The Green Queen

  The Green Queen

  (revision of "Mistress of Viridis" – 1955)

  (1956)**

  Margaret St. Clair

  Prologue in Shalom:

  "SHE SAID, 'The one who loved me is dead. And the one who loved power goes on living.' What do you suppose she meant by that?"

  Bonnar had spoken in a distant, introspective tone, not like a man who expects an answer. Now, without looking at Jeff, he picked up the smoky, almost-empty liquor glass from the lead-topped bar counter and drank the last few drops.

  He had, Jeff thought, been drinking when Jeff had first gone to his office, about eleven o'clock that morning. That had been four hours ago. He ought, by now, to be showing some sign of the cargo he had taken on, even of such a superior intoxicant as ethel-eugenool. But he didn't seem to have gotten anything at all out of his steady, quiet drinking, not even the slight depression that usually followed the initial euphoric action of eth.

  Bonnar had, of course, gotten something out of it. Underneath his quietness there was a desperation that clung to the intoxicant as if it represented normality—as if, without it, he would be swept over the edge of reality into a hysteria so profound that he would never be able to claw his way up to the surface of it. Well, reality on Viridis could be painful enough. But the hysteria was something new.

  Hysteria. Hysteria was in the air. Hysteria rode the streets of Shalom and peered out of every face, distorted and stony-eyed. Where were they going, the silent, hurrying people in the crowds on the tree-lined avenues? Shalom had always been an unhappy city, with the oppressed air of the capital that is heavily policed. Now the sense of oppression, of repression, was gone. An explosive hysteria had taken its place.

  Bonnar rapped on the bar. The barman put down the glass from which he had been drinking and sidled toward them. There were big flat scars and pock-marks on his hands and face. He must, Jeffery thought, be a Lower who had somehow managed to make the enormous jump from Lower to Body-servant—and that quite recently. But the man's venturing to drink in front of them wasn't at all like a Body-servant. It was an almost unbelievable freedom, in Shalom. Many things must have changed.

  Bonnar pushed his glass toward the attendant. "More eth," he said.

  The barman's fingers went out. Then he dropped the smoke-gray glass so that it rolled over on its side. "Get your own eth," he said sharply. "I'm going out on the street. Where everybody else is. I want to know what's been happening."

  He came out from behind the counter. He unhooked his white cover-up and dropped it on the floor. Head high, face glassy and fixed, he ran toward the door.

  For a moment Jeffery was too amazed to speak. Then he said, "Look here, Bonnar, what is all this? What's happened in Shalom, anyhow?"

  "Eh?" Bonnar had reached over the counter for the eth bottle and was filling his glass from it, holding the bottle carefully in both big hands.

  "I said, what's happened? When I was in Shalom six months ago, it was—well—the way Shalom's always been. A place where ten percent of the population monopolized eighty percent of the dwelling space and fifty percent of the unpolluted food, and where everybody, Uppers and Lowers alike, was always terribly afraid of damage from the omnipresent radioactive elements in the soil. Viridis, the green planet, was red-hot, and Shalom was its nervous capital. An anxious, frightened place."

  " 'Shalom, City of Fear'," Bonnar put in. "That's the title of a book an Earthman wrote about us. We've always had bad publicity."

  "Yes, that expresses it. And now—it's almost incredible how different the city feels. It's not full of fear any longer, but of hysteria. The great social distinctions seem to have crumbled, or to be crumbling. The Body-servants don't act like Body-servants. I even thought I saw a number of Lowers on the Upper-level streets."

  "You did. But they've had a little more to eat and some of their lesions have healed, so they don't look so much like Lowers any more."

  "Is that it? As I was saying, I've been out in the field for the last six months. In a lead suit a lot of the time."

  "No radio?"

  "No. We never had radio.

  "When I get back to Shalom with some, uhm, discoveries, I find all this." Jeffery made a gesture. "I've been trying to ask you all day. What's happened? Certainly something has been happening."

  "You're a Foundation man, aren't you?" Bonnar asked.

  "Yes. From Ford."

  "A professional do-gooder." Bonnar poured the last of the eth from the bottle. He looked around and then, seeing that he and Jeffery were quite alone in the bar, threw the bottle on the floor. It landed with a clunk, and rolled. "One of the boys who run around to the local people with a satchel full of surveys, and monkey manners, telling the locals where to head in. Eh?"

  Jeff kept his temper. That was part of his professional equipment, and besides, he had the impression that Bonnar's insolence was not so much meant as aggression as it was a means of keeping him in touch with reality. Aggression was a refuge from hysteria. "We try to help, yes," he answered. "If we derive information that we think can profitably be imparted, then we publicize it. We give advice if we're asked to give it. We don't interfere."

  "Is that why you came to my office this morning?" Bonnar demanded. "Because you thought that I, as a professional mask-maker of some standing, could be useful in getting your information 'publicized'?" He laughed. "If you knew all that's been happening! Was that it?"

  Jeffery sighed. No purpose would be served by telling Bonnar that his was the fourth office Jeff had visited this morning, and the first where he had found anybody in. "Yes, that's about it."

  "Well, the masks are gone. Permanently gone, I expect. I've lost my profession. Certainly Verbal mask is passé—Veridical might possibly survive as a form of entertainment. Did you know the masks were gone? I can see you didn't. And the barrier is down. That means that a quarter or so of the population of Shalom, not being hemmed in any longer by the barrier, has spread out into the fields on the outside of the barrier. You're going to have trouble 'publicizing the information' you've derived now that Verbal mask is gone and so many people aren't in the city any more."

  Bonnar nodded to himself, chewing on his lip. "I wish I hadn't been so thoroughly identified with the Queen's party," he said. "Still, it might turn out to be an advantage. The trouble is, one simply can't tell which way the cat is going to jump."

  "What cat?" asked Jeffery. "I don't know what the cat is, and somehow I don't feel that you really give a damn about which way it jumps. Something else is bothering you." He studied Bonnar for a minute. He saw a big-framed, not unhandsome blond man, the body beginning to get a little soft, a little slack. The blue eyes were flat and opaque. But the mouth communicated more. Set, and stiff, and tired, it yet longed to talk.

  "What cat?" Jeffery repeated. "And you spoke about the masks being gone. I don't supposed anybody who hasn't lived on Viridis for a long time can really know all that is—was—meant by Verbal mask. But I understood it enough to know that it was the way the Upper ten percent kept the Lower ninety from actively revolting against their miseries.

  "That was always the oddest feature of Viridian social life, the one that most puzzled outsiders—the way that the Uppers hated and despised the Lowers because they didn't earn their living, and yet actively fought the slightest attempt on the part of the Lowers to become productive workers. They were condemned to semi-starvation as parasites.

  "But that's by the by. As I was saying, I know enough to understand that the mask's being gone is a serious business. You say the barrier is down. That's incredible. Isn't Shalom afraid of radioactivity in the soil and air any longer? That's what the barrier was supposed to protect against. And what was the Queen's party?
I never heard of a Queen on Viridis before.

  "Look here, Bonnar, why don't you tell me what's been happening? I think you want to talk—you've been sidling up to it all day, and then sidling away again. When I was out in the field I found something. I think it ought to be publicized, though it might have considerable economic repercussions. I don't know whether, under present conditions, it can be publicized at all. Tell me what's been happening. You want to talk anyway. Help me to decide."

  Bonnar got up and went around behind the bar. He stopped and rummaged. He came up with a bottle of eth. "Plenty more there," he said grinning. "We'll not die of thirst, anyway."

  He filled both their glasses, and then came around to sit by Jeff. "I had my own interests to think of," he said after a minute. "You understand how it was?" He shot a challenging glance at Jeff. "I didn't just go off and leave her. I asked her again and again to come back with me. But she couldn't. And I was afraid to wait any longer. So I came back."

  "Yes, tell me all about it from the beginning, Bonnar. I want to know everything." Jeff's voice was soft.

  The bar was very quiet. From the street there came the confused, rather high-pitched murmur that had been going on all day. It seemed a little louder than it had.

  Bonnar took a gulp of eth. "I don't suppose it would do any harm to get my version. No, not at all. All right, I'll tell you. All the part I saw."

  He began to talk. And, as he talked, Jeffery felt that the events of the past few months were spreading themselves before his eyes, not as Bonnar had seen them—not even, perhaps, as they had objectively occurred—but as they would have been if he, Jeffery, had been present invisibly, as a witness, as he would have seen, heard, smelled, tasted, felt.

  Section One: The Mask

  Chapter One

  "THERE ARE only about a million people on Viridis," Bonnar said. "They went through the cards ..."

  THE PENETRATING pale green daylight of Viridis had been shut away behind long curtains, and the big room was golden in the glow of pendant ceiling-lights. Except for the soft whirr and click of the ibim as it sorted the dossier cards, there was no noise.

  The ibim, though not a new model, was fast. It had been sorting for some twenty minutes, and it had got through nearly half of the 400,500 cards that represented the feminine population of Viridis. But the basket marked "Hold" was still quite empty. The man in the dark blue uniform sighed.

  The man in the strictly-tailored gray tunic who was standing beside him waited attentively. He did not venture to speak. The machine continued its soft, unproductive whirring. The third man in the room coughed nervously, and then looked about him as if wondering to whom he ought to apologize.

  The moments ebbed. Once more the seated man in the blue uniform sighed. The "Hold" basket stayed empty. At last, with a final soft click, the ibim stopped. It had gone through all the cards. A red light flashed.

  The man in the gray tunic said, "Excuse me, sir. But it occurs to me that perhaps we're setting our sights too high."

  "Possibly," replied the man in dark blue. "Let's see, now. Physical requirements—no, we daren't compromise any more on them. The physical requirements are the essence of the thing. Residence—what length of residence on Viridis were we asking for?"

  "Ten years, sir," the gray-tuniced man answered.

  "Ten years—ah, that's a little excessive. Have it reset to—let's say—three years. She ought to have absorbed a good deal of Viridian feeling in even that length of time."

  The third man was already busy changing ibim's wiring.

  "Now, about psychic traits," the seated man continued. "It appears to me that we may have been a trifle over-strict in requiring that she be intelligent. What do you think, McPherson?" The man in blue was fond of asking the opinion of his subordinates; he liked the saving touch of informality it gave.

  "I doubt she need be, really, sir," Gray Tunic answered deferentially. "Provided she's suggestible and docile. But I do think—" he coughed twice, sharply, and cleared his throat—"I think we'd better be sure that she has the histrionic ability. I mean, sir, that that's almost as much a part of the role as the physical requirements."

  "I'm not so sure," the seated man answered. Gray Tunic blinked. His face, which was rather pale, may have turned a little paler.

  "After all, if she believes in what she's doing," the seated man said, "—and that's essential—she'll have to go through all sorts of tests—she'll handle the role adequately without any histrionic flare at all. Eh?" He looked up at Gray Tunic almost mischievously.

  "Oh, certainly, I quite agree. Your point's very well taken, sir."

  "But we'll try it with the histrionicity left in this time," Blue Uniform said, relenting. "We'll lower the intelligence requirement, though."

  "Yes, sir." The man in the gray tunic ran his finger around inside his collar. He gave an unnecessary order to the third man.

  This time the ibim had been talking to itself for only a few minutes when a card popped out. Gray Tunic reached forward for it, and then stopped. He put his hands back by his sides and waited respectfully while the rest of the dossier cards clicked on by. Two-thirds of the cards had been sorted when another one popped up into the basket. That was all. The red light came on.

  "Let's see what we've got," said the man in the dark blue uniform, heavily.

  "Yes, sir." A strictly tailored gray arm went out.

  "Read them to me," the seated man said lazily.

  "Yes, sir." He cleared his throat. "Amadeus, Leaf," he said.

  The eyebrows of the man in the dark blue uniform went up a little. "Pretty name," he commented. "And oddly appropriate."

  "Yes, sir. I mean, it certainly is. Amadeus, Leaf. Age 27. Height 5'6". Weight 109 pounds. Build, slender. Eyes, green. Skin color, very fair. Hair, dark red."

  "She sounds first-rate on the physical requirements," the seated man commented. "A little short, that's all. I wonder why we didn't get her card before."

  "I think it's the residence requirements, sir. She's only been on Viridis a little over three years."

  "Ah. Well, go on."

  "Occupation, apprentice mask-maker in the veridical division. Planet of origin, Terra. History, born in Northern Hemisphere on Terra, educated in California, married at 17. Gave birth at 18, baby died, no other children known. Marriage dissolved by common consent after death of child. No recorded marriages or love affairs since that time."

  "That's odd," the seated man commented.

  "Yes, it is. Oh, I see down at the end of the card a written-in notation, 'Said to be a close friend of Bonnar in Verbal'."

  "That's better. I doubt we could use a really cold type."

  Gray Tunic laughed dutifully. "Then there's some stuff about her hobbies—she's fond of reading and maskart—"

  "Probably why she came to Viridis. We don't get many earth immigrants, you know."

  "No, sir. Viridis has had bad publicity on earth."

  "Go on."

  "And then the dossier goes into her heredity. Oh. Something unusual, sir. It seems her great-grandmother was half Alpha Proximian. By art-sem."

  "Really! Her great-great grandmother must have been infatuated with eugenics to try a cross like that. And a hasty woman, too. If I remember my history correctly, the whole enthusiasm about A Proximians as sires lasted only about three months. After that some of the disadvantages of the strain became visible. I suppose that's where she gets that dark red hair."

  "Probably, sir. It might even be the reason why she lost her child. It was a cross with disadvantages."

  "Um-huh. What's the psychological estimate?"

  "Intelligent, stubborn, suggestible, humanitarian. Some degree of ESP. Amorous temperament. And at the bottom, the interviewer's written, 'Should be able to play a part'."

  The man in the dark blue uniform relaxed. "She sounds like our meat, except for the stubbornness. And she would be stubborn, with a heredity like that—What's on the other c
ard?"

  "Auglinger, Caroline. Age 35. Height 5'8". Weight, 144. Build, medium. Eyes, hazel. Skin color, medium. Hair, Titian red."

  "A little old, and not so well suited physically. But go on."

  "On Viridis since birth. Old Viridian family, came here in Jovis migration. Educated here. Occupation, embroiderer."

  "That's a Body-servant occupation," Blue Uniform interrupted. "That's not an insuperable objection, though. Any marks or scars?"

  "No, sir. You remember, scarlessness was one of the conditions we set up."

  "That's right, it was. What about her personal history and the psychological estimate?"

  "She's been married three times, the first when she was twenty-five. First husband was suspected of being a risen Lower—at any rate, he died in the second year. The other two marriages were ended by common consent. She had two children by the third spouse. She's not married at present, and seems to have no affairs."

  "Um. Normal Body-servant history, except for the first marriage. What boxes has the interviewer checked in the psychological estimate?"

  "Credulous, docile, conservative, nearly average intelligence. Average sexual drive. Oh, and the interviewer has written in, 'Fond of dramatizing herself and her troubles'."

  "Oh, dear. Did the person who punched those cards consider that histrionicity? Hand the dossiers to me."

  Gray Tunic obeyed deferentially. The man in the dark blue uniform studied the cards for five minutes or so, whistling very softly to himself.

  "Well, I don't think there can be much doubt of it," he said at last. "Leaf is the one. The only advantage Caroline has over her is that she would be easier to control. But I rather doubt that Caroline would be worth controlling. I'll have to take it up with the council, of course. But I imagine we'll select Leaf."

  "Yes, sir."

  A SIMILAR sorting, and for a similar purpose, went on a night or two later under quite different circumstances. These sorters worked in a room that was almost completely dark, at the level of Shalom's sewer system. They were shut away, both from the moon-bright radiance that the ionizing layer in the Viridian atmosphere gave the night sky, and from the glow of Shalom's sodium vapor street lights. Light might have betrayed them. Even as it was, they were worried about the amount of power their ibim—an older model than the one Blue Uniform and Gray Tunic had used, but one which had been rewired to be quite fast—was using.