his present wife, Eedit, had been his fifth, he was
obviously scarcely twenty years old—had been so completely monotonous and implacable
that, given the chance, he had sloughed it off as easily and totally as one
throws away a single garment. He was, Amalfi realized, much more essentially a
child than any Okie infant could ever be.
The monitor touched Karst's shoulder and the serf stirred
uneasily, then sat up, instantly awake, his intense blue eyes questioning
Amalfi. The monitor handed him the metal tumbler, now beaded with cold, and
Karst drank from it. The pungent liquid made him sneeze, quickly and without
seeming to notice that he had sneezed, like a cat.
"How's it coming through, Karst?" Amalfi said.
"It is very hard," the serf said. He took another
pull at the tumbler.
"But once grasped, it seems to bring everything into
flower at once. Lord Amalfi, the Proctors claim that IMT came from the sky on a
cloud. Yesterday I only believed that. Today I think I understand it."
"I think you do," Amalfi said. "And you're
not alone. We have serfs by scores in the city now, learning—just look around
you and you'll see. And they're learning more than just simple physics or
cultural morphology. They're learning freedom, beginning with the first
one—freedom to hate."
"I know that lesson," Karst said, with a profound
and glacial calm. "But you awakened me for something."
"I did," the mayor agreed grimly. "We've got
a visitor we think you'll be able to identify: a Proctor. And he's up to
something that smells funny to me and Hazleton both, but we can't pin down what
it is. Come give us a hand, will you?"
"You'd better give him some time to rest, Mr.
Mayor," the monitor said disapprovingly. "Being dumped out of
hypnopaedic trance is a considerable shock; he'll need at least an hour."
Amalfi stared at the monitor incredulously. He was about to
note that neither Karst nor the city had the hour to spare, when it occurred to
him that to say so would take ten words where one was plenty.
"Vanish," he said.
The monitor did his best.
Karst looked intently at the judas. The man on the screen
had his back turned; he was looking into the big operations tank in the city
manager's office. The indirect light gleamed on his shaven and oiled head.
Amalfi watched over Karst's left shoulder, his teeth sunk firmly in a new
hydroponic cigar.
"Why, the man's as bald as I am," the mayor said.
"And he can't be much past his adolescence, judging by his skull; he's
forty-five at the most. Recognize him, Karst?"
"Not yet," Karst said. "All the Proctors
shave their heads. If he would only turn around ... ah. Yes. That's Heldon. I
have seen him myself only once, but he is easy to recognize. He is young, as
the Proctors go. He is the stormy petrel of the Great Nine—some think him a
friend of the serfs. At least he is less quick with the whip than the
others."
"What would he be wanting here?"
"Perhaps he will tell us." Karst's eyes remained
fixed upon the Proctor's image.
"Your request puzzles me," Hazleton's voice said,
issuing smoothly from the speaker above the judas. The city manager could not
be seen, but his expression seemed to modulate the sound of his voice almost
specifically: the tiger mind masked behind a pussy-cat purr as behind a
pussy-cat smile. "We're glad to hear of new services we can render to a
client, of course. But we certainly never suspected that antigravity mechanisms
even existed in IMT."
"Don't think me stupid, Mr. Hazleton," Heldon
said. "You and I know that IMT was once a wanderer, as your city is now.
We also know that your city, like all Okie cities, would like a world of its
own. Will you allow me this much intelligence, please?"
"For discussion, yes," Hazleton's voice said.
"Then let me say that it's quite evident to me that
you're nurturing an uprising. You have been careful to stay within the letter
of the contract, simply because you dare not breach it, any more than we; the
Earth police protect us from
obviously scarcely twenty years old—had been so completely monotonous and implacable
that, given the chance, he had sloughed it off as easily and totally as one
throws away a single garment. He was, Amalfi realized, much more essentially a
child than any Okie infant could ever be.
The monitor touched Karst's shoulder and the serf stirred
uneasily, then sat up, instantly awake, his intense blue eyes questioning
Amalfi. The monitor handed him the metal tumbler, now beaded with cold, and
Karst drank from it. The pungent liquid made him sneeze, quickly and without
seeming to notice that he had sneezed, like a cat.
"How's it coming through, Karst?" Amalfi said.
"It is very hard," the serf said. He took another
pull at the tumbler.
"But once grasped, it seems to bring everything into
flower at once. Lord Amalfi, the Proctors claim that IMT came from the sky on a
cloud. Yesterday I only believed that. Today I think I understand it."
"I think you do," Amalfi said. "And you're
not alone. We have serfs by scores in the city now, learning—just look around
you and you'll see. And they're learning more than just simple physics or
cultural morphology. They're learning freedom, beginning with the first
one—freedom to hate."
"I know that lesson," Karst said, with a profound
and glacial calm. "But you awakened me for something."
"I did," the mayor agreed grimly. "We've got
a visitor we think you'll be able to identify: a Proctor. And he's up to
something that smells funny to me and Hazleton both, but we can't pin down what
it is. Come give us a hand, will you?"
"You'd better give him some time to rest, Mr.
Mayor," the monitor said disapprovingly. "Being dumped out of
hypnopaedic trance is a considerable shock; he'll need at least an hour."
Amalfi stared at the monitor incredulously. He was about to
note that neither Karst nor the city had the hour to spare, when it occurred to
him that to say so would take ten words where one was plenty.
"Vanish," he said.
The monitor did his best.
Karst looked intently at the judas. The man on the screen
had his back turned; he was looking into the big operations tank in the city
manager's office. The indirect light gleamed on his shaven and oiled head.
Amalfi watched over Karst's left shoulder, his teeth sunk firmly in a new
hydroponic cigar.
"Why, the man's as bald as I am," the mayor said.
"And he can't be much past his adolescence, judging by his skull; he's
forty-five at the most. Recognize him, Karst?"
"Not yet," Karst said. "All the Proctors
shave their heads. If he would only turn around ... ah. Yes. That's Heldon. I
have seen him myself only once, but he is easy to recognize. He is young, as
the Proctors go. He is the stormy petrel of the Great Nine—some think him a
friend of the serfs. At least he is less quick with the whip than the
others."
"What would he be wanting here?"
"Perhaps he will tell us." Karst's eyes remained
fixed upon the Proctor's image.
"Your request puzzles me," Hazleton's voice said,
issuing smoothly from the speaker above the judas. The city manager could not
be seen, but his expression seemed to modulate the sound of his voice almost
specifically: the tiger mind masked behind a pussy-cat purr as behind a
pussy-cat smile. "We're glad to hear of new services we can render to a
client, of course. But we certainly never suspected that antigravity mechanisms
even existed in IMT."
"Don't think me stupid, Mr. Hazleton," Heldon
said. "You and I know that IMT was once a wanderer, as your city is now.
We also know that your city, like all Okie cities, would like a world of its
own. Will you allow me this much intelligence, please?"
"For discussion, yes," Hazleton's voice said.
"Then let me say that it's quite evident to me that
you're nurturing an uprising. You have been careful to stay within the letter
of the contract, simply because you dare not breach it, any more than we; the
Earth police protect us from
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