The old geezer was turning on the portly indigestion case, who had made some outraged noises. “And I’ll thank you to let your remarks go public! Don’t you know what happens to people who won’t talk politics? They stop caring about their government! And do you know what happens when they stop caring? One night, some sneaky, unprincipled scoundrel sneaks in and changes their government on them! And the next morning, they wake up and find their taxes are as high as their collarbones, and they can’t go anyplace without a permit, and, taken all in all, they’re not much better than slaves! And that’s what happens when you keep your remarks to yourself!”
“Sir!” The fat one recoiled as though he’d stepped on slime. “This is obscene!”
“I’d rather be obscene, and not absurd—but since you seem to think the other way, I think my friends and I had better go look for some fresher air!” He turned to Father Marco, Dar, and Sam. “How about it, oh ones with spirit? You’ll find a breeze blowing by the stage that’s amazingly fresh! We’re going down there, my niece and I—join us, if you’re up to it!” And he turned away, limping between the tables in a rush, as though life would get away from him if he didn’t hurry to catch it.
The girl turned to follow him—and did her gaze linger just a moment on Dar?
Imagination. Had to be. But …
She was only his niece!
“Huh? What?” His head snapped around toward Father Marco.
“I said, shall we join them?” There was a gleam in the priest’s eye.
“Uh … yeah. Seem like nice folks.”
“Why not?” Sam was a monotone in a frigid face. “It’s sure to be lively.”
They got up, with their glasses, and filed after the loud voice on the old legs.
“Sit down, sit down!” The geezer waved them to chairs around a large table as he slid into one himself. His niece sat demurely next to him. “So you’re a Cathodean,” the oldster greeted Father Marco. “What’s a live order like yours doing in a dead place like this?”
“Where is a minister of Life more needed than among the moribund?” Father Marco countered.
“Wait a minute. Hold on, there.” Dar held up a palm. “Back that up a few lines, will you? I think I missed something.”
“What?”
“How’d you know he was a Cathodean?”
“Huh? Why, the emblem of his order, of course!” the old man exclaimed.
“This.” Father Marco tapped the tiny yellow screwdriver in his breast pocket. “Used to be the sign of an electrical engineer—like a fraternity pin. We just made if official.”
“Oh.” Dar pulled his head down, feeling dense.
“You’ve got the advantage of me now,” Father Marco informed the geezer.
“Yeah, I know.” The old man grinned wickedly. “Ain’t it great?”
“Grandfather!” the vision reproved, and the old man winced (her shoes did have very sharply pointed toes).
“Well, I can’t have everything,” he sighed. “I’m Whitey, Father, and this is Lona, my … niece,” he added, with a glare at her.
She tried to look chastened. “Anything you say, Grandfather.”
“Must you make me feel my age, lass?” Whitey sighed. “I know you have a fixation about absolute honesty in all the little things—but have mercy! I don’t ask for much—just that you call me ‘Uncle’ when other people are around. Is that so much to ask?”
“Not at all, now that they know the truth.” She gave the rest of the company a dazzling smile, and lied, “He’s my uncle.”
“Glad to meet him,” Dar muttered, his eyes on Lona.
Father Marco cleared his throat and stretched out a hand. “I’m Father Marco Ricci. And this is Dar Mandra, and Sam Bine.”
“Here y’ are, Whitey.” A waiter set a large glass of wine in front of the old man. “And you, Lona.”
“Thank you.” She accepted the cocktail with a smile that was polite, but warm too, then deliberately turned her eyes away. The waiter hesitated a moment hopefully, then sighed and turned away.
“Whitey the Wino?” Father Marco guessed.
Whitey held up his glass in a semi-toast and nodded approval. “You’re quick.”
“Not really; I’ve been hearing about you in every tavern and taproom for the last three parsecs. Glad I finally caught up with you.”
The name fitted, Dar decided. The old man’s hair was stark white, and his eyes were so light a blue that they verged on being colorless. Even his skin had a bleached look—weathered and toughened, as though it ought to have a deep space-tan; but he was almost white.
And the second name seemed to fit, too. He’d drained half the glass at a gulp.
“ ‘Caught up with me,’ is it?” Whitey grinned. “If it weren’t for the cassock, I’d worry.”
Father Marco grinned too. “No, I’m not the Revenue Service.”
“Or an angry husband,” Lona added.
“My dear!” Whitey protested, wounded. “Would I come between a man and his wife?”
“Only if you had a chance to,” she murmured, and sipped at her drink.
Whitey turned to Father Marco with a sigh of despair. “Ah, the cynicism of this latter generation! Are there no ideals left, Father? No faith?”
“I believe in you implicitly, Grandfather—I’m just not saying what for.”
“To move around, for one thing,” Father Marco said. “You don’t seem to have stayed on any one planet any longer than I have, Whitey.”
The Wino nodded. “I can take any of these fat, complacent peoples, for just so long.”
“Or they you,” Lona murmured.
“Well, they usually do offer to pay my expenses to the next planet. I’m getting a bit restless in my old age, Father—moving outward, hoping to find a place that isn’t sliding down into decadence.”
“It’s about time, Whitey.” A tallow-ketch of a man stopped by the table.
“And I have to keep finding new audiences.” Whitey slid a flat keyboard out of his tunic and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, folks …”
“You’re the entertainment?” Dar said, astonished.
“Aren’t I always?” he answered. Lona added, “Not much security, but it’s a living.”
“Better than it was in the old days, my dear,” Whitey reminded her, “before I met your grandmother. I sold narcotics back then, Father—not entirely legally. Before I saw the light—when I went under the name of Tod Tambourin.” He turned away toward the stage, following Lona.
Sam sat stiff and rigid, her eyes bulging. “That’s Tod Tambourin?”
“Couldn’t be.” But Dar felt a sinking certainty. “Great poets don’t sing in bars.”
“I can think of a few exceptions.” Father Marco leaned back and sipped his drink. “Let’s judge the product, shall we?”
The “product” didn’t bear judgment at all. Whitey settled himself on a low stool while Lona slid onto a high one, heels hooked on a rung, knees together, hands clasped in her lap. Whitey struck a rippling crescendo from his keyboard. It filled the room, leaving a moment of silence behind it. Into that silence Whitey pumped a vigorous song which had its roots in the best of the bad old days, a bit of bawdy nonsense about a lady spacer, who was scarcely a lady, and whose interest in space was confined to some interesting spaces. Lona sat through it, amused, joining in on the choruses with almost as much relish as her grandfather.
“This is the poet laureate of the Terran Sphere?” Sam cried, scandalized.
Dar felt a trifle disillusioned too—but not in Whitey.
The song ended with a rocketing crescendo that sounded like a spaceship taking off. The patrons roared their approval, stomping and laughing; and when the racket slackened and died, it blended into a slower, almost melancholy tune that nonetheless had a feeling of quiet certainty underlying it.
Then Lona began to sing, not looking at Whitey, gazing off into space a little above the audience’s heads, in a voice as sweet as spring and as clear as a fountain. The words didn’t quite register; they seemed to slide around and envelop Dar in a dazzle of consonants—but the meaning sank in: a lament for the wilderness that was, but never was, the primeval beauty that men hearkened back to when the name “Terra” was spoken.