Norstrilia

THE DEPARTMENT STORE OF HEARTS’ DESIRES

Once inside, Rod realized that the store was as rich as the market. There were no other customers. After the outside sounds of music, laughter, frying, boiling, things falling, dishes clattering, people arguing, and the low undertone of the ever ready robot weapons buzzing, the quietness of the room was itself a luxury like old heavy velvet. The smells were no less variegated than those on the outside but, they were different, more complicated, and many more of them were completely unidentifiable.

One smell he was sure of: fear, human fear. It had been in this room not long before.

“Quick,” said the old cat-man. “I’m in trouble if you don’t get out soon. What is your business?”

“I’m C’mell.”

He nodded pleasantly, but showed no sign of recognition. “I forget people,” he said.

“This is A’gentur.” She indicated the monkey.

The old cat-man did not even look at the animal.

C’mell persisted, a note of triumph coming into her voice: “You may have heard of him under his real name, E’ikasus.”

The old man, stood there, blinking, as though he were taking it in. “Yeekasoose? With the letter E?”

“Transformed,” said C’mell inexorably, “for a trip all the way to Old North Australia and back.”

“Is this true?” said the old man to the monkey.

E’ikasus said calmly, “I am the son of Him, of whom you think.”

The c’man dropped to his knees, but did so with dignity:

“I salute you, E’ikasus. When you next think-with your father, give him my greetings and ask from him his blessing. I am C’william, the Catmaster.”

“You are famous,” said E’ikasus tranquilly.

“But you are still in danger, merely being here. I have no license for underpeople!”

C’mell produced her trump. “Catmaster, your next guest. This is no c’man. He is a true man, an offworlder, and he has just bought most of the planet Earth.”

C’william looked at Rod with more than ordinary shrewdness. There was a touch of kindness in his attitude. He was tall for a cat-man; few animal features were left to him, because of old age, which reduces racial and sexual contrasts to mere memories, had wrinkled him into a uniform beige. His hair was not white, but beige too; his few cat-whiskers looked old and worn. He was garbed in a fantastic costume which — Rod later learned — consisted of the court robes of one of the Original Emperors, a dynasty which had prevailed more many centuries among the further stars. Age was upon him, but wisdom was too; the habits of life, in his case, had been cleverness and kindness, themselves unusual in combination. Now very old, he was reaping the harvest of his years. He had done well with the thousands upon thousands of days behind him, with the result that age had brought a curious joy into his manner, as though each experience meant one more treat before the long bleak dark closed in. Rod felt himself attracted to this strange creature, who looked at him with such penetrating and very personal curiosity, and who managed to do so without giving offense.

The Catmaster spoke in very passable Norstrilian:

“I know what you are thinking, Mister and Owner McBan.”

“You can hier me?” cried Rod.

“Not your thoughts. Your face. It reads easily. I am sure that I can help you.”

“What makes you think I need help?”

“All things need help,” said the old c’man briskly, “but we must get rid of our other guests first. Where do you want to go, excellent one? And you, cat-madame?”

“Home,” said E’ikasus. He was tired and cross again. After speaking brusquely, he felt the need to make his tone more civil, “This body suits me badly, Catmaster.”

“Are you good at falling?” said the Catmaster. “Free fall?”

The monkey grinned. “With this body? Of course. Excellent. I’m tired of it.”

“Fine,” said the Catmaster, “you can drop down my waste chute. It falls next to the forgotten palace where the great wings beat against time.”

The Catmaster stepped to one side of the room. With only a nod at C’mell and Rod, followed by a brief “See you later,” the monkey watched as the Cat-master opened a manhole cover. The monkey then leaped trustingly into the complete black depth which appeared, and was gone. The Catmaster replaced the cover carefully.

He turned to C’mell.

She faced him truculently, the defiance of her posture oddly at variance with the innocent voluptuousness of her young female body. “I’m going nowhere.”

“You’ll die,” said the Catmaster. “Can’t you hear their weapons buzzing just outside the door? You know what they do to us underpeople. Especially to us cats. They use us, but do they trust us?”

“I know one who does…” she said. “The Lord Jestocost could protect me, even here, just as he protects you, far beyond your limit of years.”

“Don’t argue it. You will make trouble for him with the other real people. Here, girl, I will give you a tray to carry with a dummy package on it. Go back to the underground and rest in the commissary of the bear-man. I will send Rod to you when we are through.”

“Yes,” she said hotly, “but will you send him alive or dead?”

The Catmaster rolled his yellow eyes over Rod. “Alive,” he said. “This one — alive. I have predicted. Did you ever know me to be wrong? Come on, girl, out the door with you.”

C’mell let herself be handed a tray and a package, taken seemingly at random. As she left Rod thought of her with quick desperate affection. She was his closest link with Earth. He thought of her excitement and of how she had bared her young breasts to him, but now the memory, instead of exciting him, filled him with tender fondness instead. He blurted out, “C’mell, will you be all right?”

She turned around at the door itself, looking all woman and all cat. Her red wild hair gleamed like a hearth-fire against the open light from the doorway. She stood erect, as though she were a citizen of Earth and not a mere underperson or girlygirl. She held out her right hand clearly and commandingly while balancing the tray on her left hand. When he shook hands with her, Rod realized that her hand felt utterly human but very strong. With scarcely a break in her voice she said,

“Rod, goodbye. I’m taking a chance with you, but it’s the best chance I’ve ever taken. You can trust the Catmaster, here in the Department Store of Hearts’ Desires. He does strange things, Rod, but they’re good strange things.”

He released her hand and she left. C’william closed the door behind her. The room became hushed.

“Sit down for a minute while I get things ready. Or look around the room if you prefer.”

“Sir Catmaster—” said Rod.

“No title, please. I am an underperson, made out cats. You may call me C’william.”

“C’william, please tell me first. I miss C’mell. I’m worried about her. Am I falling in love with her? Is that what falling in love means?”

“She’s your wife,” said the Catmaster. “Just temporarily and just in pretense, but she’s still your wife. It’s Earthlike to worry about one’s mate. She’s all right.”

The old c’man disappeared behind a door which had an odd sign on it: HATE HALL.

Rod looked around.

The first thing, the very first thing, which he saw was a display cabinet full of postage stamps. It was made of glass, but he could see the soft blues and the inimitable warm brick reds of his Cape of Good Hope triangular postage stamps. He had come to Earth and there they were! He peered through the glass at them. They were even better than the illustrations which he had seen back on Norstrilia. They had the temper of great age upon them and yet, somehow, they seemed to freight with them the love which men, living men now dead, had given them for thousands and thousands of years. He looked around, and saw that the whole room was full of odd riches. There were ancient toys of all periods, flying toys, copies of machines, things which he suspected were trains. There was a two-story closet of clothing, shimmering with embroidery and gleaming with gold. There was a bin of weapons, clean and tidy — models so ancient that he could not possibly guess what they had been used for, or by whom. Everywhere, there were buckets of coins, usually gold ones. He picked up a handful. They had languages he could not even guess at and they showed the proud imperious faces of the ancient dead. Another cabinet was one which he glanced at and then turned away from, shocked and yet inquisitive: it was filled with indecent souvenirs and pictures from a hundred periods of men’s history, images, sketches, photographs, dolls and models, all of them portraying grisly, comical, sweet, friendly, impressive or horrible versions of the many acts of love. The next section made him pause utterly. Who would have ever wanted these things? Whips, knives, hoods, leather corsets. He passed on, very puzzled. The next section stopped him breathless. It was full of old books, genuine old books. There were a few framed poems, written very ornately. One had a scrap of paper attached to it, reading simply, “My favorite.” Rod looked down to see if he could make it out. It was ancient Inglish and the odd name was “E. Z. C. Judson, Ancient American, A.D. 1823-1866” Rod understood the words of the poem but he did not think that he really got the sense of it. As he read it, he had the impression that a very old man, like the Catmaster, must find in it a poignancy which a younger person would miss:

Rod shook his head as if to get away from the cobwebs of an irrecoverable tragedy. “Maybe,” he thought to himself, “that’s the way people felt about death when they did not die on schedule, the way most worlds have it, or if they do not meet death a few times ahead of time, the way we do in Norstrilia. They must have felt pretty sticky and uncertain.” Another thought crossed his mind and he gasped at the utter cruelty of it. “They did not even have Unselfing rounds that far back! Not that we need them any more, but imagine just sliding into death, helpless, useless, hopeless. Thank the Queen we don’t do that!” He thought of the Queen, who may dead for more than fifteen thousand years, or who might be lost in space, the way many Old North Australians believed, and sure enough! there was her picture, with the words “Queen Elizabeth II.” It was just a bust, but she was a pretty and intelligent-looking woman, with something of a Norstrilian look to her. She looked smart enough to know what to do if one of her sheep caught fire or if her own child came, blank and giggling, out of the traveling vans of the Garden of Death.

Next there were two glass frames, neatly wiped free of dust. They had matched poems by someone who was listed as “Anthony Bearden, Ancient American, A.D. 1913-1949.” The first one seemed very appropriate to this particular place, because it was all about the ancient desires which people had in those days. It read:

The other one might almost have been written about his arrival on Earth, his not knowing what could happen or what should happen to him now.