous prestige:
princes, heroes, master craftsmen, great musicians."

"I wasn't aware—"

Rolver made a gesture of languid understanding. "It's
something you'll learn in due course. Notice my mask. Today I'm wearing a
Tarn-Bird. Persons of minimal prestige—such as you, I, any other
out-worlder—wear this sort of thing."

"Odd," said Thissell as they started across the
field toward a low concrete blockhouse. "I assumed that a person wore
whatever mask he liked."

"Certainly," said Rolver. "Wear any mask you
like—if you can make it stick. This Tarn-Bird for instance. I wear it to
indicate that I presume nothing. I make no claims to wisdom, ferocity,
versatility, musicianship, truculence, or any of a dozen other Sirenese
virtues."

"For the sake of argument," said Thissell,
"what would happen if I walked through the streets of Zundar in this
mask?"

Rolver laughed, a muffled sound behind his mask. "If
you walked along the docks of Zundar—there are no streets—in any mask, you'd be
killed within the hour. That's what happened to Benko, your predecessor. He
didn't know how to act. None of us out-worlders know how to act. In Fan we're
tolerated—so long as we keep our place. But you couldn't even walk around Fan
in that regalia you're sporting now. Somebody wearing a Fire-snake or a Thunder
Goblin—masks, you understand—would step up to you. He'd play his
krodatch,
and
if you failed to challenge his audacity with a passage on the
skaranyi
[iv]
,
a devilish instrument, he'd play his
hymerkin—that
instrument we use
with the slaves. That's the ultimate expression of contempt. Or he might ring
his duelling-gong and attack you then and there."

"I had no idea that people here were quite so
irascible," said Thissell in a subdued voice.

Rolver shrugged and swung open the massive steel door into
his office. "Certain acts may not be committed on the Concourse at
Polypolis without incurring criticism."

"Yes, that's quite true," said Thissell. He looked
around the office. "Why the security? The concrete, the steel?"

"Protection against the savages," said Rolver.
"They come down from the mountains at night, steal what's available, kill
anyone they find ashore." He went to a closet, brought forth a mask.
"Here. Use this Moon Moth; it won't get you in trouble."

Thissell unenthusiastically inspected the mask. It was
constructed of mouse-colored fur; there was a tuft of hair at each side of the
mouth-hole, a pair of feather-like antennae at the forehead. White lace flaps
dangled beside the temples and under the eyes hung a series of red folds,
creating an effect at once lugubrious and comic.

Thissell asked, "Does this mask signify any degree of
prestige?"

"Not a great deal."

"After all, I'm Consular Representative," said
Thissell. "I represent the Home Planets, a hundred billion people—"

"If the Home Planets want their representative to wear
a Sea-Dragon Conqueror mask, they'd better send out a Sea-Dragon Conqueror type
of man."

"I see," said Thissell in a subdued voice.
"Well, if I must. . ."

Rolver politely averted his gaze while Thissell doffed the
Sea-Dragon Conqueror and slipped the more modest Moon Moth over his head.
"I suppose I can find something just a bit more suitable in one of the
shops," Thissell said. "I'm told a person simply goes in and takes
what he needs, correct?"

Rolver surveyed Thissell critically. "That
mask—temporarily, at least—is perfectly suitable. And it's rather important not
to take anything from the shops until you know the
strakh
value of the
article you want. The owner loses prestige if a person of low
strakh
makes
free with his best work."