The Celestial Blueprint and Others Stories Read online

  “I was given fish by the Ssassaror, Mapfarity, when I was a child. We lived along the seashore. Mapfarity was a child, too, and we played together. ‘Don’t eat fish!’ my parents said. To me that meant ‘Eat it!’ So, despite my distaste at the idea, and my squeamish stomach, I did eat fish. And I liked it. And, as I grew to manhood, I adopted the Philosophy of Violence and I continued to eat fish although I am not a Changeling.”

  “What did your Skin do when it detected you?” Lusine asked. Her eyes were wide and luminous with wonder and a sort of glee as if she relished the confession of his sins. Also, he knew, she was taunting him about the futility of his ideas of violence so long as he was a prisoner of the Skin.

  He frowned in annoyance at the reminder of the Skin. Much thought had he given, in a weak way, to the possibility of life without the Skin.

  Ashamed now of his weak resistance to the Skin, he blustered a bit in front of the teasing Amphib girl.

  “Mapfarity and I discovered something that most people don’t know,” he answered boastfully. “We found that if you can stand the shocks your Skin gives you when you do something wrong, the Skin gets tired and quits after a while. Of course, your Skin recharges itself and the next time you eat fish it shocks you again. But, after very many shocks, it becomes accustomed, forgets its conditioning, and leaves you alone.”

  Lusine laughed and said in a low conspirational tone, “So your Ssassaror pal and you adopted the Philosophy of Violence because you remained fish and meat eaters?”

  “Yes, we did. When Mapfarity reached puberty he became a Giant and went off to live in a castle in the forest. But we have remained friends through our connection in the underground.”

  “Your parents must have suspected that you were a fish eater when you first proposed your Philosophy of Violence?” she said.

  “Suspicion isn’t proof,” he answered. “But I shouldn’t be telling you all this, Lusine. I feel it is safe for me to do so only because you will never have a chance to tell on me. You will soon be taken to Chalice and there you will stay until you have been cured.”

  She shivered and said, “This Chalice? What is it?”

  “It is a place far to the north where both Terrans and Ssassarors send their incorrigibles. It is an extinct volcano whose steep-sided interior makes an inescapable prison. There those who have persisted in unnatural behavior are given special treatment.”

  “They are bled?” she asked, her eyes widening as her tongue flicked over her lips again hungrily.

  “No. A special breed of Skin is given them to wear. These Skins shock them more powerfully than the ordinary ones, and the shocks are associated with the habit they are trying to cure. The shocks effect a cure. Also, these special Skins are used to detect hidden unnatural emotions. They recondition the deviate. The result is that when the Chaliced Man is judged able to go out and take his place in society again, he is thoroughly reconditioned. Then, his regular Skin is given back to him, and it has no trouble keeping him in line from then on. The Chaliced Man is a very good citizen.”

  “And what if a revolter doesn't become Chaliced?”

  “Then, he stays in Chalice until he decides to become so.” Her voice rose sharply as she said, “But if I go there, and I am not fed the diet of the Amphibs, I will grow old and diel”

  “No. The government will feed you the diet you need until you are reconditioned. Except . . He paused.

  “Except I won’t get blood,” she wailed. Then, realizing she was acting undignified before a Landman, she firmed her voice.

  “The King of the Amphibians will not allow them to do this to me,” she said. “When he hears of it, he will demand my return. And, if the King of Men refuses, my King will use violence to get me back.”

  Rastignac smiled and said, “I hope he does. Then, perhaps, my people will wake up and get rid of their Skins and make war upon your people.”

  “So that is what you Philosophers of Violence want, is it? Well, you will not get it. My father, the Amphib King, will not be so stupid as to declare a war.”

  “I suppose not,” replied Rastignac. “He will send a band to rescue you. If they’re caught, they’ll claim to be criminals and say they are not under the King’s orders.”

  Lusine looked upwards to see if a guard was hanging over the well’s mouth listening. Perceiving no one, she nodded and said, “You have guessed it correctly. And that is why we laugh so much at you stupid Humans. You know as well as we do what’s going on, but you are afraid to tell us so. You keep clinging to the idea that your tum-the-other-cheek policy will soften us and insure peace.”

  “Not I,” said Rastignac. “I know perfectly well there is only one solution to man’s problems. That is—”

  “That is Violence,” she finished for him. “That is what you have been preaching. And that is why you are in this cell, waiting for trial.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “Men are not put into the Chalice for proposing new philosophies. As long as they behave naturally, they may say what they wish. They may even petition the King that the new philosophy be made a law. The King passes it on to the Chamber of Deputies. They consider it and put it up to the people. If the people like it, it becomes a law. The only trouble with that procedure is that it may take ten years before the law is considered by the Chamber of Deputies.”

  “And in those ten years,” she mocked, “the Amphibs and the Amphibian-changelings will have won the planet.” “That is true,” he said.

  “The King of the Humans is a Ssassaror and the King of the Ssassaror is a Man,” said Lusine. “Our King can’t see any reason for changing the status quo. After all, it. is the Ssassaror who are responsible for the Skins and for Man’s position in the sentient society of this planet. Why should he be favorable to a policy of Violence? The Ssassarors loathe violence.

  “And so you have preached Violence without waiting for it to become a law? And for that you are now in this cell?” “Not exactly. The Ssassarors have long known that to suppress too much of Man’s naturally belligerent nature only results in an explosion. So they have legalized illegality— up to a point. Thus, the King socially made me the Chief of the Underground and gave me a state license to preach— but not practice—Violence. I am even allowed to advocate overthrow of the present system of government—as long as I take no action that is too productive of results.

  “I am in jail now because the Minister of Ill-Will put me here. He had my Skin examined, and it was found to be ‘unhealthy.’ He thought I’d be better off locked up until I became ‘healthy’ again. But the King . .

  Ill

  LUSINE’S LAUGHTER was like the call of a silverbell bird. Whatever her unhuman appetites, she had a beautiful voice. She said, “How comical! And how do you, with your brave ideas, like being regarded as a harmless figure of fun, or as a sick man?”

  “I like it as well as you would,” he growled.

  She gripped the bars of her window until the tendons on the back of her long thin hands stood out and the membranes between her fingers stretched like windblown tents. Face twisted, she spat at him, “Coward! Why don’t you kill somebody and break out of this ridiculous mold—that Skin that the Ssassarors have poured you into?”

  Rastignac was silent. That was a good question. Why didn’t he? Killing was the logical result of his philosophy. But the Skin kept him docile. Yes, he could vaguely see that he had purposely shut his eyes to the destination towards which his ideas were slowly but inevitably traveling.

  And there was another facet to the answer to her question—if he had to kill, he would not kill a Man. His philosophy was directed towards the Amphibians and the Sea-changel-ings.

  He said, “Violence doesn’t necessarily mean the shedding of blood, Lusine. My philosophy urges that we take a more vigorous action, that we overthrow some of the biosocial institutions which have imprisoned Man and stripped him of his dignity as an indvidual.”

  “Yes, I have heard that you want Man to stop wearing


  the Skin. That is what has horrified your people, isn't it?” “Yes,” he said. “And I understand it has had the same effect among the Amphibians.”

  She bridled, her brown eyes flashing in the feeble glowworms' light. “Why shouldn’t it? What would we be without our Skins?”

  “What, indeed?” he said, laughing derisively afterwards. Earnestly, she said, “You don’t understand. We Amphibians—our Skins are not like yours. We do not wear them for the same reason you do. You are imprisoned by your Skins—they tell you how to feel, what to think. Above all, they keep you from getting ideas about noncooperation or nonintegration with Nature as a whole.

  “That, to us individualistic Amphibians, is false. The purpose of our Skins is to make sure that our King’s subjects understand what he wants so that we may all act as one unit and thus further the progress of the Seafolk.”

  The first time Rastignac had heard this statement, he had howled with laugher. Now, however, knowing that she could not see the fallacy, he did not try to argue the point. The Amphibs were, in their way, as hidebound—no pun intended—as the Land-walkers.

  “Look, Lusine,” he said, “there are only three places where a Man may take off his Skin. One is in his own home, when he may hang it upon the halltree. Two is when he is, like us, in jail and therefore may not harm anybody. The third is when a man is King. Now, you and I have been without our Skins for a week. We have gone longer without them I han anybody, except the King. Tell me true, don’t you feel free for the first time in your life?

  “Don’t you feel as if you belong to nobody but yourself, (hat you are accountable to no one but yourself, and that you love that feeling? And don’t you dread the day we will be let out of prison and made to wear our Skins again? That day which, curiously enough, will be the very day that we will lose our freedom.”

  Lusine looked as if she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “You’ll see what I mean when we are freed and the Skins are put back upon us,” he said. Immediately after, he was embarrassed. He remembered that she would go to the Chalice where one of the heavy and powerful Skins used for unnaturals would be fastened to her shoulders.

  Lusine did not notice. She was considering the last but most telling point in her argument. “You cannot win against us,” she said, watching him narrowly for the effect of her words. “We have a weapon that is irresistible. We have immortality.”

  His face did not lose its imperturbability.

  She continued, “And what is more, we can give immortality to anyone who casts off his Skin and adopts ours. Don’t think that your people don’t know this. For instance, during the last year more than two thousand Humans living along the beaches deserted and went over to us, the Am-phibs.”

  He was a little shocked to hear this, but he did not doubt her. He remembered the mysterious case of the schooner he Pauvre Pierre which had been found drifting and crew-less, and he remembered a conversation he had had with a fisherman in his home port of Marrec.

  He put his hands behind his back and began pacing. Lusine continued staring at him through the bars. Despite the fact that her face was in the shadows, he could see—or feel—her smile. He had humiliated her, but she had won in the end.

  Rastignac quit his limited roving and called up to the guard.

  “Shoo Vfootyay, kal u ay teeP"

  The guard leaned over the grille. His large hat with its tall wings sticking from the peak was green in the daytime. But now, illuminated only by a far off torchlight and by a glowworm coiled around the band, it was black.

  “Ah, shoo Zhaw-Zhawk W’stenyek,” he said, loudly. “What time is it? What do you care what time it is?” And he concluded with the stock phrase of the jailer, unchanged through mil-lenia and over light-years. “You’re not going any place, are you?”

  Rastignac threw his head back to howl at the guard but stopped to wince at the sudden pain in his neck. After uttering, “Sek Ploo!” and “S’pweestee!” both of which were close enough to the old Terran French so that a language specialist might have recognized them, he said, more calmly, “If you would let me out on the ground, monsier le foutriquet, and give me a good 6p6e. I would show you where I am going. Or, at least, where my sword is going. I am thinking of a nice sheath for it.”

  Tonight, he had a special reason for keeping the attention of the King’s mucketeer directed towards himself. So, when the guard grew tired of returning insults—mainly because his limited imagination could invent no new ones—Rastignac began telling jokes aimed at the mucketeer’s narrow intellect.

  “Then,” said Rastignac, “there was the itinerant salesman whose s’fel threw a shoe. He knocked on the door of the hut of the nearest peasant and said . . What was said by the salesman was never known.

  A strangled gasp had come from above.

  IV

  RASTIGNAC SAW something enormous blot out the smaller shadow of the guard. Then, both figures disappeared. A moment later, a silhouette cut across the lines of the grille. Unoiled hinges screeched; the bars lifted. A rope uncoiled from above to fall at Rastignac’s feet. He seized it and felt himself being drawn powerfully upwards.

  When he came over the edge of the well, he saw that his rescuer was a giant Ssassaror. The light from the glowworm on the guard’s hat lit up feebly his face, which was orth-agnathous and had quite humanoid eyes and lips. Large canine teeth stuck out from the mouth, and its huge ears were tipped with feathery tufts. The forehead down to the eyebrows looked as if it needed a shave, but Rastignac knew that more light would show the blue-black shade came from many small feathers, not stubbled hair.

  “Mapfarity!” Rastignac said. “It’s good to see you after all these years!”

  The Ssassaror giant put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Clenched, it was almost as big as Rastignac’s head. He spoke with a voice like a lion coughing at the bottom of a deep well.

  “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

  “What are you doing here?” said Rastignac, tears running down his face as he stroked the great fingers on his shoulder.

  Mapfarity’s huge ears quivered like the wings of a bat tied to a rock and unable to fly off. The tufts of feathers at their ends grew stiff and suddenly crackled with tiny sparks.

  The electrical display was his equivalent of the human’s weeping. Both creatures discharged emotion; their bodies chose different avenues and manifestations. Nevertheless, the sight of the other’s joy affected each deeply.

  “I have come to rescue you,” said Mapfarity. “I caught Archambaud here,”—he indicated the other man—"stealing eggs from my golden goose. And . .

  Raoul Archambaud—pronounced Wawl Shebvo—interrupted excitedly, “I showed him my license to steal eggs from Giants who were raising counterfeit geese, but he was going to lock me up anyway. He was going to take my Skin off and feed me on meat . .

  “Meat!” said Rastignac, astonished and revolted despite himself. “Mapfarity, what have you been doing in that castle of yours?”

  Mapfarity lowered his voice to match the distant roar of a cataract. “I haven’t been very active these last few years,” he said, “because I am so big that it hurts my feet if I walk very much. So I’ve had much time to think. And I, being logical, decided that the next step after eating fish was eating meat. It couldn’t make me any larger. So, I ate meat. And while doing so, I came to the same conclusion that you, apparently, have done independently. That is, the Philosophy of . .

  “Of Violence,” interrupted Archambaud. “Ah, Jean-Jacques, there must be some mystic bond that brings two Humans of such different backgrounds as yours and the Ssassaror together, giving you both the same philosophy. When I explained what you had been doing and that you were in jail because you had advocated getting rid of the Skins, Mapfarity petitioned . .

  “The King to make an official jail-break,” said Mapfarity with an impatient glance at the rolypoly egg-stealer. “And ...”

  “The King agreed,” broke in Arc
hambaud, “provided Mapfarity would turn in his counterfeit goose and provided you would agree to say no more about abandoning Skins, but . . .”

  The Giant’s basso profundo-redundo pushed the egg-stealer’s high pitch aside. “If this squeaker will quit interrupting, perhaps we can get on with the rescue. We’ll talk later, if you don’t mind.”

  At that moment, Lusine’s voice floated up from the bottom of her cell. “Jean-Jacques, my love, my brave, my own, would you abandon me to the Chalice? Please take me with you! You will need somebody to hide you when the Minister of Ill-Will sends his mucketeers after you. I can hide you where no one will ever find you.” Her voice was mocking, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety to it.

  Mapfarity muttered, “She will hide us, yes, at the bottom of a sea-cave where we will eat strange food and suffer a change. Never . . .”

  “Trust an Amphib,” finished Archambaud for him.

  Mapfarity forgot to whisper. “Bey-t’cul, vu nu fez vey! Fe’m sa!” he roared.

  A shocked hush covered the courtyard. Only Mapfarity’s wrathful breathing could be heard. Then, disembodied, Lu-sine’s voice floated from the well.

  “Jean-Jacques, do not forget that I am the foster-daughter of the King of the Amphibians! If you were to take me with you, I could assure you of safety and a warm welcome in the halls of the Sea-King’s Palacel”

  “Pah!” said Mapfarity. “That web-footed witch!”

  Rastignac did not reply to her. He took the broad silk belt and the sheathed epee from Archambaud and buckled them around his waist. Mapfarity handed him a mucketeer’s hat; he clapped that on firmly. Last of all, he took the Skin that the fat egg-stealer had been holding out to him.