Chegory was still working some time later when the noon bells rang out. Their brazen voices carried clearly across the sun-hammered waters of the Laitemata. Young Chegory quit work and took lunch to the Hermit Crab. He emptied lunch (two pails of broken meat) into the trough in front of the Crab’s cave. Then he lingered, wondering if he dare ask the Hermit Crab what had happened the night before.
What had made the lights go out, the dogs of the city wake, and rainbows burst across the sky? The Crab should know, for the Crab was (at least by reputation) omniscient. Chegory was curious; he wanted to know for the sake of knowing. Furthermore, if he won a reply from Jod’s most notable resident, it would give him the confidence to ask for help with graver matters.
What Chegory really wanted to do was to change his race. His skin marked him for what he was. Thanks to his genetic inheritance, he could never escape the relentless categorising of a society which regarded him with (at the least) disdain. Consequently, Chegory had developed two elaborate lines of daydream, one pessimistic, the other optimistic, but both offering certain attractions unavailable in reality.
At times, he imagined himself transformed into a rock. A solid, inert object disregarded entirely by the public which trampled it underfoot. To some people, this would be the stuff of nightmare, but Chegory drew pleasure from such inauspicious reverie because as a rock he was safe from scorn, immune to pain, a world removed from injury. In his more optimistic daydreams, he changed not into a rock but into — into something else. It mattered not what, as long as that something was not an Ebby. He longed to clothe his soul in the flesh of an Ashdan, or to garb his spirit in the smoke-grey of the Janjuladoola people of the imperial heartland. Even the pallor of the people of Wen Endex appealed, though aesthetes everywhere despise it.
Since Chegory worked in such close proximity to the Hermit Crab, and daily served lunch to that entity, he was ever aware that the stuff of fancy could be made the stuff of flesh, or (to put it another way) that his red-skinned flesh could be made into something more to the world’s fancy. But he had never yet been able to nerve himself up to ask the Crab for assistance.
‘What,’ said the Hermit Crab, ‘are you waiting for?’
Chegory did not dare speak his mind. He did not ask for miracles. Instead, he meekly asked: ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
To which the Hermit Crab answered: ‘Stand out of my sunlight.’
Chegory took the lunch pails back to the lunch pail stand, where they would remain until the butcher’s boy who brought the Crab’s daily meal to Jod refilled them on the morrow. Then Chegory washed his hands in a free-flowing fountain. Then he dressed for lunch.
To work in the blazing sun Chegory wore a loincloth and boots. An odd combination but one appropriate to his job, since he was often putting his toes in danger by sledgehammering rocks. For lunch, he put a light knee-length robe over his loincloth. Later in the day, when it was time to leave Jod, he would change into his evening wear, which was long lightweight linen trousers and a lightweight longsleeved shirt, both worn primarily as a defence against night’s mosquitoes.
This history has concerns weightier than fashions to deal with but those who have an interest in such things will note that this was fairly standard wear for males of the lower classes on Untunchilamon, except that most would go barefoot or wear sandals rather than encumbering themselves with boots. Lower-class females, however, would wear trousers and shirt exclusively, regardless of the time of day. People of a higher station, such as Ivan Pokrov or Artemis Ingalawa, would tend to wear ankle-length robes at all times, while sorcerers would never be seen dead or alive in anything other than long, flowing silken robes most richly embroidered.
Thus clothing.
When Chegory had washed his hands and had dressed for lunch he entered the white marble building which housed the Analytical Institute. There the windchimes sang:
Tangle tongle schtingle schtong…
It was the season of Fistavlir, the Long Dry. Yet even so, there was just enough wind to idle the chimes into music.
Meanwhile, back on the mainland — but you have guessed already. Of course. The conjurer Odolo, Official Keeper of the Imperial Sceptre, was in the treasury. And had found the imperial sceptre lying on the floor where the hand of a thief had discarded it. And Odolo’s heart was hammering, for the wishstone, priceless ornament of that sceptre, was gone!
By the time Chegory Guy was ready to sit down to his own lunch on the island of Jod, Odolo had already raised the alarm, and troops were already beginning the search for the guilty — or for scapegoats. But Chegory knew nothing of that, therefore his appetite for his lunch was entirely unspoiled. He was feeling hungry, relaxed and tolerably happy as he strode into the formal dining room.
The usual company was there, politely waiting for Chegory to enter before they seated themselves. There was the olive-skinned Ivan Pokrov, head of the Analytical Institute and master of the Analytical Engine. The Ashdan mathematician Artemis Ingalawa, who had been labouring as usual to develop algorithms for the use of the aforesaid engine. Olivia Qasaba, who had worked all morning in the Dromdanjerie before making her way to Jod. Last but not least, Chegory’s coeval Ox No Zan, the foreign student who had come all the way from Babrika to study under Ivan Pokrov. Today young No was looking decidedly miserable because he had an appointment that afternoon with Doctor Death the dentist.
As Chegory entered the room there was a scraping of chairs as these habitual dinner companions seated themselves. All but Ingalawa, who had one thing she had to do before she relaxed.
‘What’s for lunch?’ said Chegory.
‘Sea slugs,’ said Olivia.
‘Oh, good,’ said Chegory, with predictable enthusiasm.
‘And flying fish,’ said Olivia.
‘Better still!’ said Chegory, pulling out a chair as if to sit.
‘Hands!’ said Ingalawa.
This hand-check was the one duty restraining her from relaxation. She took it very seriously indeed.
Reluctantly Chegory extended his paws.
‘I did wash them,’ he said. ‘Right after I fed the Hermit Crab. I gave them a good wash.’
‘They’re filthy!’ said Ingalawa. ‘Look! Black gunge under the nails!’
Chegory blushed so fiercely that the flush was visible even though he was redskinned to start with.
‘Well, what do you expect,’ he said. ‘That’s rock gardening for you.’
‘You’ve got rakes, shovels and god knows what. Why do you need to go grubbing about with your hands?’ ‘Because,’ said Chegory. ‘It’s technical.’
‘What’s technical about rocks?’ said Ingalawa.
‘If you must know,’ said Chegory. ‘I was cleaning out the grease trap, you know, where all the kitchen water-’ ‘What on earth were you doing that for?’
Chegory began to get worked up. Angry, even.
‘Well, it was rocks, okay, my rocks had got into there, I mean I didn’t put them there, it was probably those kids, you know, that Marthandorthan bunch, they come over the harbour bridge in the evenings, they just run riot. Okay, so it’s all rocks in there and a whole lot of filth and muck and stuff. So what am I supposed to do, make some big thing out of it? I mean, who does it if I don’t?’
‘You still could have-’
‘Oh, leave the boy alone,’ said Pokrov. ‘Let’s eat.’ ‘Before he’s washed his hands?’ said Ingalawa.
‘He’s not going to suck the stuff from under his nails, is he? Sit down the pair of you. Eat, eat!’
With some reluctance Ingalawa abandoned the civilisation of Chegory Guy for the moment and seated herself. Chegory, smarting still from Ingalawa’s reprimand, took his own place. Olivia grinned at him from across the table. She already had a flying fish on her plate and was teasing its wings open and shut with her fingers as if pretending it was still flying. Her grin was inciting Chegory to do the same. He was sorely tempted — but a glance at Ingalawa showed him the scholarly Ashdan female was still dragonising him.