Not a restful nightmare, in spite of Kargil’s attempt to put him at ease.
This expansion of his revolutionary infrastructure at a rate faster than his cautious nature recommended was unsettling business. All was going too swiftly because of the new security org. Jama wasn’t yet used to working with people he didn’t know and couldn’t locate, who took action without being given orders, and who didn’t bother to report back until after their actions had been resolved. Did it make him feel secure that everyone in his untested, more virulent org was disguised to look like a bonehead acting independently of any rational scheme? No, it did not! He was sweating into his arm puffs!
Nothing was as foolproof as design would have it. Foolproof was a harlequin mischief maker who knew how to prove better than anyone else that the soberest man was all fool! Someday someone was bound to be spotted by the police.
Could he laugh with Kargil? Kargil was willing to chuckle at the thought that if (or when) they were infiltrated by a police agent, that poor nudnik probably would be written off by his colleagues as just another chump chasing a mythical conspiracy! Or maybe a dupe caught in the latest aliens-are-among-us rumor. No! Laughter wasn’t a substitute for certainty.
Still, one must live. One must act—even with incomplete information. Lord Jama was a creature of quiet times who dreamed of the adventures rampant during unstable times. In recent bouts of imagination he cast himself as a dashing, fast-acting zenoli fighter of the Interregnum. How could he fault the discomfort of a little paranoia? He fanned himself and rearranged his jewelry. Hadn’t Katana, one of Kargil’s recruits and an expert on the old zenoli ways, recently recited to him an aphorism of the zenoli? “Boldness and Caution make fit companions for marriage!”
It was proper that he compose any reply to the inquisitive weasel with extreme care—if he could keep his mind off Katana’s breasts long enough to compose his thoughts. Desire was supposed to slacken in a man his age—sixty-four by last reckoning—but it never had. Nevertheless, it would be better if he concentrated his seductive energies on less dangerous maids.
Frightfulperson Katana of the Calmer Sea was a mature woman, at least thirty-five, an ex-naval Intelligence officer of no mean perception, with a supple body which knew every gesture of the old zenoli practice, a remarkable throwback to the old noble clan of Frightfulpeople which she adamantly claimed as her own line. But: She had been dismissed from the Stars&Ship after murdering her husband— unfairly according to Kargil—but nonetheless a woman to be pinched with caution.
Katana’s six-year-old daughter was more Kikaju’s métier, charming even without her mother’s breasts, if dangerous in her own petite way. Frightfulperson Otaria of the Calmer Sea. Instant seduction was Jama’s preference, but for variety, a long drawn-out courtship had a special marinated flavor. Otaria would be ready to bed in about another six years if carefully prepared. By then she would have budding breasts—perhaps, when mature, to rival her mother’s own wonderful orbs. A carefully prepared virgin was one of life’s gourmet delicacies. Dangerous, of course—her mother was fiercely protective—but a little danger was one of life’s more piquant spices. To be used, never overused.
But to return to business. The nibble from the galactic black had offered to buy his galactarium. No price was mentioned. The implication was that funds were not the buyer’s chief constraint. Jama was always interested in a good price, but at this time he was not interested in selling. Slowly he composed a counteroffer, careful to keep within the legal niceties. Was the potential buyer, he inquired, interested in the information contained in the device or in the device itself?
Then he forgot about it in his enthusiasm to choose his wig and mask for this evening’s orgy. He hadn’t dared invite Frightfulperson Katana. His companion was to be a young baroque singer, freshly turned eighteen, whose mother was
too far away to watch over her daughter carefully, having selected for her child’s further education the services of an expensive, but distant, singing master—fortunately Jama’s neighbor and accomplice. Such innocence was challenging. Kikaju had spent the best part of the previous evening, with several of his male friends, introducing her to the customs and manners of the Aziyade School of Orgy—about which her wide eyes had known absolutely nothing.
The Hyperlord, himself, was partial to the exuberant court rituals of Emperor Takeia-the-Happy of the eighty-seventh century, which were undergoing an underground revival and which were to be the basis of the indulgence planned for the seventh watch. He already had the costume for his companion, which had been chosen for her after much dressing and undressing, and his own costume, but he wasn’t yet sure of his foot perfume. With that much foot fondling, his foot perfume had to be selected with care. And it had to match dark pink. The Hyperlord’s reputation as a master of erotica was at stake.
Oh yes, and he must dispatch his weasel into the currents of space.
17
YOUNG BOYS PREFER OLDER WOMEN, 14,791 GE
The psychohistoric equations are only symbols which map out futures; they cannot describe a future to an endlessly fine resolution— any more than the painting of a landscape will show, under a microscope, the crocus in the meadow on its distant mountain slope. Replace the crocus with a sparrow and the painting of the landscape has not been changed at all.
A psychohistoric prediction is a map of all the high-probability features on the lay of the land, placing the mountain and valley contours and the way the rivers and roads wander between them. It will give you the climate and the resources. It will populate your map with virtual houses and stores and spaceports but will not supply tenant names or lace curtains at the windows or the precise watch during which rain-puddles will appear.
Only one major word of caution: Check the critical branch-points; make sure that you are actually in the world described by your map. I had a friend once who tried for hours to locate himself on the wrong map. Now that man, we might say, was lost!
—Excerpt from the Founder’s Psychohistorical Tools for Making a Future
A meteor tore a white rip in the dark sky of Neuhadra. On a Glatim balcony, Eron counted each puff of breath through his light facemask.
He was also counting his blessings. For the first time in his life the Osa boy felt totally in command of his own destiny. He had observed many people who had the aura of command, like his father, and they wielded their authority with a kind of blas6 nonchalance, as if it were too ordinary to think about, but it wasn’t ordinary for Eron and he relished this ability to steer his life where he wanted it to go.
He calculated the drop to the courtyard beneath and decided it was too far down, so he worked his way over the balustrade and by careful handgrips lowered himself onto a foot-wide ledge from which he could jump. He didn’t want Murek to know he was going out this evening. Not if he valued his hide. He had a rendezvous with Murek’s new love who was, ahem, a delightfully mature woman; she seemed to have both the Ganderian penchant for the escapade and an attraction for young boys. Nemia was a boy’s gracious dream.
He had certainly complicated matters by (twice daily) making taboo penetration of his immature servant in violation of both Ganderian ethics and her contract. Still, Girl would cover for him; she seemed to be pleased to do everything he told her to do and disinclined to be jealous over class lines. Her unnatural obedience certainly made him uneasy—she even lied for him—but how could he reject that kind of uncompromising loyalty? He mustn’t take it for granted; he had already learned to be careful in the way he phrased his instructions; if he could think of eight ways to carry out an instruction, Girl could always think of the ninth.