Though his face was burning with embarrassment, Seamus was laughing as loudly as the rest. All right, the witch is a superb mimic; but she doesn’t have to ape my voice and my gestures so perfectly. Nor is there any reason to tell them the story of my tipping over the raft or bungling the attack of the saber-tooth. A man receives no proper respect at all anymore. Well, I’ll fix her later in the night.
“So then the heroic Major said, ‘No, we will do it my way,’ and the whole craft spun over into the water. He falls very gracefully … have you ever seen him fall? I was able to drag him out of the water again. It seems like I must do this all the time … it is not completely unpleasant … but he is so large that it grows tiresome … would any of you like to assume responsibility for keeping our Honored Guest from drowning himself?” She managed to keep a straight face when she asked the question, though the stars in her brown eyes were dancing with mischief.
Hers was the only straight face in the room, though. Samaritha, Ornigon, Horor, and Carina were convulsed with most un-Zylongian merriment. Margie’s highly fictional and very selective description of their “voyage” through the jungle had amused them for most of the “small entertainment” at the Music Director’s house—and she’d only made it halfway through the trip. O’Neill was cast in the role of the fumbling hero saved by a brave and resourceful woman … a role which was uncomfortably close to reality.
Sure you’d love it, wouldn’t you, Your Eminence? This one is too much like you altogether.
In his own mind, he had made up a bawdy ballad which would describe in the same fictional style the bedding of Marjetta. But he couldn’t sing it. First of all, it would shock the Zylongi into horrified silence. Secondly, it was not clear to him that any of the locals realized that Marjetta had become his proper woman. It was a subject that was discreetly avoided.
“Oh, Geemie, you must have had such a wonderful time in the jungle,” gasped his hostess, her dark features rosy red with efforts to control her laughter. Now what did she mean by that? Was it obvious to everyone that Margie’s glowing vitality meant she’d found a man to sleep with? Maybe in this society folks didn’t dare notice such signs that the rules were being broken.
“Well, I’m glad I’m providing my hosts with amusement. Sure it’s the least I can do.” He tried to sound rueful but shifted uncomfortably on his soft couch.
“Ah, now, Honored Guest,” protested Ornigon, “you must permit us some amusement … there are difficult times ahead.…” A quick frown crossed the man’s face. He regretted he had said it. There was an anxious pause, suddenly all the faces serious; then Margie hastily plunged on to the days they were lost in the mists. Some of the gusto went out of her wit.
His friends were more relaxed with him than when he first arrived, more ready to laugh and joke. With their openness came a revelation of the deep foreboding with which they faced the coming Festival. They seemed to sense that their society and their lives teetered on the edge of a deep pit. The young people knew that their revolution was just ahead. Even if they whistled in the dark when they were with each other, they must still privately be terrified. How could Margie laugh? … Maybe there were some Celtic genes somewhere from her past … just my luck, it would be.
Later that night they attended a meeting of the revolutionaries. Firmly taking his hand, Margie led him underground. They descended three levels beneath the City, under the basement level of the great buildings, lower than the vast underground transportation and communication network, to the level of the old granaries, now abandoned and musty. In the floor of one of these ancient storerooms there was a rusty hatch that pulled up with surprising ease. Stone steps led down to another, much smaller room, which appeared to be of even more ancient vintage. Out of this room ran a network of tunnels to still more chambers. The City was built, like ancient Rome on Earth, over catacombs.
Margie told him that these underground chambers were more extensive than anyone could accurately describe, because official teaching denied their existence. The Reorganizers were afraid of the underground network—they themselves had used it for planning their own revolution. Tonight’s meeting was to be held in what was supposed to have been the Reorganizers’ headquarters. “Here,” she said with the excitement of the very young revolutionary, “came into being oppression, and here also will come into being freedom.”
There wasn’t much in the group of forty young people who had piled into the meeting room that would give hope for their success. The idea of their overthrowing an ancient social structure and establishing a new one would have been a joke were they not so serious. Their leader was an old-young man named Chronos, a marginal instructor in philosophy at the university. Though his gray hair marked him as a man in his forties, he maintained the language and enthusiasm of youth.
Chronos was not a military or political leader. He was a mystical visionary with dreamy eyes and a beatific smile. He talked about freedom as if its simple attainment would solve all the problems of Zylongian society. They would seize the Military Center, break into its arsenal for more carbines and ammunition (they had only ten guns, a few hundred pounds of ammunition, and a couple score small explosive charges in their underground hideaway), and then quickly occupy the Central Building and the Energy Center, thus gaining control of three-fourths of the Central Plaza, which should ensure a successful takeover of the government.
It would be a “purifying fire of freedom!” Chronos finished his ringing appeal to action. What would catch fire, how it would be put out, and what would rise from the ashes didn’t seem worth his consideration.
The young people loved it. Enthusiasm might enable them to carry out the quick, simple thrust of their bold strategy—although a thousand things could go wrong with it. After the Committee, what? No one seemed to know or care. These Young Ones were not much different from the Hooded Ones; they both saw no farther than the destruction of existing institutions.
Marjetta whispered into his ear. “You see why it took so long for me to join them; the man is appalling. He is far worse than an amadon.”
Well, at least his woman wasn’t being taken in.
“Is this the best there is? No other revolutionary group at all?”
“All the others are even worse; these have some strategy and plan. The rest are mystics, dreamers, and mad anarchists.”
Seamus had nothing against mystics, dreamers, or anarchists. Many Tarans were all three. But Chronos would never have been permitted on the Iona. “Emotionally unstable,” Podraig would have announced, with an appropriate volley of foul words. “Six out of ten chances of a breakdown.” That would have been that.
After his speech and the singing of the freedom song, Chronos took his leave, greeting the two new members of the group—Marjetta and O’Neill—with polite disinterest. Yens, Horor, Margie, and O’Neill, the de facto high command, remained behind. O’Neill promptly demanded to know about what they expected to happen after power was seized. The idea didn’t seem to be important to the young people.
They were not hypocrites, planning to set themselves up as a new Committee to oppress the people in the name of the people. Out of the chaos that was bound to result there could be something much worse than the present dictatorship. The forces tearing Zylong apart would do their work regardless of the Young Ones. The question was, who would pick up the pieces?
After the others left, Margie stood on tiptoe and kissed the back of his neck. “Come with me, Geemie.” And she led him to one of the small rooms that branched off a corridor exiting from the larger meeting room. She had somehow managed to furnish it with a number of soft Zylongi cloaks, much like their desertwear but more finely woven.
He was still disturbed, and too upset by the evening’s events to appreciate the promise these accommodations offered.
“You don’t like it, dear Geemie?” she asked sorrowfully.
“Would you expect me to be jumping up and down in celebration, woman? A pack of amadons and onchoks, presided over by a psycho, and they’re organizing a revolution and then a free society. Freedom indeed! You and I will be the targets. Sure they all ought to be put permanently on your tranquillity pills.”
“What’s an onchok?”
“A female amadon!” he replied tartly.
“Glory be, I learn more about your language every day.” She was now tenderly stroking his hair. “Seamus, I have some news. First, the hordi army did not disintegrate when Narth died. There is a new leader, a man named Popilo, our former Army Commander who was sent into exile last year.”
“You mean they’ve got a full-fledged General out there? And I bet he’s just the opposite of the poor old fella that’s sitting in his chair now.” He put his arms around her. An idjit she might be, but she certainly filled your arms nicely. He kissed her forehead, though clumsily because he was still trying to think about the revolution.
“He is smart, tough, and very ambitious, which is why the Committee got rid of him. They said he was guilty of the crime of Bonapartism—which he was.” She pulled his robe off, running her hands quickly down his back.
“What kind of man was he?” He slipped off her garment. Sure he wasn’t going to be the only naked person at the party.
“Cruel, Geemie, very cruel. I think he is sick emotionally—even worse than Narth. I had him as a teacher when I was a Cadet. He … he is a very bad man.”
“And what’s the other bit of bad news? Out with it, woman.” He began to kiss her; his lips quickly found their way to her wonderful, swelling young breasts. Ah, you’re a lucky man, O’Neill, despite all your complaints.
“If you keep that up, I won’t be able to tell you.… I didn’t mean stop, Geemie, just a little slower. Uhm, that’s very nice. Well, the second news is about you. The Committee is so disorganized that they plan to do nothing about you. They feel that you won’t do anything unless you are attacked. They now think they can deal with you after the Festival.”
His fingers gripped her waist. Time now to sweep her to the crude couch—no—one last question.… “And who’s going to lead this thing when Chronos falls apart? … Some of you must have thought about what comes afterward.…”
In the dim light of the portable lantern her eyes were now dreamy with longing, her nipples rigid against his chest. She hesitated before answering. “That is not important.” The longing eyes darted away from him.
So that’s the way the story goes. He pushed her unceremoniously onto the makeshift bed, grabbed for his clothes, and began to dress. “You’re a bitch, Margie!” he exploded. “I wouldn’t make love to you tonight for all the coin on this damn planet!” Truth to tell, all desire had left him, replaced by cold fury.
She sat on the cloak-strewn floor, dispirited and guilty. “What have I done, Seamus?” she asked weakly. “Please forgive me. Whatever it is, I did not intend it.”
“We weren’t even back in the City and you were volunteering my services for this harebrained revolution of yours.…” he said, sulking. “Now you’ve got me pegged to be the leader. Well, let me tell you one thing, woman … you’re not going—”
“—I am truly sorry, Good Mate,” she interrupted. “I didn’t mean … I hardly … but … oh, I am so sorry. Please forgive my ignorance and stupidity. I will never learn, I fear.… Don’t … I should have told you. I didn’t know how to put it.” She was weeping now. “Everyone takes it for granted that you will lead us. You act like a leader … we didn’t think you would be just a follower.…”
Gracefully she stood up. Damn naked woman, don’t try to charm me.
She touched his arm soothingly. “Don’t be angry with me for too long … we have so little time together.”
His heart turned from butter to cream. He patted her backside affectionately and drew her close. “Ah, sure, woman, you’re right. I’d be no damn good as a follower. But I’m no king or ruler either, do you hear me? Just a temporary military chief, that’s all. Do you understand that?” He tightened his grip. Well, maybe I’ll not throw her out tonight after all.
“Yes, darling,” she said, nodding submissively.
“All right, then.” But he still didn’t believe her completely.
Later, after they had slept, she whispered in his ear, “Were you angry because I made fun of you at the entertainment tonight?”
He swatted her backside harder, though not enough to hurt. “It was terrible disrespectful.”
“It was not. You loved every second of it. Tarans don’t care what you say about them as long as you make them the center of attention.”
“You’ll be getting yourself raped again, if you say things like that.” He kissed her delicately, waiting for his physiology to catch up with his affection.
“It’s true,” she sighed. “Don’t deny it.”
“What you haven’t figured out, woman, is that we are disappointed if our friends don’t ridicule us just a little. Sure a proper wife ought to make fun of her husband now and again so everyone knows that she loves him.”
“You didn’t fight back.” She stroked his chest. “That wasn’t fair.”
So he sang a few stanzas of the bawdy ballad he’d written about her loss of virginity, the refrain of which was “Seamus, roll the woman over again.”
She began her dirty sniggering after the first stanza and exhausted herself laughing as he went on.
“That would have been terrible,” she managed to say between spasms of laughing. “It would have shocked everyone. I would have been delighted … but it is well that you didn’t do it. The poor Research Director would never recover.”
The image of a shocked Sammy seemed to delight her especially. So O’Neill, ever eager to keep his proper woman amused, made up some new stanzas.
“Does it ever stop?” she demanded. “Does the poor woman ever get loved?”
“A proper Taran ballad never stops, but the woman does get loved. Let me show you.”
So he did.
Later, as they slipped out of their temporary trysting place into the dim unfriendly light of a Zylongian dawn, O’Neill, complacent and well satisfied with himself, realized that he would do almost anything she wanted. Lust was spent after a passionate, almost despairing night together. Love was stronger than ever. In the clarity of dawn he saw a truth he had been dodging: he could not live without her.
Now look at the trouble Your Fine Eminence has got me into.