Helliconia Summer

XII The Downstream Passenger Trade

“The brute, unchanging ignorance of the people… They labour and do not improve their lot. Or they don’t labour. It makes no difference. They’re interested in nothing beyond their own village—no, beyond their own belly buttons. Look at them, idle lot! If I were that stupid, I’d still be a pedlar in Oldorando City Park…”

The philosopher making these comments was sprawling among cushions, with cushions behind his head and another under his bare feet. By his right hand, he had a glass of his favourite Exaggerator, to which crushed ice and lemon had been added, while his left arm was wrapped about a young woman with whose left breast he was idly toying.

The audience to whom he was making these comments—excluding the young woman, whose eyes were closed—were two in number. His son leaned against the rail of the boat on which they were travelling, his eyes half closed and his mouth half open. This youth had a bunch of yellow-blue gwing-gwings by his side to eat and occasionally spat a gwing-gwing stone at other river traffic.

Propped up against the fo’c’sle where he was shaded from the sun lay a pallid young man who sweated a good deal and muttered still more. He was covered by a striped sheet, beneath which he moved his legs restlessly; he was running a fever and had been ever since the boat left Matrassyl on its journey south. This being one of his less lucid intervals, he scarcely seemed any more capable than the gwing-gwing eater of receiving the older man’s wisdom.

This did not deter the older man.

“At that last stop we made, I asked one old fool who was leaning against a tree if he thought it was getting hotter, year by year. All he said was, ‘It’s always been hot, skipper, since the day the world was made.’ ‘And what day might that be?’ I asked him. ‘In the Ice Age, as I heard tell.’ That was his reply. In the Ice Age! They’ve no sense. Nothing gets through to them. Take religion. I live in a religious country, but I don’t believe in Akhanaba. I don’t believe in Akhanaba because I have reasoned things out. These natives in these villages, they don’t believe in Akhanaba—not because they had reasoned things out as I have, because they don’t reason…”

He interrupted himself to take a firmer grasp on the left breast and a long drink of the Exaggerator.

“… They don’t believe in Akhanaba because they’re too stupid to believe. They worship all kinds of demons, Others, Nondads, dragons. They still believe in dragons… They worship MyrdemInggala. I asked my manager to show me round the village. In almost every hut, there hung a print of MyrdemInggala. No more like her than I am, but intended for her… But, as I say, they’re interested in nothing beyond their own belly buttons.”

“You’re hurting my bips,” the young lady said.

He yawned and covered his mouth with his right hand, wondering absently why he enjoyed the company of strangers so much more than that of his own family: not just his rather stupid son, but his uninteresting wife and overbearing daughter. It would suit him to sail for ever down the river with this girl and this youth who claimed to come from another world.

“It’s soothing, the sound of the river. I like it. I’ll miss it when I’m retired. There’s proof that Akhanaba doesn’t exist. To make a complicated world like ours, with a steady supply of living people coming and going—rather like a supply of precious stones dug from the earth, polished, and sold off to customers—you would need to be really clever, god or no god. Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?”

He pinched with his left finger and thumb, so that the girl squealed and said, “Yes, if you say so.”

“I do say so. Well, if you were so clever, what pleasure would it give you to sit up above the world and look down at the stupidity of these natives? You’d go out of your mind with the monotony of it, generation after generation, getting no better. ‘In the Ice Age…’ By the beholder…”

Yawning, he let his eyelids close.

She jabbed him in the ribs. “All right, then. If you’re so clever, tell me who did make the world. If it wasn’t Akhanaba, who was it?”

“You ask too many questions,” he said.

Ice Captain Muntras fell asleep. He woke only when the Lordryardry Lady was preparing to moor for the night at Osoilima, where he was to enjoy the hospitality of the local branch of the Lordryardry Ice Trading Co. He had been enjoying the hospitality of each of his trading posts in turn, so that the journey downriver from Matrassyl had taken longer than was usually the case—almost as long as the upriver journey, when the boats of his ice trading fleet were towed against the stream by teams of hoxneys.

One reason had caused the shrewd Ice Captain, in his younger days, to establish an outpost at Osoilima, and that reason loomed over them as the Lady tied up. It towered three hundred feet above the crests of the brassims which flourished hereabouts. It dominated the surrounding jungle, it lorded it over the wide river, it pondered on its reflection in the water. And it drew pilgrims from the fourteen corners of Campannlat, eager for reverence—and ice. It was the Osoilima Stone.

The local manager, a grey-haired man with a broad Dimariam accent, by name Grengo Pallos, came aboard and shook his employer’s hand warmly. He helped Div Muntras supervise passenger disembarkation. As phagors unloaded some bales of goods marked osoilima, Pallos returned to the Ice Captain.

“Only three passengers?”

“Pilgrims. How’s trade?”

“Not good. Have you nothing more for me?”

“Nothing. They’ve grown lazy in Matrassyl. Upheavals at court. Bad for trade.”

“So I hear. Spears and money never rattle together. Bad about the queen. Still, if we unite with Oldorando, it may encourage more pilgrims here. Hard times, Krillio, when even the devout say it’s too hot to travel. Where will it all end, I ask myself. You’re retiring at the right time.”

The Ice Captain drew Pallos aside. “I’ve got a special case here, and I ‘don’t know what to make of him. He’s sick, his name’s BillishOwpin. He claims to have come from another world. Maybe he’s mad, but what he has to say is very interesting, if you can take it in. He thinks he’s dying. But I say he’s not. Could your old woman give him some special attention?”

“As good as done. We’ll discuss the cost of accommodation in the morning.”

So Billy Xiao Pin was helped ashore. Also ashore went the young lady, by name AbathVasidol, who was getting a free cruise down to Ottassol. Her mother, an old friend of the captain’s, by name of MettyVasidol, kept a house on the outskirts of Matrassyl.

After the two traders had had a drink, they went to see Billy, now installed in the modest establishment ruled over by Pallos’s wife.

He was feeling better. He had been scrubbed down the backbone with a block of Lordryardry ice, a sovereign remedy for all ills. The fever had gone, he was no longer coughing or sneezing—as they left Matrassyl, his allergy vanished. The captain told him he was not going to die.

“I shall die soon, Captain, but I am grateful for your kindness, all the same,” said Billy. After the horrors of Matrassyl, it was bliss to be in the care of the Ice Captain.

“You won’t die. It was that filthy volcano, Mount Rustyjonnik, pouring out its poison. Everyone in Matrassyl fell sick. Same symptoms as you—weepy eyes, sore throat, fever. You are fine now, fit to be on your feet. Never give in.”

Billy coughed weakly. “You might be right. My life may have been prolonged by sickness. I shall surely die of helico virus, since I have no immunity to it, but the volcano may have postponed that fate for a week or two. So I must make the most of life and freedom. Help me to stand up.”

In no time, he was walking about the room, laughing, stretching his arms.

Muntras and the manager’s wife stood by, smiling at him. “What a relief, what a relief!” said Billy. “I was beginning to hate your world, Captain. I thought Matrassyl was going to be the death of me.”

“It’s not a bad place when you get to know it.”

“But religious!”

Muntras said, “Where you have mankind and phagors together, you will have religion. The clash of two unknowns generates that kind of thing.”

The wisdom of this remark impressed Billy, but Pallos’s wife ignored it and took a firm grip on his upper arm.

“Why, you’re fine,” she said. “I’ll wash you, and you’ll feel completely fit again. Then we’ll get some scoff into you, that’s what you need.”

Muntras said, “Yes, and I’ve another remedy for you, Billish. I’ll send in this pleasant young lady, Abath, daughter of an old friend of mine. Very nice willing girl. Half an hour of her company will do you a power of good.”

Billy regarded him quizzically, and his cheeks grew red. “I told you I am of completely different stock from you, not being born on Helliconia… Would it work? Well, we’re identical physically. Would the young lady mind… ?”

Muntras laughed heartily. “She’d probably prefer you to me. I know how you’re set on the queen, Billish, but don’t let that put you off. Use a little imagination, and Abath will be equal to the queen in every way.”

Billy’s face was a study in red. “Earth, what an experience… What can I say? Yes, send her in, please, and let’s see if it works…”

As the traders went out, Pallos laughed, rubbing his hands together, and said, “He certainly shows an experimental spirit. Will you charge him for the girl?”

Knowing Pallos’s mercenary nature, Muntras ignored this question. Perhaps catching the snub, Pallos asked hastily, “All his talk of dying—do you think he comes from another world? Is that possible?”

“Let’s have a drink, and I’ll show you something he gave me.” He summoned up Abath, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and sent her in to see Billish.

The evening shadows were taking on a velvety intensity. Batalix was in the western sky. The two men sat companionably on Pallos’s verandah with a bottle and a lantern between them. Muntras brought up his heavy fist, placed it on the table, and opened it.

In his palm lay Billy’s watch, with its three dials, where small figures flickered busily:

“It’s a beauty. How much is it worth? Did he sell it to you?” Pallos prodded it.

Muntras said, “It’s unique. According to Billish, it tells the time here in Borlien—this centre dial—and the time on the world he comes from, and the time on another world he does not come from. In other words, you could say this jewel is proof of his farfetched tale. To make a complicated watch like this, you’d need to be really clever. Not mad. More like a god… Not but what I can’t rid my mind of the notion he is mad. Billish says the world which made this timepiece, the world he comes from, rides above us, looking down on the stupidity of the natives. And it’s a world made entirely by men like us. No gods involved.”

Pallos took a sip of Exaggerator and shook his head. “I hope they can’t read my trading figures.”

A mist was creeping in from the river. A mother was calling her small boy home, warning him that greebs would crawl out of the water and eat him in a single gulp.

“King JandolAnganol had this elegant timepiece in his hand. He took it for an evil omen, that was plain. Pannoval, Oldorando, and Borlien have to unite, and it’s only their hrattocking religion that unites them. The king is committed on such a course that he can’t allow one element of religious doubt…”

He tapped the timepiece with a plump finger. “This amazing jewel is an element of doubt, right enough. A message of hope or fear, depending who you are.” He tapped his breast pocket. “Like other messages I have entrusted to me. The world’s changing, Grengo, I tell you, and not before time.”

Pallos sighed and took a sip from his tumbler.

“Do you want to see my books, Krillio? I warn you takings are down on last year.”

The Ice Captain looked across the top of the lantern at Pallos, whose face the light made cadaverous.

“I’m going to ask you a personal question, Grengo. Have you any curiosity? I show this timepiece, I tell you it came from another world. There’s this odd feller Billish, getting his first ever rumbo on this earth—what could be going through his harneys? Doesn’t all this waken your sense of mystery? Don’t you want to know more? Isn’t there something beyond your ledgers?”

Pallos scratched his cheek and then worked down to his chin, setting his head to one side to do so. “All those stories we listened to as kids… You heard that woman call to her son that a greeb would get him? There’s not been a greeb seen at Osoilima since I came here, and that’s getting on for eight years. All killed for their skins. I wish I could trap one. The skins are worth a good price. No, Billish is telling you a story, boss. How would men go about making a world? Even if it was true, what then? It wouldn’t help my figures, would it now?”

Muntras sighed, shuffling his chair round so as to be able to peer down into the mist, perhaps hoping that a greeb would emerge to prove Pallos wrong.

“When young Billish comes off the kooni, I think I’ll take him up to the top of the Stone, if he’s strong enough. Ask your old woman to get us some supper, will you?”

Muntras sat where he was when the local manager had gone. He lit a veronikane and remained smoking contentedly, absently watching the smoke ascend to the rafters. He did not even wonder where his son was, for he knew: Div would be in the local bazaar. Muntras’s thoughts were much further away.

Eventually, Billy and Abath appeared, holding hands. Billy’s face was only just wide enough to accommodate his grin. They sat down at the table without speaking. Without speaking, Muntras offered the Exaggerator bottle. Billy shook his head.

It was easy to see that he had undergone an emotional experience. Abath looked as composed as if she had just returned from church with her mother. Her features resembled a younger Metty’s, but there was a lustre about her which Metty had lacked for many a day. Her gaze was bold, where Metty’s was slightly furtive, but there was, thought Muntras, who considered himself a judge of human nature, the same kind of reserve to her as to her mother. She was escaping some kind of trouble in Matrassyl, which might account for her guarded manner. Muntras was content just to admire her in her light dress, which emphasized her generous young breasts and echoed the chestnut brown of her hair.

Perhaps there was a god. Perhaps he kept the world going, despite its idiocy, because of beauty like Abath’s…

At length, Muntras exhaled smoke and said, “So, don’t they go in for trittoming between man and woman on your world, Billish?”

“We are taught to trittom, as you call it, from the age of eight. It’s a discipline. But down here—I mean with Abath—it’s… the reverse of discipline… it’s real… Oh, Abathy…” Exhaling her name as Muntras exhaled smoke, he seized her and began to kiss her passionately, breaking off only to utter endearments. She responded in a minor key.

Billy shook Muntras’s hand. “You were right, my friend, she is the equal of the queen in every way. Better.”

The captain said, “Perhaps all women are equal and it is only in the imagination of men that differences lie. Remember the old saying, ‘Every rumbo romps home to the same rhythm…’ You have a very vivid imagination, so I imagine that you found her a very good trittom in consequence… Are koonis in our world as deep as in yours?”

“Deeper, softer, richer…” He fell to kissing the girl again.

The captain sighed. “Enough of that. Passion is as boring as drunkenness in other men. Go away, Abath. I want some sense out of this young man, if possible… Billish, if you have managed to see over the top of your own prodo since we landed, you may have noticed the Osoilima Stone. You and I are going to ascend it. If you are well enough to mount Abath, you are well enough to mount the Stone.”

“Very well, if Abath can come too.”

Muntras gazed at him with an expression at once a scowl and a grin. “Tell me, Billish boy—you’re really from Pegovin in Hespagorat, aren’t you? They’re great jokers there.”

“Look.” He sat down facing the captain. “I’m what I say—from another world. Born and brought up there, recently landed in the space-vehicle I described to you between fever fits. I would not lie to you, Krillio, because I owe you too much. I feel I owe you more than life.”

A dismissive gesture. “You owe me nothing. People shouldn’t owe others anything. Remember, I was a beggar. Don’t think too much of me.”

“You’ve worked with devotion and built up a great enterprise. Now you are the friend of a king.”

Filtering a little smoke between pursed lips, Muntras said stonily, “That’s what you think, is it?”

“King JandolAnganol? You are a friend of his, aren’t you?”

“I have dealings with his majesty, let’s say.”

Billy looked at him with a half-grin. “But you don’t like him greatly?”

The Ice Captain shook his head, smoked, and said, “Billish, you don’t care much for religion, no more than I. But I must warn you that religion is strong in Campannlat. Take the way his majesty threw your timepiece back at you. He is very superstitious and that’s the king of the land. If you showed that object to the peasants of Osoilima, they would riot if you caught them at the wrong moment. They might make you a saint or they might kill you with pitchforks.”

“But why?”

“It’s the irrational. People hate things they don’t understand. One madman can change the world. I tell you this only for your own good. Now. Come on.” He stood up, sweeping his lecture away and laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “The girl, the meal, my manager, the Stone. Practicalities.”

What he demanded was done, and soon they were ready for the climb. Muntras discovered that Pallos had never been to the top of the Stone, despite living at the bottom of it for eight years. He was laughed into coming along as escort and marched beside them with a Sibornalese matchlock over one shoulder.

“Your figures can’t be too bad if you can afford such artillery,” Muntras said suspiciously. He trusted his managers no more than he trusted the king.

“Bought to protect your property, Krillio, and every roon of it hard earned. It isn’t as though the pay’s good, even when trade’s good.”

Their way lay along a track that ran back from the wharf to the small town of Osoilima. The mist was less thick here, and the few lights round the central square gave a semblance of cheer. Many people were about, attracted by a cooler breeze that had sprung up with sunset. Stalls selling souvenirs, sweets, or savoury waffles were doing fair business. Pallos pointed out one or two houses where pilgrims lodged which ordered Lordryardry ice regularly. He explained that most of the people wandering about, throwing their money away, were pilgrims. Some came here, drawn by a local tradition, to free slaves, human or phagor, because they had grown to believe it wrong to own another life. “Fancy giving away a valuable possession like that!” he exclaimed, disgusted with the foolishness of his fellow men.

The base of the Osoilima Stone was just by the square—or rather, the town and its square had been built close against the Stone. Closest of all was a hostelry, bearing the name The Freed Slave, where the Ice Captain bought four candles for the party. They went through its garden and began the ascent. Talipots grew by the Stone; they had to push away the stiff leaves in order to climb. Summer lightning flickered round them.

Others were already ascending. Their whispers sounded from above. The steps had been carved in the stone a long while ago. They spiralled round and round the rock, with never a hint of railing for security. The guiding lights of their candles flickered before their faces.

“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” Muntras grunted.

But their slow progress led eventually to a level platform, and an arch led them into the top of the rock, where a dome had been hollowed. They could rest their elbows on the parapet and gaze in safety at the spread of mist-shrouded forest all round.

The sounds of the town reached them and the continuous noise of the Takissa. Music was playing somewhere—a double-clouth or, more likely hereabouts, binnaduria, and drums. And all about the forest, where rolls of mist allowed, they could make out dim lights.

That’s what they say,” Abath chirped up. “Not an acre habitable, not an acre uninhabited.”

True pilgrims stay up here all night to watch the dawns,” Muntras told Billy. “In these latitudes, there’s never a day of the year when both suns aren’t visible at some time. Different from where I come from.”

“On the Avernus, Krillio, people are very scientific,” said Billy, hugging Abath. “We have ways of imitating reality with video, 3D tactiles and so on, just as a portrait imitates a real face. As a result, our generation doubts reality, doubts if it exists. We even doubt if Helliconia is real. I don’t suppose you understand what I mean…”

“Billish, I’ve travelled most of Campannlat, as a trader and before that as a beggar and pedlar. I’ve even been right far to the west, to a country called Ponipot beyond Randonan and Radado, where the continent ends. Ponipot is perfectly real, even if no one in Osoilima believes in its existence.”

“Where is this Avernus world of yours then, Billish?” Abath asked him, impatient with the way the men talked. “Is it above us somewhere?”

“Mm…” The sky above was fairly clear of cloud. “There’s Ipocrene, that bright star. It’s a gas giant. No, Avernus is not risen yet. It is below us somewhere.”

“Below us!” the girl gave a smothered laugh. “You are mad, Billish. You ought to stick to your story. Below! Is it a sort of fessup?”

“Where’s this other world, Earth? Can you see that one, Billish?”

“It’s too far away to see. Besides, Earth doesn’t give out light like a sun.”

“But Avernus does?”

“We see Avernus by light reflected from Batalix and Freyr.”

Muntras thought.

“So why can’t we see Earth by light reflected from Batalix and Freyr?”

“Well, it’s too far away. It’s difficult to explain. If Helliconia had a moon, it would be easier to explain—but in that case, Helliconian astronomy would be much more advanced than it is. Moons draw men’s eyes to the sky better than suns. Earth reflects the light of its own sun, Sol.”

“I suppose Sol is too far away to see. My eyes are not what they were anyway.”

Billy shook his head and searched the northeastern sky. “It’s somewhere over there—Sol and Earth, and Sol’s other planets. What do you call that long straggly constellation, with all the faint stars at the top?”

Muntras said, “In Dimariam, we call that the Night Worm. Bless me, I don’t see it very clear. Round these parts, they call it Wutra’s Worm. Isn’t that right, Grengo?”

“It’s no good asking me the names of the stars,” Pallos said, and sniggered as if to say, “But show me a gold ten-roon piece and I’ll identify it for you.”

“Sol is one of the faint stars in Wutra’s Worm, about where its gills are.”

Billy spoke jokingly, being slightly uneasy in the role of lecturer after his years as one of the lectured. As he spoke, the lightning was there again, laying them out momentarily for examination. The pretty girl, her mouth slightly open, staring vaguely where he was pointing. The local manager, bored, gazing into blackness, thumb tucked comfortably into the muzzle of his matchlock. The burly old Ice Captain, flattened hand up to his receding hairline, peering toward infinity with determination written over his countenance.

They were real enough—Billy was becoming used now, since he had been with Muntras and Abathy, to the idea of a real reality, abhorrent though it might have been to his Advisor on the Avernus, caught in an unreal Reality. His nervous system had been jarred into life by new experiences, textures, stinks, colours, sounds. For the first time, he lived fully. Those who looked down on him would consider him in hell; but the freedom moving throughout his frame told him he was in paradise.

The lightning was gone, sunk to nothing, leaving a moment of pitch before the mild night world returned to existence.

Billy wondered, Can I convince them about Avernus, about Earth? But they’ll never convince me about their gods. We inhabit two different thought-umwelts.

And then came a questioning of darker tone. What if Earth was a figment of Avernian imagination, the god Avernus otherwise lacked? The devastating effects of Akhanaba and his battles against sin were apparent everywhere. What evidence was there for Earth’s existence—anything more than that fuzzy patch where Sol glimmered in the Worm to the northeast?

He postponed the uncomfortable question for some future time to listen to what Muntras was saying.

“If Earth is so far, Billish, how can the people there be watching us?”

“That’s one of the miracles of science. Communication over very long distances.”

“Could you write down for me how you do it, when we get to Lordryardry?”

“Do you mean to say that people out there—real people like us—” said Abath, “could be watching us even now? Seeing us big-like, not down the gullet of a worm?”

“It’s more than possible, my darling Abath. Your face and your name may already be known to millions of people on Earth—or rather, that is to say will be known when a thousand years have passed, for that’s how long it takes communications to get from Avernus to Earth.”

Unimpressed by figures, she could think of only one thing. Putting her hand to her mouth, she moved her mouth closer to Billy’s ear. “You don’t suppose they will see us having a go on the bed, do you?”

Overhearing the remark, Pallos laughed and pinched her bottom. “You charge extra for anyone watching, don’t you, girl?”

“You mind your own scumbing business,” Billy told him.

Muntras pursed his lips. “What possible pleasure can they get, watching us in all our native stupidity?”

“What distinguishes Helliconia from thousands of other worlds,” said Billy, returning to something like a dry lecturer’s tone, “is the presence here of living organisms.”

As they were digesting his remark, a noise reached them from the mist and the jungle, a prolonged shrilling, distant but clear.

“Was that an animal?” asked the girl.

“I believe it was a long horn blown by phagors,” said Muntras. “Often a danger sign. Are there many free phagors hereabouts, Grengo?”

“There could be. The freed phagor slaves have learned men’s ways and live quite comfortably in their own jungle settlements, I hear tell,” said Pallos. “They never get very bright in the harneys, though—you can charge them a good high price for broken ice.”

“They buy ice off you, phagors?” asked Abath, in surprise. “I thought it was only King JandolAnganol’s Phagorian Guard that got treated to ice!”

“Well, they bring in things to Osoilima to trade—gwing-gwing stone necklaces, skins, and suchlike, so then they’ve the money to pay me for ice. They crunch it straightaway, standing in my store. Disgusting! Like a man drinking liquor.”

Silence descended on them. They stood quiet, peering out at the night, under the limitless vault of stars. To their imaginations, the wilderness seemed almost as limitless, and it was from there that the occasional sound came—once a cry, as if even those rejoicing in newfound freedom suffered. From the stars came only the uninsistent signals of light and, from the great Stone below them, darkness.

“Well, the phagors won’t worry us,” said Muntras, curtly, breaking in on their speculations. “Billish, over where Sol is, over in that direction somewhere lies the Eastern Range, what people call the High Nktryhk. Very few people visit it. It’s almost inaccessible, and only phagors live there, legend has it. When you have been riding on your Avernus, have you ever seen the High Nktryhk?”

“Yes, Krillio, often. And we have simultations of it in our recreation centres. The Nktryhk peaks are generally wreathed in cloud, so that we watch through infrared. Its highest plateau—which covers the top of the range like a roof—is over nine miles high, and protrudes into the stratosphere. It is a most impressive sight—awesome, to be true. Nothing lives on the very highest slopes, not even phagors. I wish I had brought a photograph to show you, but such things are heavily discouraged.”

“Can you explain to me how to make—photogiraffes?”

“Photographs. I’ll try, when we reach Lordryardry.”

“Good, let’s go down, then, and never mind hanging about for Akhanaba to appear. Let’s get some food and sleep, and we will be off promptly in the morning, before noon.”

“Avernus will be up in an hour. It will make a transit of the whole sky in about twenty minutes.”

“Billish, you’ve been ill. You must be in bed in an hour. Food, then bed—alone. I must be your father on Earth—I mean to say, on Helliconia. Then if your parents watch us, they will be happy.”

“We don’t really have parents, only clans,” Billy explained, as they went under the arch and prepared to descend. “Extra-uterine birth is practised.”

“I will much enjoy your drawing me a picture of how you manage that,” the Ice Captain said.

They spiralled back to the ground, Billy clutching Abathy’s hand.

Downriver, the scenery changed. First one bank, then the other, became the scene of intensive cultivation. The jungles were left behind. They had entered the land of the loess. The Lordryardry Lady slipped into Ottassol almost before its passengers realized, unused as they were to cities which had withdrawn their existence underground.

As Div supervised the unloading of goods onto the quay, Ice Captain Muntras took Billy below decks and into a now empty cabin.

“You’re feeling well?”

“Excellent. It can’t last. Where’s Abathy?”

“Listen to me, Billish, I want you to stay quiet here while I transact a little business in Ottassol. I must see an old friend or two. And I have an important letter to deliver. There are clever Johnnies here, not just country bumpkins. I don’t wish anyone to know of your existence, you understand?”

“Why’s that?”

Muntras looked him in the eye. “Because I’m an old bumpkin myself and I believe your tale.”

Billy smiled with pleasure. “Thank you. You have more sense than SartoriIrvrash or the king.”

They shook hands.

The bulk of the Ice Captain seemed almost to fill the little cabin. He leaned forward confidentially. “Remember how those two treated you, and do as I say. You stay in this cabin. No one must know of your existence.”

“While you go ashore and get drunk again. Where’s Abathy?”

A big hand came up in a cautionary gesture. “I’m getting old and I want no fuss. I will not get drunk. I will return as soon as possible. I want to get you safe to Lordryardry, where you will be well looked after, you and that magical timepiece of yours. There, you can tell me about the vessel that brought you here, and other inventions. But first I have some business to transact, and that letter to deliver.”

Billy became more anxious. “Krillio, where is Abathy?”

“Don’t make yourself ill again. Abathy has gone. You know she was travelling only as far as Ottassol.”

“She’s left without saying good-bye? Without a kiss?”

“Div was jealous, so I hustled her away. I’m sorry. She sent you her love. She’s got a living to make, like everyone else.”

“A living to make…” Speech failed him.

Muntras took the opportunity to slip nimbly out of the cabin and lock the door from the outside. He pocketed the key, smiling as he did so.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said reassuringly as Billy started to hammer on the door. He climbed the companionway stairs, crossed the deck, and strolled down the gangplank. Across the wharf was a tunnel leading into the loess. A notice above it read:

This was a modest wharf. The main Lordryardry wharf was half a mile farther downstream, where the seagoing ships tied up, and a grander affair entirely. But here few eyes pried, and security was good. Muntras walked down the tunnel and entered a checking office.

Two clerks, alarmed to see the owner arrive, stood up, hiding playing cards under ledgers. The other occupants of the office were Div and Abath.

“Thank you, Div. Will you take these clerks away and let me have a moment alone with Abathy?”

In his sullen way, Div did as instructed. When the door had closed behind the three men, Muntras locked it and turned to the girl.

“Sit down, my dear, if you like.”

“What do you want? The journey’s over—at long last—and I ought to be on my way.” She looked huffy and at the same time anxious. The sight of the locked door worried her. In a way she had of drawing down her mouth in displeasure, Muntras recognized her mother’s gesture.

“Don’t be cheeky, young lady. You’ve behaved properly till now, and I’m pleased with you. In case you don’t realize it, Captain Krillio Muntras is a valuable ally for a young slip of a thing like you, old though I am. I’m pleased with you, and I intend to reward you for how amiable you were with me and Billish.”

She relaxed slightly.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you were making a—a bit of a mystery of it. I mean, I would have liked to have said good-bye to Billish. What is wrong in his harneys?”

As she was talking, he was removing some silver pieces from his body belt. He held them out to her, smiling.

Abath came closer and, as she reached out to take the money, he grasped her wrist tightly with his other hand. She gave a cry of pain.

“Now, girl, you can have this money, but first I’m going to get a confidence out of you. You know that Ottassol is a big port?”

He squeezed her wrist till she hissed, “Yes.”

“You know there are therefore many foreigners in this big port?”

Squeeze. Hiss.

“You know among those foreigners are people from other continents?”

Another squeeze. Another hiss.

“Like Hespagorat, for instance?”

Squeeze and hiss.

“And even far Sibornal?”

Squeeze, hiss.

“Including people of the Uskut race?”

Squeeze—pause—hiss.

Although it seemed from the furrowing of Muntras’s brow that this catechism was not over, he let go of the wrist, which had grown red during interrogation. Abath took the silver coins and tucked them into a pocket in the roll of luggage she had by her, making no comment beyond a dark look.

“Sensible girl. Take what you can in life. And I am correct in thinking that you had some dealings with a certain man of Uskut race, in Matrassyl, in the way of the usual commodities. Isn’t that so?”

She looked defiant again and stood alertly as if thinking of attacking him.

“What usual commodities might those be?”

“The ones you and your mother trade in, my dear—money and kooni. Look, it is no secret to me, because I had the word off your mother and have kept it under my palm ever since. It’s been so long that I need you to remind me of the name of that man of Uskut race with whom you exchanged those commodities.”

Abath shook her head. Tears gleamed in her eyes. “Look, “ I thought you were a friend. Forget it! The feller’s left Matrassyl anyhow, and gone back to his own country. He got into trouble… That’s why I came south, if you want to know. My mother should have held her slanje tongue.”

“I see. Your money supply ran out—or ran away… Now, I just want to hear you pronounce his name, and then you’re free.”

She put her hands up to her face and said into them, “Io Pasharatid.”

A moment’s silence.

“You did aim high, my little fillock. I hardly believed it. The ambassador of Sibornal, no less! And not only kooni but guns involved. Did his wife know?”

“What do you think?” She was defiant again. She outshone her mother.

He became brisk. “Very well. Thank you, Abathy. You now are clear that I have a hold on you. You have a hold on me. You know about Billish. Nobody else must know about Billish. You must keep quiet and never mention his name, not even in your sleep. He was just one more customer. Now he has gone, and you’ve been paid.

“If you mention Billish to anyone, I shall slip a little note to the Sibornalese representative here, and you will be in trouble. In this religious land, intercourse between Borlienese ladies and foreign ambassadors is strictly illegal. It always leads to blackmail—or murder. If word gets out about you and Pasharatid, you’ll never be seen again. Do we understand each other?”

“Oh, yes, you hrattock! Yes.”

“Good. That’s sensible. My advice is to keep your mouth and your legs closed. I’m going to take you to a friend of mine whom I have to see. He’s a scholar. He needs a housemaid. He will pay you regularly and well. I’m not a natural bully, Abathy, although I enjoy getting my way. So I am doing you a favour—for your mother’s sake as well as yours. You’d soon go to the bad on your own in Ottassol.”

He paused to see what she said, but she merely watched him with untrusting eyes.

“Remain with my scholarly friend in his comfortable home, and you will have no need to turn into a whore. You can probably find a good husband—you’re pretty and not a fool. It’s a disinterested offer.”

“And your friend’ll keep an eye on me for you, I suppose.”

He looked at her and pushed his lips forward in a pout. “He’s recently married and won’t molest you. Come. We’ll go and see him. Wipe your nose.”

Ice Captain Muntras called a one-wheeled sedan. He and AbathVasidol climbed in and off went the sedan, pulled by two veterans of the Western Wars, who had between them two-and-a-half arms, three legs, and about the same number of eyes.

In this style, they creaked through the underground lanes of Ottassol and eventually entered Ward Court, where daylight shone down brightly from the square of sky overhead. At the bottom of a flight of steps was a solid door with a sign above. They climbed out of the cramped conveyance, the veterans accepted a coin, and Muntras rang the doorbell.

It was hardly to be expected of a man in his profession that Bardol CaraBansity, deuteroscopist, should show surprise, whoever called on him; but he did raise an eyebrow at the girl while shaking the hand of his old acquaintance.

Over wine, which his loving wife served, CaraBansity professed himself delighted to instal AbathVasidol in his household.

“I don’t suppose you will wish to carry hoxney carcasses about, but there are less alarming jobs to be done. Good. Welcome.”

His wife appeared less delighted by the new arrangement, but said nothing.

“Then, sir, I shall be off, with grateful compliments to you both,” said Muntras, rising from his chair.

CaraBansity rose too, and this time there was no mistaking his surprise. Of recent years, the Ice Captain had developed leisurely habits. When delivering his fresh ice—of which the CaraBansity household and its corpses consumed a fair share—the trader generally settled in for a long pleasant talk. This haste must have some meaning, thought CaraBansity.

“In gratitude for the introduction to this young lady, I will at least ride with you back to your ship,” he said. “No, no, I insist.”

And he did insist, to such effect that the discomfited Muntras found himself in no time with his knees pressed against the deuteroscopist’s knees and their noses almost touching, and nowhere to cast his regard except into the eyes in front of his, as they jolted in a sedan towards the TRANSIT GOODS ONLY warehouse.

“Your friend SartoriIrvrash,” the Ice Captain said.

“Well, I trust?”

“No. The king’s dismissed him and he’s disappeared.”

“Sartori disappeared. Where?”

“If people knew where, it would not count as a disappearance,” said Muntras humourously, dislodging one knee.

“What happened, for beholder’s sake?”

“You’ve heard about the queen of queens, of course.”

“She came through here on her way to Gravabagalinien. According to the newsletter, five thousand hats were mislaid, having been thrown carelessly into the air as she arrived at the royal dock.”

“JandolAnganol and your friend fell out over the Massacre of the Myrdolators.”

“And then he disappeared?”

Muntras nodded his head so gently that their noses scarcely touched.

“Into the palace dungeons, where others have gone?”

“Very likely. Or was clever enough to flee the city.”

“I must discover what has happened to his manuscripts.”

Silence between them.

When the sedan chair reached the warehouse, Muntras said, resting his hand on the other’s sleeve. “You are too kind, but there is no need for you to get out.”

Looking as confused as possible, CaraBansity climbed out nevertheless. “Come, I know your ruse. A good one. My wife can become better acquainted with your pretty AbathVasidol while you and I have a quiet farewell drink aboard your boat, eh? Don’t think I didn’t grasp your scheme.”

“No, but—” While Muntras was anxiously paying off the sedan men, the deuteroscopist was marching in his ponderous way towards the dock where the Lordryardry Lady was tied.

“I expect you have a bottle of the Exaggerator aboard?” inquired CaraBansity cheerfully, as Muntras caught up with him. “And how did you acquire this young lady you have so kindly deposited with me?”

“She’s a friend of an old friend. Ottassol’s a dangerous place for innocent young girls like Abathy.”

There lay the Lordryardry Lady, with two phagor guards nearby, wearing armbands bearing the name of the company.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot let you aboard, my friend,” said Muntras, stepping into CaraBansity’s path, so that once more their eyes almost touched.

“Why, what’s the matter? I thought this was your last trip?”

“Oh, I shall be back… I live only just across the sea…”

“But you are always terrified of pirates.”

Muntras took a deep breath. “I will tell you the truth, and keep it under your palm. I have a case of plague on board. I should have declared it to the port authorities but I didn’t, being anxious to get home. I cannot let you on board. Definitely. It would endanger your life.”

“Mm.” CaraBansity wrapped a meaty fist round his chin, looking at Muntras from under his brow. “In my trade, I’m familiar with disease and probably immune to it. For the sake of the Great Exaggerator, I’ll take the risk.”

“No, sorry. You’re too good a friend to lose. I will see you again soon when I’m in less of a hurry, and we’ll drink ourselves under the table…” Talking in a distracted manner, he shook CaraBansity’s hand and almost ran from him. Pounding up the ship’s gangplank, he called out to his son and anyone else aboard that they were going to sail immediately.

CaraBansity stood on the quay, watching until the Ice Captain disappeared below decks. He then turned slowly on his heel and began walking away.

At a certain point into the lanes, he stopped short, snapped his fingers, and began to laugh. He thought that he had solved the minor mystery. To celebrate a further success to deuteroscopy, he turned into the next court and walked into a tavern where he was not known.

“A half-Exaggerator,” he ordered. A treat for himself, a reward. People gave themselves away with talk without knowing it, for the underlying reason that they hated the feeling of guilt and therefore betrayed themselves. With that understanding, he recalled what Muntras had said in the sedan.

“Into the palace dungeons…”

“Very likely.”

‘Very likely’ means neither yes nor no. Of course. The Ice Captain had rescued SartoriIrvrash from the king and was smuggling him to safety into Dimariam. The matter was too dangerous for Muntras to tell even SartoriIrvrash’s friend in Ottassol…

Sipping the fuming drink, he let his mind wander over the possibilities which this secret knowledge opened up.

In his long and colourful career, Ice Captain Muntras had had to play some tricks on friend and enemy alike. Many mistrusted him; yet towards Billy he felt strong paternal affection, reinforced perhaps by the difficulties he experienced with his own son, the weak-minded Div. Muntras liked Billy’s helplessness and valued the store of startling knowledge which seemed so much a part of Billy. Billy was indeed a herald from another world; Muntras did not doubt it. He was determined to protect the strange creature from all comers.

But before setting sail for his homeland of Dimariam, he had a small piece of business to attend to. His leisurely journey down the Takissa had not made Muntras forget his promise to the queen. At his main wharf in Ottassol, he summoned to his office one of his captains, the man who sailed the coastal trader Lordryardry Lubber, and laid MyrdemInggala’s letter before him.

“You’re bound for Randonan, yes?”

“As far as Ordelay.”

“Then you will deliver this document to the Borlienese general, Hanra TolramKetinet, of the Second Army. You are personally responsible for putting it into the general’s hands. Understand?”

At the main wharf, the Ice Captain transferred Billy onto the fine oceangoing Lordryardry Queen, the pride of his fleet. The ship was capable of transporting 200 tons of finest block ice. Now, on its homeward journey, it carried cargoes of timber and grain. Together with an excited Billy and a sullen Div.

A favouring breeze filled the sails until the cordage strained and sang. The prow swung southwards like the needle of a magnet, pointing to distant Hespagorat.

The shores of Hespagorat, together with the doleful animals which inhabited them, were familiar sights to everyone aboard the Earth Observation Station. They were watched with extra attention as the fragile wooden ship bearing Billy Xiao Pin approached them.

Drama was not a feature of life aboard Avernus. It was avoided. Emotion: superfluous, as ‘On the Prolongation of One Helliconian Season Beyond the Human Life-span’ had it. Yet dramatic tension was evident, especially among the youth of the six great families. Everyone was forced into the situation of disagreeing or agreeing with Billy’s actions.

Many said that Billy was ineffectual. It was more difficult to admit that he showed courage and considerable ability to adapt to different conditions. Under the arguments that raged was a wistful hope that Billy might somehow convince people on Helliconia that they, the Avernians, existed.

True, Billy appeared to have persuaded Muntras. But Muntras was not considered to be important. And there were indications that Billy, having convinced Muntras, would take no further steps in that direction, but merely, selfishly, enjoy his remaining days before the helico virus attacked him.

The great disappointment was that Billy had failed where JandolAnganol and SartoriIrvrash were concerned. It had to be admitted that they had on their minds matters of more immediate concern.

The question that few people on the Avernus asked was, What, effectively, could the king and his chancellor have done had they taken the trouble to understand Billy and come to believe in the existence of his ‘other world’? For that question led to the reflection that Avernus was far less important to Helliconia than Helliconia was to Avernus.

Billy’s successes and failures were compared with those of previous Helliconia Holiday winners. Few winners had done much better than Billy, if truth were told. Some had been killed as soon as they arrived on the planet. Women had fared worse than men: the noncompetitive atmosphere on the Avernus favoured equality of the sexes; on the ground, matters were conducted differently, and most women winners ended their lives in slavery. One or two strong personalities had had their stories believed, and in one case a religious cult had grown around this Saviour from the Skies (to quote one of his titles). The cult had died when a force of Takers eradicated the villages where the believers lived.

The strongest personalities to descend had concealed their origins entirely and lived by their wits.

One characteristic all winners shed. Despite often severe warnings from their Advisors, all had enjoyed or at lease attempted sexual intercourse with the Helliconians. The moths always headed for the brightest flame.

Billy’s treatment merely strengthened a general aversion among the families to the religions of Helliconia. The consensus was that those religions got in the way of sensible, rational living. The inhabitants—believers and unbelievers alike—were seen as struggling in the toils of falsehood. Nowhere was there an attempt to be placid and view one’s life as an art form.

On distant Earth, conclusions would be different. The chapter in the long cavalcade of history which concerned JandolAnganol, SartoriIrvrash, and Billy Xiao Pin would be watched with a grief superior to any on the Avernus, a grief in which detachment and empathy were nicely balanced. The peoples of Earth, for the most part, had developed beyond that stage where religious belief is suppressed, or supplanted by ideology, or translated into fashionable cults, or atrophied into a source of references for art and literature. The peoples of Earth could understand how religion allowed even the labouring peasants their glimpse of eternity. They understood that those with least power have most need of gods. They understand that even Akhanaba paved the way for a religious sense of life which needed no God.

But what they most thoroughly understood was that the reason why the ancipital race was untroubled by the perturbations of religion was that their eotemporal minds would not rise to such disquiet. The phagors could never aspire to a moral altitude where they would abase themselves before false gods.

The materialists of the Avernus, a thousand light-years from such thinking, admired the phagors. They saw how Billy had been better received below than in Matrassyl Palace. Some wondered aloud whether the next winner of a Helliconia Holiday should not throw in his lot with the ancipitals and hope to lead them to overthrow mankind’s idols.

This conclusion was reached after long hours of well-conducted argument. Underlying it was jealousy of the freedom of Helliconian mankind even in its fallen state—a jealousy too destructive to be faced within the confines of the Earth Observation Station.