The Green Queen Page 3

  Bonnar had a sharp sense of anti-climax. It oughtn't to have been like that. Had she turned into the shrine merely to avoid the Lower, or was it because the slogans on the tree had roused her curiosity? Or had the emotional gap left by his rejection of her motivated her action? It was impossible to say.

  He turned from the window to his desk. He'd see what he could find out about mask-persistence. There were two or three questions—and possible sources for answers to them ... He began to write on a pad.

  He put the brush down after a moment. Why was it so important that Leaf enter the Apple Pickers? As far as he knew, it was a cult like any other one. Most cults were managed by former Body-servants who, in catering to the Uppers' craving for theological novelty, managed to put themselves on a precarious psychological equality with their lords. Sometimes the same Body-servant would pop up in cult after cult. Bonnar himself had always privately thought that the prevalence of cults was a certain indictment of the effectiveness of Veridical maskart. He couldn't see any reason why it was desirable for Leaf to enter this cult.

  Oh, let it go. It wasn't his place to see any reason, provided his superiors did. And Leaf had done what he had been trying to make her do. She had gone into the shrine. Her subsequent actions were no concern of his. He didn't suppose he would ever see her again.

  Chapter Two

  "I KNEW I couldn't be objective about it," Bonnar said. "And they wanted an objective report. If I couldn't influence her, they'd send somebody else. So I tried to control ..."

  "WHAT DO you want?" the Lower asked desperately. His body was wet with sweat, and his face glistened with the tears he had shed in his pain. "What do you Uppers want from us? You come down Stairs, down to our habits, and hurt us. You twist our arms and hit us and take our women. Sometimes you do worse than that. But you're never satisfied. You always want something we can't give. If we knew what it was, we'd try to give it. What do you want?"

  Bonnar paused for a moment. In the deep green light—always deeper, always greener, below Stairs—the Lower's sweaty body seemed to give off star-like reflections, to have the green-silk shimmer of Sirius. Was he sweating because Bonnar had hurt him? The mouth's twist, in the dim light, might express much beside pain.

  "Be quiet," he ordered briefly.

  "But what do you wan—Oh. Please. Oh." The tears began to run down the Lower's face, gently and uncontrollably.

  There was an art to these things. Bonnar sighted scientifically, squinting in the dimness. Did the Lower's question mean anything? No, fortunately. He didn't have to answer it. It was no more than an exclamation of pain would have been, quite meaningless. "You know what I want," he said through his teeth. He tapped the Lower, lightly but accurately.

  The Lower began to sob, no longer noiselessly. Bonnar hit him again.

  An hour later, Bonnar was up Stairs once more. His face was flushed, and his jaw was set. The visit to the Lower had ended, as visits there always seemed to end, in a generalized frustration and dismay. He hadn't got what he had wanted. And even if he had brought a woman back with him, it would have been the same. A Lower woman might seem an outlet, but she wasn't. On other visits—but this time the sense of disappointment was keener than it had ever been before.

  All the same, he'd have stayed down Stairs a little longer if the prick-dial on his wrist hadn't warned him that he was exceeding the limits of permissible exposure. It was a little satisfaction, though a poor one, to think that the Lower would remember him for a good many days.

  Now what should he do? A woman, say a Body-servant? Oh, God. In the weeks after Leaf had—left him (it was odd that the affair presented itself so. He had certainly got rid of her, not she of him. And yet he always felt that she had deserted him)—in those first few weeks, there had been a good many girls. They blurred together into a tasteless whole. Light or dark, slim or plump, short or tall, they smelled the same, felt the same, acted the same.

  And if they didn't act the same, the differences made no difference. Eager or indifferent, their response had never seemed a response to him. There had been an acceptance in Leaf, a deeper femininity, that—

  He had been walking along steadily enough, headed for a decontamination stall. It was always a wise precaution after being below Stairs. Now he halted, transfixed by a sudden idea.

  It was a simple enough idea, though it had been eluding him for the last three or four days, ever since he had known about Horvendile. But now he knew what was wrong, why his judgement seemed so biased that he felt he couldn't trust himself to fill out the report. He was jealous of Leaf.

  Oh, no. No, he couldn't be. Jealousy was a Lower emotion. They might stick knives in each other over women or even food rations; but an Upper was immune from personal jealousy, though he might be—ought to be—jealous of his caste's power or his profession's prestige. Bonnar could prove he wasn't jealous. If he really had a jealous nature, wouldn't he have suffered more when he had let Leaf go?

  There was a decontamination stall, of a rather old-fashioned architectural style, just ahead. It was studded with arabesques of the small, cracked diamonds, that had been so much in vogue ten or fifteen years ago. Bonnar stepped inside, pulling the fastenings on his clothes.

  Robot hands reached out. With clumsy accuracy they undressed him. His discarded clothing dropped into a disposal unit. Warm soapy water began to pour down. Bonnar stepped under it.

  The bath momentarily relaxed his tension. The warm, sweet-smelling flood seemed to wash away his self-questioning. He stood under it with mindless pleasure. But as the bath cooled and became astringent his doubts returned. Parting with Leaf hadn't been painful, no. But he hadn't been jealous of her then. There hadn't been anybody else.

  The shower shut off. If Bonnar had wanted it repeated, he could have pressed another button, but he was tired of soapy water. He stood quietly while the bath robot dried him. A packet of clean, warm clothes plopped out of a slot. Bonnar opened it and began to dress.

  His really personal belongings were on a table to the right of the shower in a pouch. He had put the pouch there when he had pulled the fastenings on his clothes. Now he hung it around his neck again.

  When he had first got the notice directing him, in formal, official language, to "resume the acquaintance of Miss Leaf Amadeus," he had been pleased. But not too pleased. Certainly not too pleased. He was feeling rather tired of women, just then, and ... But he had looked her up.

  She had moved. He had had rather a time finding her. Her new place had been on the edge of town, near the barrier, a location that wasn't considered especially desirable. She had lived near Tandis Park before, a park that was outstanding for its daily displays of veridical.

  She had changed. When she came to the door, he hardly knew her. Her hair was the same, but her face was smoother and more filled out, and she moved with a more deliberate grace than he was used to in her.

  "Oh—it's Bonnar," she said. "Come on in." She had smiled, but he had been uncomfortably aware that she wasn't especially glad to see him. She turned and led him into the maskart room. She did move more slowly than she used to, and hadn't she lost weight? Even though her face was fuller? He knew so well how her body was.

  In the maskart room there had been a man, seated, quite at his ease. That had been a real shock, a real jar. Horvendile. Bonnar had hated him as soon as he saw him. Horvendile ...

  Bonnar was finished dressing now. His old clothes would be laundered and checked for residual radioactivity. If they were usable he'd get a credit for them. If not, they'd be destroyed. The contamination problem was a constant nuisance, if not quite a danger, even to Uppers.

  Horvendile had been seated on the heavy, square-framed k'ang, his feet out straight in front of him. (About a third of the people who had come to Viridis in the first Jovis migration had been Chinese. They had brought with them the Chinese love of squareness and frontality. Now, four generations later, Viridian household furniture still showed their influence in it
s stolidity as well as its nomenclature.) He had got up from the k'ang politely when Bonnar came in.

  Leaf had introduced them. Bonnar, already jealous, had seen a small, light-skinned, sandy-haired man, very well dressed. Horvendile, in fact, had been so well-dressed as to deserve the adjective "net", and he was wearing the dark reddish-brown jacket that anybody who was "nett" was wearing now. Bonnar had been unpleasantly conscious that his own costume had come from main depot and was standard Upper wear.

  Horvendile, it seemed, taught history at Shalom University. There was a scattering of conversation, and then an awkward pause. "Why don't you get us something to eat, Leaf?" Horvendile had said.

  Oh, quite the airs of the master of the house! Bonnar, thinking about it now, felt the blood rise in his cheeks. And Leaf had risen and gone out for food obediently.

  Left alone, the two men had not even tried to talk. Bonnar had stared at the other, knowing he was being rude, and not caring. Horvendile had kept looking up at the ceiling, a faint smile on his lips. "I'll see what's keeping Leaf," he had said finally, and gone out to the pantry after her.

  The little vulgarian! He had the manners of a Bodyservant, a Lower, a ... Could it possibly be? No, nobody would be allowed to teach history without a thorough search having been made into his pedigree. Horvendile was as much an Upper as Bonnar himself. And yet there was something odd about Horvendile, something very odd indeed. Was he sorry for the Lowers? Sometimes you met Uppers who were. Bonnar had resolved to find out all he could about Horvendile.

  The moments had passed. There was no sound from the food pantry. At last Bonnar, knowing he was behaving inexcusably, had risen and tiptoed toward the pantry. He had opened the door very, very softly, and looked in. He had found Leaf in Horvendile's arms.

  Or rather, Horvendile had one arm around her and was caressing her with the other hand. His air was easy; he had caressed her before, he would do it again. And Leaf leaned away from him, her eyes shut, her breath deep-drawn. Her face wore the look, the excited, beautiful look that Bonnar had seen on it so many times. It had taken all of Bonnar's self-command for him to tiptoe back to the maskart room and sit down quietly again.

  Ever since, he had tried to tell himself that he had imagined it.

  Leaf had come in with the tray of food at last, Horvendile tagging behind her. Bonnar had tried to chew a biscuit, sip some vermotka. It hadn't been a pleasant call. But Bonnar had remembered his instructions. Before he left, he had asked Leaf to have dinner with him some night. She'd said she was busy, had refused.

  Two days later he had received a form to fill out, a "report of progress" form.

  What progress had he to report? The day after his visit he'd called Leaf and asked her to dinner—for a date, anything—again. This time her refusal hadn't been so positive. It was possible that in time he'd be able to get back on the old footing with her. If he didn't think he could, it was his duty to say so on the report.

  And then they—the people who had told him to resume the acquaintance of Miss Leaf Amadeus—would send somebody else.

  How could he know what progress he was making? His mind was shaken profoundly. Jealousy and desire and hate and rage were buffeting him. It was in an effort to resolve the chaos of emotion that he had gone down Stairs; and he had come back more desperate with conflict than ever. His impulse was to fill out the report with a glowing account of progress made, with an even more glowing account of progress for which he hoped. But how could he be sure what his motive was?

  If only he had something to set beside his jealousy of Leaf, something creative and real that belonged to him, he thought he could fill out the report more objectively.

  For a moment he felt a spark of rebelliousness. Why should he be so concerned for objectivity? He had obeyed once, when he had broken off his relationship with Leaf; and if the results of that obedience hadn't been quite what "they" would have liked, it was none of his affair. Let them pull their own chestnuts out of the fire. Then the habits of a lifetime reasserted themselves, and he was ashamed. Discipline was the basis of Viridian society. And discipline, in the end, served one's own interests best.

  Bonnar had been walking along slowly since he left the decontamination booth. The sun had set; outside, the night would be as bright as moonlight from the ionizing layer in the air, but under the dome there was the good yellow glare of sodium vapor street lamps. Suddenly he thought of Candia.

  Candia. For the first time in two days, his face really relaxed. It was not, in a sense, very dignified. But if he wanted something creative, something that belonged to him, Candia might be the answer. He rather liked her. And her suggestion was not without its flattery.

  Candia was a woman of a type that was neither rare nor common on Viridis. Women like her were recognized, tolerated, and even modestly honored. Candia was a woman (Upper, of course) who loved child-bearing.

  Bonnar had never been quite sure how many children Candia had had. He'd asked her about it once, and she had laughed and evaded him. But from various casual references in her conversation, he thought it must be seven or eight. It was odd to think about, since she wasn't much over Leaf's age (better keep his mind off that), and seemed young and fresh.

  Would her invitation—suggestion—still be open? It was a week or so since she had suggested, over glasses of anthelia at a party, that he might give her her next child. She had added parenthetically that it was nearly eight weeks since her last delivery. Bonnar had been too startled to do much except stutter in reply.

  He couldn't phone her. The phone service in Shalom was out of order, as usual. The grapevine had it there had been some Lower sabotage. And he didn't want to drop in on Candia uninvited. She might have company.

  In the end, Bonnar hailed a Body-servant who was going by in the street, and gave him a message to take to Candia. He was just across the street from Tandis Park. Unfortunately, there was no mask display scheduled there for tonight. But he showed the Body-servant where he would wait for him.

  Bonnar sat down and tried to interest himself in the, crowd. Upper women, coiffed, furred, perfumed, walked with their free arrogant stride. Upper men, equally lordly, but with the air of tension that Upper male responsibility put on men. Two women, Body-servants, walking hand in hand. Was that getting more common? Bonnar didn't like it. A little Lower girl, trying to hide behind the Upper who was holding her by the arm. Her eyes were round with wonder, but she was acutely aware of her rags. Two very young Uppers, boys really, who stared after her. A dazzlingly beautiful Upper woman; Bonnar thought she must have made herself so beautiful because she, was beginning to fight the fear of age. More Body-servants.

  Overhead there was a long, sliding rustle. It was repeated. Bonnar realized with a sick disgust at the pit of his stomach that he had seated himself on a bench underneath one of the writhing trees.

  He couldn't move; the Body-servant with the message wouldn't know where to find him. But this was a bad omen for the beginning of something he hoped would help him overcome his jealousy of Leaf.

  At last the man came back with the message. He hadn't been gone long, actually. A Body-servant with a message usually could be trusted to run all the way. It was the writhing trees that had made his absence seem so long.

  Bonnar dismissed the man with a nod and a buffet, and tore open the envelope. "Dear Bonnar," he read in Candia's big, slashing handwriting. "No, it's not quite too late. You know I always did like you. Come along! Candia."

  Bonnar's smile changed into a grin. Um, yes. It was going to be all right.

  Candia had a big apartment. She was getting a government bonus, which would help. As the Body-servant let Bonnar into the foyer, he heard a babble of soft, childish voices from the rooms within. Then a door seemed to close.

  "Miss Dee says for you to wait," the servant told him. "She'll be right down."

  Down? Oh, yes. There was a balcony at one end of the foyer. Candia must be dressing up there.

  Bonnar
looked around him. He stood in a big, high-ceilinged room with black woodwork and white walls. The ceiling was Chinese red. The room was big enough to be wonderfully suited to maskart, but from the way the chairs were placed, it probably never was used for that.

  He sat down on the k'ang. It was admirably thick-matted and deep. Around the room were scattered evidences of childish occupation—a striped ball, a stuffed green and lavender felodon, a Young People's History of the Jovis Migration. On the back of a chair was a tiny knitted jacket that must belong to the latest arrival in Candia's nursery.

  All very domestic. Nothing could have been more maternal, more admirable. But Bonnar found that this male-less interior, this almost parthenogenetic emphasis on mother and child, oppressed him. He got up and began to pace around the room restlessly, picking up objects, examining them, and putting them down again. A picture over the big rosewood and brass secretary in the corner caught his eye. He went over to it.

  It was a large picture, one of the depth stereos that had become popular lately. Bonnar looked at it for a moment uncomprehendingly. Then he began to laugh.

  It was Candia, of course—the round, rather vapid face and the blonde hair were unmistakable—Candia and her children. And what a lot of them there were! One, two, three, four, five, on up to nine, if you counted the baby Candia was carrying. And the baby looked rather older than seven weeks, so the picture must have been taken last year. By now Candia's score would be ten.

  Nine children when the picture was taken, and all of them different. Some blonde, some brunette, some with oriental eyes, one with red hair. All different, and all strikingly good-looking. He ought to be flattered—well, in a sense he was—at Candia's interest in him.

  Still chuckling, Bonnar moved away from the stereo. It occurred to him that he was feeling much better. Leaf—he just didn't have to think about Leaf any more.

  Half-hidden at the edge of the litter of papers on the big secretary desk, a singularly vivid triangle of orange paptex glowed up at him. Bonnar looked at it, frowning a little. Where had he seen paptex of that intense orange before? It looked official; it reminded him of something unpleasant.