The Voice of the Offense, having rested her case, retired behind the iron drum. Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the Factree. Here and there, however, came hisses and a boo, which caused the High Froman to look stern and brought the Head Clark to his feet.
“Yonor, this outburst only goes to prove that the poison is spreading. We can do one thing to eradicate it.” The Head Clark pointed at Limbeck. “Remove the source! I fear that if we do not, the Day of judgment that many of us feel to be at last close to hand will be postponed, perhaps indefinitely! I would urge you, in fact, Yonor, to prohibit the accused from speaking in this assembly!”
“I don’t consider four hisses and a boo an outburst,” said Darral testily, glaring at the Head Clark. “Accused, you may speak in your own defense. But take care, young man, I’ll tolerate no blasphemous harangues in this court.” Limbeck rose slowly to his feet. He paused, as if pondering a course of action, and finally, after profound deliberation, laid the sheaf of papers down on the iron drum and removed his spectacles.
“Yonor,” said Limbeck with deep respect. “All I ask is that I be allowed to relate what happened to me the day that I was lost. It was a most remarkable occurrence and it will, I hope, serve to explain why I have felt the need to do what I have done. I have never told this to anyone before,” he added solemnly, “not my parents, not even the person I hold most dear in all the world.”
“Will this take long?” asked the Froman, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and endeavoring to find a certain amount of relief from his cramped situation by leaning to one side.
“No, Yonor,” said Limbeck gravely.
“Then proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. It happened the day I was thrown out of school. I had to get away, to do a lot of thinking. You see, I didn’t consider that my ‘why’ had been blasphemous or dangerous. I don’t hate the Kicksey-Winsey. I revere it, truly. It fascinates me! It’s so wonderful, so big, so powerful.” Limbeck waved his arms, his face lit by the holy radiance. “It draws its source of energy from the storm and does it with incredible efficiency. It can even take raw iron from the Terrel Fen below and turn that iron into steel and mold that steel into parts so that it is continually expanding. It can heal itself when it is injured.
“It accepts our help gladly. We are its hands, its feet, its eyes. We go where it can’t, help it when it gets into trouble. If a claw gets stuck on Terrel Fen, we have to go down and shake it loose. We push bleepers and turn whirly-wheels and raise the raisers and lower the lowers and everything runs smoothly. Or seems to. But I can’t help,” added Limbeck softly, “wondering why.”
The Head Clark, scowling, rose to his feet, but the High Froman, pleased to have an opportunity to gain one on the church, regarded him with a stern air.
“I have given this young man permission to speak. I trust our people are strong enough to hear what he has to say without losing their faith. Don’t you? Or has the church been derelict in its duties?”
Biting his lip, the Head Clark sat back down and glared at the High Froman, who smiled complacently.
“The accused may proceed.”
“Thank you, Yonor. You see, I’ve always wondered why there are parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are dead. In some sectors it sits idle, rusting away or getting covered over with coralite. Some parts haven’t moved in centuries. Yet the Mangers must have put them there for a reason. Why? What were they supposed to do and why aren’t they doing it? And it occurred to me that if we knew why the parts of the Kicksey-Winsey that are alive are alive, and if we knew how they were doing it, then we might be able to understand the Kicksey-Winsey and its true purpose!
“And that’s one reason that I think all the scrifts should get together and pool their knowledge—”
“Is this leading somewhere?” asked the High Froman irritably. His headache was starting to make him nauseous.
“Er, yes.” Limbeck nervously put his spectacles back on. “I was thinking these thoughts and wondering how I could make people understand, and I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going, and when I looked around, I discovered I had wandered completely outside of the Het town limits. Quite by accident, I assure you!
“There weren’t any fierce storms in the area just then, and I thought I’d take a little look around, sort of distract myself from my trouble. It was difficult walking and I guess I was concentrating on keeping my footing, because suddenly a storm struck. I needed shelter and I saw a large object lying on the ground, so I ran for it.
“You can imagine my surprise, Yonor,” said Limbeck, blinking at the High Froman from behind the thick glass lenses, “when I discovered that it was one of the Welves’ dragonships.”
The words, echoing from the squawky-talk, resounded in the Factree. Gegs stirred and muttered among themselves.
“On the ground? Impossible! The Welves never land on Drevlin!” The Head Clark was pious, smug, and self-satisfied. The High Froman appeared uneasy, but knew—from the reaction of the crowd—that he had allowed this to proceed too far to stop now.
“They hadn’t landed,” Limbeck explained. “The ship had crashed—” This created a sensation in the court. The Head Clark leapt to his feet. The Gegs were talking in excited voices, many shouting, “Shut him up!” and others answering, “You shut up! Let him talk!” The High Froman gestured to the warders, who shook the “thunder,” and order was resumed.
“I demand that this travesty of Justick stop!” boomed the Head Clark. The High Froman considered doing just that. Ending the trial now accomplished three things: it would rid him of this mad Geg, end his headache, and restore the circulation in his lower extremities. Unfortunately, however, it would appear to his constituents as if he had caved in to the church, plus, his brother-in-law would never let him forget it. No, better to let this Limbeck fellow go ahead and speak his piece. He would undoubtedly string together enough rope to hang himself before long.
“I have made my ruling,” said the High Froman in a terrible voice, glaring at the crowd and the Head Clark. “It stands!” He transferred the glare to Limbeck. “Proceed.”
“I admit that I don’t know for certain the ship had crashed,” amended Limbeck, “but I guessed that it had, for it was lying broken and damaged among the rocks. There was nowhere to go for shelter except inside the ship. A large hole had been torn in the skin, so I entered.”
“If what you say is true, you were fortunate that the Welves did not strike you down for your boldness!” cried the Head Clark.
“The Welves weren’t in much position to strike anyone down,” returned Limbeck.
“These immortal Welves—as you call them—were dead.” Shouts of outrage, cries of horror and alarm, and a muffled cheer rang through the Factree. The Head Clark fell back into his seat, stricken. The Offense fanned him with her handkerchief and called for water. The High Froman sat bolt upright in shock and managed to wedge himself firmly and inextricably in his chair. Unable to rise to his feet to restore order, he could only wriggle and fume and wave the flashglamp, half-blinding the warders, who were attempting to pull him free.
“Listen to me!” Limbeck shouted in the voice that had quelled multitudes. No other speaker in WUPP, Jarre included, could be as compelling and charismatic as Limbeck when he was inspired. This speech was the reason he had allowed himself to be arrested. This was, perhaps, his last chance to bring his message to his people. He would make the most of it.
Jumping onto the iron drum, scattering his papers beneath his feet, Limbeck waved his hands to attract the crowd’s attention.
“These Welves from the realms above are not gods, as they would have us believe! They are not immortal, but are made of flesh and blood and bone like ourselves! I know, because I saw that flesh rotting away. I saw their corpses in that twisted wreckage.