Limbeck talked aloud as he wrote, in order to hear his words spoken. Being extremely nearsighted and finding it difficult to focus properly when he wore his spectacles, Limbeck invariably took them off when writing. His face pressed close to the paper, his quill scratching away, he got nearly as much ink up his nose and down his beard as he did on his speech.
“It is therefore our purpose, as Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, to bring to our people a time of good living now, not sometime in a future that may never come!” Limbeck, carried away, banged his fist on the table, sloshing ink out of the inkwell. A small river of blue crept toward the paper, threatening to inundate the speech. Limbeck stemmed the tide with his elbow; his frayed tunic soaked up the ink thirstily. Since the tunic had long ago lost any color it might have once possessed, the purple splotch on the sleeve was a cheerful improvement.
“For centuries we have been told by our leaders that we were placed in this realm of Storm and Chaos because we were not deemed worthy to take our place with the Welves above. We who are flesh and blood and bone could not hope to live in the land of the immortals. When we are worthy, our leaders tell us, then the Welves will come from Above and pass judgment on us and we shall rise up into the heavens. In the meantime, it is our duty to serve the Kicksey-Winsey and wait for that great day. I say”—here Limbeck raised a clenched and inky fist above his head—“I say that day will never come!
“I say that we have been lied to! Our leaders deluded! It is easy enough for the High Froman and the people of his scrift to talk of waiting for change until Judgment comes. They do not need a better life. They receive the God’s payment. But do they disperse it equally among us? No, they make us pay, and pay dearly, for our share that we have already earned by the sweat of our brow!”
(I must pause here for cheering, Limbeck decided, and put a blot that was supposed to be a star to mark the place.)
“It is time to rise up and—” Limbeck hushed, thinking he heard a strange sound. Now, how anyone could hear anything in this land, other than the noise of the Kicksey-Winsey and the buffeting and roaring of the storms that swept daily over Drevlin, was a mystery to the Welves who came monthly for their shipment of water. But the Gegs, accustomed to the deafening noises, minded them no more than the rush of air through the leaves of a tree would bother an elflord of Tribus. A Geg could sleep soundly through a ferocious thunderstorm and start bolt upright at the rustle of a mouse in his pantry. It was the sound of distant shouting that aroused Limbeck’s attention and, stricken by sudden consciousness, he peered up at a timekeeping device (his own invention) set in a hollow of the wall. A complex combination of whirly-wheels and spokey-spikes, the device dropped one bean every hour on the hour into a jar below. Each morning, Limbeck emptied the jar of beans into the funnel above, and the measuring of the day began again.
Leaping to his feet, Limbeck peered nearsightedly into the jar, hastily counting up the beans. He groaned. He was late. Grabbing a coat, he was heading out the door when, at that moment, the next line in his speech occurred to him. He decided to take just a second to record it and sat back down. All thoughts of his appointment went clean out of his mind. Ink-bedaubed and happy, he once more lost himself in his rhetoric.
“We, the Worshipers United for Progress and Prosperity, advocate three tenets: The first, all of the scrifts should come together and pool their knowledge of the Kicksey-Winsey and learn how it operates so that we become its masters, not its slaves. [Blot for cheering.] The second, worshipers quit waiting for a day of Judgment and start to work now to better the quality of their own lives. [Another blot.] The third, worshipers should go to the Froman and demand a fair share in the Welves’ payment. [Two blots and a scribble.]” At this juncture. Limbeck sighed. He knew, from past experience, that his third tenet would be the most popular with the young Gegs impatient over serving long hours for inadequate pay. But of the three, Limbeck himself knew it to be the least important.
“If only they had seen what I saw!” Limbeck mourned. “If only they knew what I know. If only I could tell them!”
The sound of shouting broke in on his thoughts again. Raising his head, Limbeck smiled with fond pride. Jarre’s speech was having its usual effect. She doesn’t need me, Limbeck reflected, not sadly but with the pleasure of a teacher who takes pride in seeing a promising student blossom. She’s doing fine without me. I’ll just go ahead and finish.
During the next hour, Limbeck—smeared with ink and inspiration—was so absorbed in his project that he no longer heard the shouts and therefore did not notice that they changed in tone from cheers of approval to roars of anger. When a sound other than the monotonous whump and whuzzle of the Kicksey-Winsey did finally attract his attention, it was only because it was the sound of a door banging. Occurring some three feet away from him, it startled him immensely.
“Is that you, my dear?” he said, seeing a dark and shapeless blur that he assumed was Jarre.
She was panting as if from an undue amount of exertion. Limbeck patted his pocket for his glasses, couldn’t find them, and groped with his hand over the table. “I heard the cheers. Your speech went well tonight, I gather. I’m sorry I wasn’t there as I promised, but I got involved . . .” He waved a vague and ink-splattered hand at his work.
Jarre pounced on him. The Gegs are small in stature, but wide of girth, with large strong hands and a tendency to square jaws and square shoulders that give a general overall impression of squareness. Male and female Gegs are equally strong, since all serve the Kicksey-Winsey until the marrying age of about forty years, when both are required to retire and stay home to bear and raise the next generation of Kicksey-Winsey worshipers. Jarre was stronger even than most young women, having served the Kicksey-Winsey since she was twelve. Limbeck, not having served it at all, was rather weak. Consequently, when Jarre pounced on him, she nearly carried him out of his chair.
“My dear, what is the matter?” Limbeck said, gazing at her myopically, aware for the first time that something was the matter. “Didn’t your speech go well?”
“Yes, it went well. Very well!” Jarre said, digging her hands into his tattered and ink-stained tunic and attempting to drag him to his feet. “Come on, we’ve got to get you out of here!”
“Now?” Limbeck blinked at her. “But my speech—”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. We shouldn’t leave it behind for evidence.” Letting loose of Limbeck, Jarre hastily caught up the sheets of paper that were a by-product (no one knew why) of the Kicksey-Winsey and began stuffing them down the front of her gown. “Hurry, we haven’t much time!” She glanced around the dwelling hastily. “Is there anything else lying around that we should take?”
“Evidence?” questioned Limbeck, bewildered, searching for his glasses.
“Evidence of what?”
“Of our Union,” said Jarre impatiently. Cocking an ear, she listened and ran over to peer fearfully out one of the windows.
“But, my dear, this is Union Headquarters,” began Limbeck when she shushed him.
“There! Hear that? They’re coming.” Reaching down, she picked up his glasses and stuck them hastily and at a precarious slant on his nose. “I can see their lanterns. The coppers. No, not the front. The back door, the way I came in.” She began to push and hustle Limbeck along.
Limbeck stopped, and when a Geg stops dead in his tracks, it is almost impossible to shift or budge him. “I’m not going anywhere, my dear, until you tell me what’s happened.” He calmly adjusted his spectacles. Jarre wrung her hands, but she knew the Geg she loved. Limbeck had a stubborn streak in him that not even the Kicksey-Winsey could have knocked out. She had learned to overcome this on former occasions by moving fast and not giving him time to think, but, seemingly, that wasn’t going to work tonight.