Wyst: Alastor 1716 Read Free

beast
waits inside.
    The Connatic smiled at the somewhat, perfervid style of the
report; he looked to see who had submitted it: Bonamico, the current cursar, a
rather emotional man. Still—who could say? . The Connatic himself had never visited
Wyst; perhaps he might share Bonamico’s comprehensions. He glanced at a final
note, which was also signed by Bonamico:
    Zumer and Pombal, the small continents, are mountainous and half
frozen; they deserve mention only because they are home to the ill-natured
shunk and the no less irascible folk who manage them.
    Time pressed: in a few minutes the Connatic must meet with the
Whispers. He gave the globe a final glance and set it spinning; so it would
turn for days, until air friction brought it to a halt.
    Returning aloft, the Connatic went directly to his dressing
room, where he created that version of himself which he saw fit to present to
the people of the Cluster: first a few touches of skin toner to accentuate the
bones, of jaw and temple; then film which darkened his eyes and enhanced their
intensity; then a clip of simulated cartilage to raise the bridge of his nose
and produce a more incisive thrust to his profile. He donned an austere suit of
black, relieved only by a silver button at each shoulder, and finally pulled a
casque of black fabric over his close-cropped mat of hair.
    He touched a button; across the room appeared the holographic
image of himself: a spare saturnine man of indeterminate age, with an aspect
suggesting force and authority. With neither approval nor dissatisfaction he
considered the image; he was, so to speak, dressed for work, in the uniform of
his calling.
    Esclavade’s quiet voice issued from an unseen source. “The
Whispers have arrived in the Black Parlor.”
    “Thank you.” The Connatic stepped into the adjoining chamber:
a replica of the Black Parlor, exact to the images of the Whispers themselves:
three men and a woman dressed in that informal, rather frivolous, style current
in contemporary Arrabus. The Connatic examined the images with care: a reconnaissance
he made of almost every deputation, to offset, at least in part, the careful stratagems
by which the visitors hoped to further their aims. Uneasiness, rigidity, anger,
easy calm, desperation, fatalistic torpor: the Connatic had learned to
recognize the indicators and to judge the mood in which the delegations came to
meet him.
    In the Connatic’s estimation, this seemed a particularly
disparate group, despite the uniformity of their garments. Each presented a
different psychological aspect, which frequently signaled disunity, or perhaps
mutual antagonism. In the case of the Whispers, who were selected by an almost
random process, such lack of inner cohesion might be without significance, or
so the Connatic reflected.
    The oldest of the group, a gray-haired man of no great
stature, at first glance appeared the least effectual of the four. He sat awry:
neck twisted, head askew, legs splayed, elbows cocked at odd angles: a man
sinewy and gaunt, with a long-nosed vulpine face. He spoke in a restless,
peevish voice: “—heights give me to fret; even here between four walls I know
that the soil lies far below; we should have requested a conference at low altitude.
“
    “Water lies below, not soil,” growled another of the Whispers,
a massive man with a rather surly expression. His hair, banging in lank black
ringlets, made no concession to the fashionable Arrabin puff; of the group he
seemed the most forceful and resolute.
    The third man said: “If the Connatic trusts his skin to
these floors, never fear! Your own far less valuable pelt is safe.”
    “I fear nothing!” declared the old man. “Did I not climb the
Pedestal? Did I not fly in the Sea Disk and the space ship?”
    “True, true,” said the third. “Your valor is famous.” This
was a man somewhat younger than the other two and notably well-favored, with a
fine straight nose and a smiling debonair expression. He sat