Without liquor, it made him drunk. “I can’t stand it,” he shouted, “I like you all so dashed bloomed crutting much that I could beat the sentimental brains out of the whole crook lot of you…”
“Isn’t that a sweet speech?” murmured an old farm wife nearby.
A policeman, in full uniform, agreed.
The party had started. It lasted three full days, and when it was over there was not a dry eye or a full bottle on the whole Station of Doom.
From time to time he cleared up enough to enjoy his miraculous gift of hiering. He looked through all their minds while they chatted and sang and drank and ate and were as happy as Larry; there was not one of them who had come along vainly. They were truly rejoicing. They loved him. They wished him well. He had his doubts about how long that kind of love would last, but he enjoyed it while it lasted.
Lavinia stayed out of his way the first day; on the second and third days she was gone. They gave him real Norstrilian beer to drink, which they had brought up to one-hundred-and-eight proof by the simple addition of raw spirits. With this, he forgot the Garden of Death, the sweet wet smells, the precise offworld voice of the Lord Redlady, the pretentious blue sky in the ceiling.
He looked in their minds and over and over again he saw the same thing,
“You’re our boy. You made it. You’re alive. Good luck, Rod, good luck to you, fellow. We didn’t have to see you stagger off, giggling and happy, to the house that you would die in.”
Had he made it, thought Rod, or was it chance which had done it for him?
ANGER OF THE ONSECK
By the end of the week, the celebration was over. The assorted aunts and cousins had gone back to their farms. The Station of Doom was quiet, and Rod spent the morning making sure that the fieldhands had not neglected the sheep too much during the prolonged party. He found that Daisy, a young three-hundred-ton sheep, had not been turned for two days and had to be relanolized on her ground side before earth canker set in; then he discovered that the nutrient tubes for Tanner, his thousand-ton ram, had become jammed and that the poor sheep was getting a bad case of edema in his gigantic legs. Otherwise things were quiet. Even when he saw Beasley’s red pony tethered in his own yard, he had no premonition of trouble.
He went cheerfully into the house, greeting Beasley with an irreverent, “Have a drink on me, Mister and Owner Beasley! Oh, you have one already! Have the next one then, sir!”
“Thanks for the drink, lad, but I came to see you. On business.”
“Yes sir,” said Rod, “you’re one of my trustees, aren’t you?”
“That I am,” said Beasley, “but you’re in trouble, lad. Real trouble.”
Rod smiled at him evenly and calmly. He knew that the older man had to make a big effort to talk with his voice instead of just spieking with his mind; he appreciated the fact that Beasley had come to him personally, instead of talking to the other trustees about him. It was a sign that he, Rod, had passed his ordeal. With genuine composure, Rod declared:
“I’ve been thinking, sir, this week, that I’d gotten out of trouble.”
“What do you mean, Owner McBan?”
“You remember…” Rod did not dare mention the Garden of Death, nor his memory that Beasley had been one of the secret board who had passed him as being fit to live.
Beasley took the cue. “Some things we don’t mention, lad, and I see that you have been well taught.”
He stopped there and stared at Rod with the expression of a man looking at an unfamiliar corpse before turning it over to identify it. Rod became uneasy with the stare.
“Sit, lad, sit down,” said Beasley, commanding Rod in his own house.
Rod sat down on the bench, since Beasley occupied the only chair — Rod’s grandfather’s huge carved offworld throne. He sat. He did not like being ordered about, but he was sure that Beasley meant him well and was probably strained by the unfamiliar effort of talking with his throat and mouth.
Beasley looked at him again with that peculiar expression, a mixture of sympathy and distaste.
“Get up again, lad, and look round your house to see if there’s anybody about.”
“There isn’t,” said Rod. “My aunt Doris left after I was cleared, the workwoman Eleanor borrowed a cart and went off to the market, and I have only two station hands. They’re both out reinfecting Baby. She ran low on her santaclara count.”
Normally, the wealth-producing sicknesses of their gigantic half-paralyzed sheep would have engrossed the full attention of any two Norstrilian farmers, without respect to differences in age and grade.
This time, no.
Beasley had something serious and unpleasant on his mind. He looked so pruney and unquiet that Rod felt a real sympathy for the man.
Rod did not argue. Dutifully he went out the back door, looked around the south side of the house, saw no one, walked around the house on the north side, saw no one there either, and reentered the house from the front door. Beasley had not stirred, except to pour a little more bitter ale from his bottle to his glass. Rod met his eyes. Without another word, Rod sat down. If the man was seriously concerned about him (which Rod thought he was), and if the man was reasonably intelligent (which Rod knew he was), the communication was worth waiting for and listening to. Rod was still sustained by the pleasant feeling that his neighbors liked him, a feeling which had come plainly to the surface of their honest Norstrilian faces when he walked back into his own back yard from the van of the Garden of Death.
Beasley said, as though he were speaking of an unfamiliar food or a rare drink, “Boy, this talking has some advantages. If a man doesn’t put his ear into it, he can’t just pick it up with his mind, can he now?”
Rod thought for a moment. Candidly he spoke, “I’m too young to know for sure, but I never heard of somebody picking up spoken words by hiering them with his mind. It seems to be one or the other. You never talk while you are spieking, do you?”
Beasley nodded. “That’s it, then. I have something to tell you which I shouldn’t tell you, and yet I have got to tell you, so if I keep my voice blooming low, nobody else will pick it up, will they?”
Rod nodded. “What is it, sir? Is there something wrong with the title to my property?”
Beasley took a drink but kept staring at Rod over the top of the mug while he drank.
“You’ve got trouble there too, lad, but even though it’s bad, it’s something I can talk over with you and with the other trustees. This is more personal, in a way. And worse.”
“Please, sir! What is it?” cried Rod, almost exasperated by all this mystification.
“The Onseck is after you!”
“What’s an onseck?” said Rod, “I have never heard of it.”
“It’s not an it,” said Beasley gloomily, “it’s a him. Onseck, you know, the chap in the Commonwealth government. The man who keeps the books for the Vice-Chairman. It was Hon. Sec., meaning Honorary Secretary or something else prehistoric, when we first came to this planet, but by now everybody just says Onseck and writes it just the way it sounds. He knows that he can’t reverse your hearing in the Garden of Death.”
“Nobody could,” cried Rod, “it’s never been done; everybody knows that.”
“They may know it, but there’s civil trial.”
“How can they give me a civil trial when I haven’t had time to change? You yourself know—”
“Never, laddie, never say what Beasley knows or doesn’t know. Just say what you think.” Even in private, between just the two of them, Beasley did not want to violate the fundamental secrecy of the hearing in the Garden of Death.