The Blue World Read Free Page A

let me know and I will instruct you.”
    Sklar Hast clamped
his throat upon the words that struggled to come forth. For all his
bluntness, he had no lack of self-control when circumstances
warranted, as they did now. Staring eye to eye with Zander Rohan, he
weighed the situation. Should he choose, he might require Zander
Rohan to defend his rank, and it almost seemed that Rohan were daring
him to challenge: for the life of him Sklar Hast could not understand
why—except on the basis of sheer personal antipathy. Such
contests, once numerous, now were rare, inasmuch as consideration of
dignity made resignation of status incumbent upon the loser. Sklar
Hast had no real wish to drive Zander Rohan from his position, and he
did not care to be driven forth himself … He turned his back and
walked away from the Master Hoodwink, ignoring the contemptuous snort
that came after him.
    At the foot of the
tower he stood staring bleakly and unseeingly through the foliage. A
few yards away was Zander Rohan’s ample three-dome cottage, where,
under a pergola draped with sweet-tassel, Meril Rohan sat weaving
white cloth at the loom—the spare-time occupation of every
female from childhood to old age. Sklar Hast went to stand by the low
fence of woven withe which separated Rohan’s plot from the public
way. Meril acknowledged his presence with a faint smile and continued
with her weaving.
    Sklar Hast spoke
with measured dignity. “I have been talking with your father. I
protested the idea of your espousal to Voiderveg. I told him I would
marry you myself.” And he turned to look out across the lagoon.
“Without testing.”
    “Indeed. And
what did he say?”
    “He said no.”
    Meril, making no
comment, continued with her weaving.
    “The situation
as it stands is ridiculous,” said Sklar Hast. “Typical of
this outlying and backward float. You would be laughed out of
countenance on Apprise or even Sumber.”
    “If you are
unhappy here, why do you not go elsewhere?” asked Meril in a
voice of gentle malice.
    “I would if I
could—I’d leave these insipid floats in their entirety! I’d
fly to the far worlds! If I thought they weren’t all madhouses.”
    “Read the
Memoria and find out.”
    “Hmm. After
twelve generations all may be changed. The Memoria are a pedant’s
preserve. Why rake around among the ashes of the past? The scriveners
are of no more utility than the intercessors. On second thought, you
and Semm Voiderveg will make a good pair. While he invokes blessings
upon King Kragen, you can compile a startling new set of Analects.”
    Meril halted her
weaving, frowned down at her hands. “Do you know, I think I will
do exactly this?” She rose to her feet, came over to the fence.
“Thank you, Sklar Hast!”
    Sklar Hast
inspected her with suspicion. “Are you serious?”
    “Certainly.
Have you ever known me otherwise?”
    “I’ve never
been sure … How will a new set of Analects be useful? What’s wrong
with the old ones?”
    “When
sixty-one books are condensed into three, a great deal of information
is left out.”
    “Vagueness,
ambiguity, introspection: is any of it profitable?”
    Meril Rohan pursed
her lips. “The inconsistencies are interesting. In spite of the
persecutions the Firsts suffered, all express regret at leaving the
Home Worlds.”
    “There must
have been other sane folk among the madmen,” said Sklar Hast
reflectively. “But what of that? Twelve generations are gone;
all may be changed. We ourselves have changed, and not for the
better. All we care about is comfort and ease. Appease, assuage,
compromise. Do you think the Firsts would have capered and danced to
an ocean-beast as is the habit of your prospective spouse?”
    Meril glanced over
Sklar Hast’s shoulder; Sklar Hast turned to see Semm Voiderveg the
Intercessor, standing by with arms clasped behind his back, head
thrust forward: a man of maturity, portly, but by no means
ill-favored, with regular features in a somewhat round