"That's what Wilbur Murphy says."
"How far up?"
"Does it make any difference?"
"No--I guess not."
"Well, for your information, it's up ten thousand, twenty thousand
miles. He waves to the pilot, takes off his hat to the passengers, then
rides back down."
"And where does all this take place?"
"On--on--" Catlin frowned. "I can write it, but I can't pronounce it."
He printed on his scratch-screen: CIRGAMESÇ.
"Sirgamesk," read Frayberg.
Catlin shook his head. "That's what it looks like--but those consonants
are all aspirated gutturals. It's more like 'Hrrghameshgrrh'."
"Where did Murphy get this tip?"
"I didn't bother to ask."
"Well," mused Frayberg, "we could always do a show on strange
superstitions. Is Murphy around?"
"He's explaining his expense account to Shifkin."
"Get him in here; let's talk to him."
* * * * *
Wilbur Murphy had a blond crew-cut, a broad freckled nose, and a serious
sidelong squint. He looked from his crumpled sequence idea to Catlin and
Frayberg. "Didn't like it, eh?"
"We thought the emphasis should be a little different," explained
Catlin. "Instead of 'The Space Horseman,' we'd give it the working
title, 'Odd Superstitions of Hrrghameshgrrh'."
"Oh, hell!" said Frayberg. "Call it Sirgamesk."
"Anyway," said Catlin, "that's the angle."
"But it's not superstition," said Murphy.
"Oh, come, Wilbur ..."
"I got this for sheer sober-sided fact. A man rides a horse up to meet
the incoming ships!"
"Where did you get this wild fable?"
"My brother-in-law is purser on the _Celestial Traveller_. At Riker's
Planet they make connection with the feeder line out of Cirgamesç."
"Wait a minute," said Catlin. "How did you pronounce that?"
"Cirgamesç. The steward on the shuttle-ship gave out this story, and my
brother-in-law passed it along to me."
"Somebody's pulling somebody's leg."
"My brother-in-law wasn't, and the steward was cold sober."
"They've been eating _bhang_. Sirgamesk is a Javanese planet, isn't it?"
"Javanese, Arab, Malay."
"Then they took a _bhang_ supply with them, and _hashish_, _chat_, and a
few other sociable herbs."
"Well, this horseman isn't any drug-dream."
"No? What is it?"
"So far as I know it's a man on a horse."
"Ten thousand miles up? In a vacuum?"
"Exactly."
"No space-suit?"
"That's the story."
Catlin and Frayberg looked at each other.
"Well, Wilbur," Catlin began.
Frayberg interrupted. "What we can use, Wilbur, is a sequence on
Sirgamesk superstition. Emphasis on voodoo or witchcraft--naked girls
dancing--stuff with roots in Earth, but now typically Sirgamesk. Lots of
color. Secret rite stuff...."
"Not much room on Cirgamesç for secret rites."
"It's a big planet, isn't it?"
"Not quite as big as Mars. There's no atmosphere. The settlers live in
mountain valleys, with air-tight lids over 'em."
Catlin flipped the pages of _Thumbnail Sketches of the Inhabited
Worlds_. "Says here there's ancient ruins millions of years old. When
the atmosphere went, the population went with it."
Frayberg became animated. "There's lots of material out there! Go get
it, Wilbur! Life! Sex! Excitement! Mystery!"
"Okay," said Wilbur Murphy.
"But lay off this horseman-in-space. There _is_ a limit to public
credulity, and don't you let anyone tell you different."
* * * * *
Cirgamesç hung outside the port, twenty thousand miles ahead. The
steward leaned over Wilbur Murphy's shoulder and pointed a long brown
finger. "It was right out there, sir. He came riding up--"
"What kind of a man was it? Strange-looking?"
"No. He was Cirgameski."
"Oh. You saw him with your own eyes, eh?"
The steward bowed, and his loose white mantle fell forward. "Exactly,
sir."
"No helmet, no space-suit?"
"He wore a short Singhalût vest and pantaloons and a yellow Hadrasi hat.
No more."
"And the horse?"
"Ah, the horse! There's a different matter."
"Different how?"
"I can't describe the horse. I was intent on the man."
"Did you recognize him?"
"By the brow of Lord Allah, it's well not to look too closely when such
matters occur."
"Then--you _did_ recognize him!"
"I must be at my task, sir."
Murphy frowned in vexation at the steward's retreating back, then bent
over his camera to check the tape-feed. If anything appeared now, and
his eyes could see it, the two-hundred million audience of _Know Your
Universe!_ could see it with him.
When he looked up, Murphy made a frantic grab for the stanchion, then
relaxed. Cirgamesç had taken the Great Twitch. It was an illusion, a
psychological quirk. One instant the planet lay ahead; then a man winked
or turned away, and when he looked back, "ahead" had become "below"; the
planet had swung an astonishing ninety degrees across the sky, and they
were _falling_!
Murphy leaned against the stanchion. "'The Great Twitch'," he muttered
to himself, "I'd like to get _that_ on two hundred million screens!"
Several hours passed. Cirgamesç grew. The Sampan Range rose up like a
dark scab; the valley sultanates of Singhalût, Hadra, New Batavia, and
Boeng-Bohôt showed like glistening chicken-tracks; the Great Rift Colony
of Sundaman stretched down through the foothills like the trail of a
slug.
A loudspeaker voice rattled the ship. "Attention passengers for
Singhalût and other points on Cirgamesç! Kindly prepare your luggage for
disembarkation. Customs at Singhalût are extremely thorough. Passengers
are warned to take no weapons, drugs or explosives ashore. This is
important!"
* * * * *
The warning turned out to be an understatement. Murphy was plied with
questions. He suffered search of an intimate nature. He was
three-dimensionally X-rayed with a range of frequencies calculated to
excite fluorescence in whatever object he might have secreted in his
stomach, in a hollow bone, or under a layer of flesh.
His luggage was explored with similar minute attention, and Murphy
rescued his cameras with difficulty. "What're you so damn anxious about?
I don't have drugs; I don't have contraband ..."
"It's guns, your excellency. Guns, weapons, explosives ..."
"I don't have any guns."
"But these objects here?"
"They're cameras. They record pictures and sounds and smells."
The inspector seized the cases with a glittering smile of triumph. "They
resemble no cameras of my experience; I fear I shall have to impound ..."
A young man in loose white pantaloons, a pink vest, pale green cravat
and a complex black turban strolled up. The inspector made a swift
obeisance, with arms spread wide. "Excellency."
The young man raised two fingers. "You may find it possible to spare Mr.
Murphy any unnecessary formality."
"As your Excellency recommends...." The inspector nimbly repacked
Murphy's belongings, while the young man looked on benignly.
Murphy covertly inspected his face. The skin was smooth, the color of
the rising moon; the eyes were narrow, dark, superficially placid. The
effect was of silken punctilio with hot ruby blood close beneath.
Satisfied with the inspector's zeal, he turned to Murphy. "Allow me to
introduce myself, Tuan Murphy. I am Ali-Tomás, of the House of
Singhalût, and my father the Sultan begs you to accept our poor
hospitality."
"Why, thank you," said Murphy. "This is a very pleasant surprise."
"If you will allow me to conduct you...." He turned to the inspector.
"Mr. Murphy's luggage to the palace."
* * * * *
Murphy accompanied Ali-Tomás into the outside light, fitting his own
quick step to the prince's feline saunter. This is coming it pretty
soft, he said to himself. I'll have a magnificent suite, with bowls of
fruit and gin pahits, not to mention two or three silken girls with skin
like rich cream bringing me towels in the shower.... Well, well, well,
it's not so bad working for _Know Your Universe!_ after all! I suppose I
ought to unlimber my camera....
Prince Ali-Tomás watched him with interest. "And what is the audience of
_Know Your Universe!_?"
"We call 'em 'participants'."
"Expressive. And how many participants do you serve?"
"Oh, the Bowdler Index rises and falls. We've got about two hundred
million screens, with five hundred million participants."
"Fascinating! And tell me--how do you record smells?"
Murphy displayed the odor recorder on the side of the camera, with its
gelatinous track which fixed the molecular design.
"And the odors recreated--they are like the originals?"
"Pretty close. Never exact, but none of the participants knows the
difference. Sometimes the synthetic odor is an improvement."
"Astounding!" murmured the prince.
"And sometimes ... Well, Carson Tenlake went out to get the
myrrh-blossoms on Venus. It was a hot day--as days usually are on
Venus--and a long climb. When the show was run off, there was more smell
of Carson than of flowers."