They came out into a compound paved with red, green and white tiles.
Beneath the valley roof was a sinuous trough, full of haze and warmth
and golden light. As far in either direction as the eye could reach, the
hillsides were terraced, barred in various shades of green. Spattering
the valley floor were tall canvas pavilions, tents, booths, shelters.
"Naturally," said Prince Ali-Tomás, "we hope that you and your
participants will enjoy Singhalût. It is a truism that, in order to
import, we must export; we wish to encourage a pleasurable response to
the 'Made in Singhalût' tag on our _batiks_, carvings, lacquers."
They rolled quietly across the square in a surface-car displaying the
House emblem. Murphy rested against deep, cool cushions. "Your
inspectors are pretty careful about weapons."
Ali-Tomás smiled complacently. "Our existence is ordered and peaceful.
You may be familiar with the concept of _adak_?"
"I don't think so."
"A word, an idea from old Earth. Every living act is ordered by ritual.
But our heritage is passionate--and when unyielding _adak_ stands in the
way of an irresistible emotion, there is turbulence, sometimes even
killing."
"An _amok_."
"Exactly. It is as well that the _amok_ has no weapons other than his
knife. Otherwise he would kill twenty where now he kills one."
The car rolled along a narrow avenue, scattering pedestrians to either
side like the bow of a boat spreading foam. The men wore loose white
pantaloons and a short open vest; the women wore only the pantaloons.
"Handsome set of people," remarked Murphy.
Ali-Tomás again smiled complacently. "I'm sure Singhalût will present an
inspiring and beautiful spectacle for your program."
Murphy remembered the keynote to Howard Frayberg's instructions:
"_Excitement! Sex! Mystery!_" Frayberg cared little for inspiration or
beauty. "I imagine," he said casually, "that you celebrate a number of
interesting festivals? Colorful dancing? Unique customs?"
Ali-Tomás shook his head. "To the contrary. We left our superstitions
and ancestor-worship back on Earth. We are quiet Mohammedans and indulge
in very little festivity. Perhaps here is the reason for _amoks_ and
sjambaks."
"Sjambaks?"
"We are not proud of them. You will hear sly rumor, and it is better
that I arm you beforehand with truth."
"What is a sjambak?"
"They are bandits, flouters of authority. I will show you one
presently."
"I heard," said Murphy, "of a man riding a horse up to meet the
space-ships. What would account for a story like that?"
"It can have no possible basis," said Prince Ali-Tomás. "We have no
horses on Cirgamesç. None whatever."
"But ..."
"The veriest idle talk. Such nonsense will have no interest for your
intelligent participants."
The car rolled into a square a hundred yards on a side, lined with
luxuriant banana palms. Opposite was an enormous pavilion of gold and
violet silk, with a dozen peaked gables casting various changing sheens.
In the center of the square a twenty-foot pole supported a cage about
two feet wide, three feet long, and four feet high.
Inside this cage crouched a naked man.
The car rolled past. Prince Ali-Tomás waved an idle hand. The caged man
glared down from bloodshot eyes. "That," said Ali-Tomás, "is a sjambak.
As you see," a faint note of apology entered his voice, "we attempt to
discourage them."
"What's that metal object on his chest?"
"The mark of his trade. By that you may know all sjambak. In these
unsettled times only we of the House may cover our chests--all others
must show themselves and declare themselves true Singhalûsi."
Murphy said tentatively, "I must come back here and photograph that
cage."
Ali-Tomás smilingly shook his head. "I will show you our farms, our
vines and orchards. Your participants will enjoy these; they have no
interest in the dolor of an ignoble sjambak."
"Well," said Murphy, "our aim is a well-rounded production. We want to
show the farmers at work, the members of the great House at their
responsibilities, as well as the deserved fate of wrongdoers."
"Exactly. For every sjambak there are ten thousand industrious
Singhalûsi. It follows then that only one ten-thousandth part of your
film should be devoted to this infamous minority."
"About three-tenths of a second, eh?"
"No more than they deserve."
"You don't know my Production Director. His name is Howard Frayberg,
and ..."
* * * * *
Howard Frayberg was deep in conference with Sam Catlin, under the
influence of what Catlin called his philosophic kick. It was the phase
which Catlin feared most.
"Sam," said Frayberg, "do you know the danger of this business?"
"Ulcers," Catlin replied promptly.
Frayberg shook his head. "We've got an occupational disease to
fight--progressive mental myopia."
"Speak for yourself," said Catlin.
"Consider. We sit in this office. We think we know what kind of show we
want. We send out our staff to get it. We're signing the checks, so back
it comes the way we asked for it. We look at it, hear it, smell it--and
pretty soon we believe it: our version of the universe, full-blown from
our brains like Minerva stepping out of Zeus. You see what I mean?"
"I understand the words."
"We've got our own picture of what's going on. We ask for it, we get it.
It builds up and up--and finally we're like mice in a trap built of our
own ideas. We cannibalize our own brains."
"Nobody'll ever accuse you of being stingy with a metaphor."
"Sam, let's have the truth. How many times have you been off Earth?"
"I went to Mars once. And I spent a couple of weeks at Aristillus Resort
on the Moon."
Frayberg leaned back in his chair as if shocked. "And we're supposed to
be a couple of learned planetologists!"
Catlin made grumbling noise in his throat. "I haven't been around the
zodiac, so what? You sneezed a few minutes ago and I said _gesundheit_,
but I don't have any doctor's degree."
"There comes a time in a man's life," said Frayberg, "when he wants to
take stock, get a new perspective."
"Relax, Howard, relax."
"In our case it means taking out our preconceived ideas, looking at
them, checking our illusions against reality."
"Are you serious about this?"
"Another thing," said Frayberg, "I want to check up a little. Shifkin
says the expense accounts are frightful. But he can't fight it. When
Keeler says he paid ten munits for a loaf of bread on Nekkar IV, who's
gonna call him on it?"
"Hell, let him eat bread! That's cheaper than making a safari around the
cluster, spot-checking the super-markets."
Frayberg paid no heed. He touched a button; a three-foot sphere full of
glistening motes appeared. Earth was at the center, with thin red lines,
the scheduled space-ship routes, radiating out in all directions.
"Let's see what kind of circle we can make," said Frayberg. "Gower's
here at Canopus, Keeler's over here at Blue Moon, Wilbur Murphy's at
Sirgamesk ..."
"Don't forget," muttered Catlin, "we got a show to put on."
"We've got material for a year," scoffed Frayberg. "Get hold of
Space-Lines. We'll start with Sirgamesk, and see what Wilbur Murphy's up
to."
* * * * *
Wilbur Murphy was being presented to the Sultan of Singhalût by the
Prince Ali-Tomás. The Sultan, a small mild man of seventy, sat
crosslegged on an enormous pink and green air-cushion. "Be at your ease,
Mr. Murphy. We dispense with as much protocol here as practicable." The
Sultan had a dry clipped voice and the air of a rather harassed
corporation executive. "I understand you represent Earth-Central Home
Screen Network?"
"I'm a staff photographer for the _Know Your Universe!_ show."
"We export a great deal to Earth," mused the Sultan, "but not as much as
we'd like. We're very pleased with your interest in us, and naturally we
want to help you in every way possible. Tomorrow the Keeper of the
Archives will present a series of charts analyzing our economy.
Ali-Tomás shall personally conduct you through the fish-hatcheries. We
want you to know we're doing a great job out here on Singhalût."
"I'm sure you are," said Murphy uncomfortably. "However, that isn't
quite the stuff I want."
"No? Just where do your desires lie?"
Ali-Tomás said delicately. "Mr. Murphy took a rather profound interest
in the sjambak displayed in the square."
"Oh. And you explained that these renegades could hold no interest for
serious students of our planet?"
Murphy started to explain that clustered around two hundred million
screens tuned to _Know Your Universe!_ were four or five hundred million
participants, the greater part of them neither serious nor students. The
Sultan cut in decisively. "I will now impart something truly
interesting. We Singhalûsi are making preparations to reclaim four more
valleys, with an added area of six hundred thousand acres! I shall put
my physiographic models at your disposal; you may use them to the
fullest extent!"
"I'll be pleased for the opportunity," declared Murphy. "But tomorrow
I'd like to prowl around the valley, meet your people, observe their
customs, religious rites, courtships, funerals ..."
The Sultan pulled a sour face. "We are ditch-water dull. Festivals are
celebrated quietly in the home; there is small religious fervor;
courtships are consummated by family contract. I fear you will find
little sensational material here in Singhalût."
"You have no temple dances?" asked Murphy. "No fire-walkers,
snake-charmers--voodoo?"
The Sultan smiled patronizingly. "We came out here to Cirgamesç to
escape the ancient superstitions. Our lives are calm, orderly. Even the
_amoks_ have practically disappeared."
"But the sjambaks--"
"Negligible."
"Well," said Murphy, "I'd like to visit some of these ancient cities."
"I advise against it," declared the Sultan. "They are shards, weathered
stone. There are no inscriptions, no art. There is no stimulation in
dead stone. Now. Tomorrow I will hear a report on hybrid soybean
plantings in the Upper Kam District. You will want to be present."
* * * * *
Murphy's suite matched or even excelled his expectation. He had four
rooms and a private garden enclosed by a thicket of bamboo. His bathroom
walls were slabs of glossy actinolite, inlaid with cinnabar, jade,
galena, pyrite and blue malachite, in representations of fantastic
birds. His bedroom was a tent thirty feet high. Two walls were dark
green fabric; a third was golden rust; the fourth opened upon the
private garden.
Murphy's bed was a pink and yellow creation ten feet square, soft as
cobweb, smelling of rose sandalwood. Carved black lacquer tubs held
fruit; two dozen wines, liquors, syrups, essences flowed at a touch from
as many ebony spigots.
The garden centered on a pool of cool water, very pleasant in the
hothouse climate of Singhalût. The only shortcoming was the lack of the
lovely young servitors Murphy had envisioned. He took it upon himself to
repair this lack, and in a shady wine-house behind the palace, called
the Barangipan, he made the acquaintance of a girl-musician named Soek
Panjoebang. He found her enticing tones of quavering sweetness from the
_gamelan_, an instrument well-loved in Old Bali. Soek Panjoebang had the
delicate features and transparent skin of Sumatra, the supple long limbs
of Arabia and in a pair of wide and golden eyes a heritage from
somewhere in Celtic Europe. Murphy bought her a goblet of frozen
shavings, each a different perfume, while he himself drank white
rice-beer. Soek Panjoebang displayed an intense interest in the ways of
Earth, and Murphy found it hard to guide the conversation. "Weelbrrr,"
she said. "Such a funny name, Weelbrrr. Do you think I could play the
_gamelan_ in the great cities, the great palaces of Earth?"
"Sure. There's no law against _gamelans_."
"You talk so funny, Weelbrrr. I like to hear you talk."
"I suppose you get kinda bored here in Singhalût?"
She shrugged. "Life is pleasant, but it concerns with little things. We
have no great adventures. We grow flowers, we play the _gamelan_." She
eyed him archly sidelong. "We love.... We sleep...."