draw.
The hours pass in silence, except for the scraping of the nib. Dr. Politte sits behind her desk, gazing at nothing with a wistful expression.
deKlend abruptly passes the rattling paper to her, making a little inarticulate noise of satisfaction. She examines its curlicues, the incantatory inscription coolly glowing with prestige, noting the superb draughtsmanship, and scans the text in both calligraphy and black letter.
Where is your name? (she asks finally)
— Isn’t it there?
Your name isn’t anywhere on this (she says gently, brushing the paper with her hand) — No one’s is. I’m afraid I can’t possibly accept this.
She rolls it up and sets the tube on her right shoulder, balancing it there. She lowers her hand, looking at him sympathetically. Then, raising her hand again, and without removing her eyes from him, she pushes the tube with her index finger until it slips off her shoulder and down into one of the trash baskets.
He screws the cap back onto the fountain pen despondently.
If only someone suitable had applied (she sighs)
Presently the faculty secretary accosts him in the hall.
You can sleep on the sofa in there tonight.
— in there tonight, — in there tonight, — in there tonight ...
The staff lounge is also dark and narrow, with a splintery wooden table running along the only wall with windows. Staff come in and out constantly. deKlend misses him at first, but the music director is sagging directly behind the door, under the unlit reading lamp, looking like an epitomization of fatigue. Two persons, and since the power is out it’s of course too dim in there to see them, but they sound like teachers, go striding by at a rate better suited to walking out-of-doors.
So-and-so was the worst mortician in the business. He was so bad his clients walked out on him.
Oh I think you’re crazy, (the other snaps peevishly)
— And? (is the dry rejoinder)
uhahem ... well ...
— Is this a sanatorium? (deKlend wonders, suddenly frightened)
He looks at the thick, bilious paint on the walls, the cruel, gleaming stone floors, polished with bloodstain-resistant wax. The sofa he lies on is not only narrow but so low to the ground no one could sit on it without their knees coming up around their ears. So, could it be he lies on a cot, actually? He jerks his blankets together and grips them tightly.
— I am not in the madhouse (he tells himself fiercely)
In Votu:
The shadows in Votu all look like shadows only as long as you don’t examine them too closely — then you notice they’re actually all a very dark white.
The stones of the city are blue and green as long as you don’t look at them too closely — if you do, then you see right away they’re all as white as snow, which is actually transparent, having no color at all, even though snow is white.
*
Citizens of Votu resort to litigation, even where crime is concerned, only as a last resort. All cases are tried in a chamber of the city factory called the court shop. This court is directly presided over, not quite in person, by the Goddess of Justice. This is a huge bronze machine, whose design applies certain principles gleaned from close observation of the natural robots. She approaches the bench from behind, with a tread so heavy it shakes the room, emerging from the gloom of a narrow recess to take her position at the gavel. Her position is so lofty, no one can see whether or not she takes up and strikes the gavel, or simply emits the knocks. Technically naked, she robes herself in rippling air, whose distortions help to preserve her dignity. She listens impassively to each counsel, who is permitted a fixed time in which to plead his case. It is understood that the attention of the Goddess is available to the speaker only during that time, and that, once its duration has elapsed, not another word can she hear. When the attorney is done, or when the time is up, a chime is rung.
A girl of no more than fourteen years is attached
The hours pass in silence, except for the scraping of the nib. Dr. Politte sits behind her desk, gazing at nothing with a wistful expression.
deKlend abruptly passes the rattling paper to her, making a little inarticulate noise of satisfaction. She examines its curlicues, the incantatory inscription coolly glowing with prestige, noting the superb draughtsmanship, and scans the text in both calligraphy and black letter.
Where is your name? (she asks finally)
— Isn’t it there?
Your name isn’t anywhere on this (she says gently, brushing the paper with her hand) — No one’s is. I’m afraid I can’t possibly accept this.
She rolls it up and sets the tube on her right shoulder, balancing it there. She lowers her hand, looking at him sympathetically. Then, raising her hand again, and without removing her eyes from him, she pushes the tube with her index finger until it slips off her shoulder and down into one of the trash baskets.
He screws the cap back onto the fountain pen despondently.
If only someone suitable had applied (she sighs)
Presently the faculty secretary accosts him in the hall.
You can sleep on the sofa in there tonight.
— in there tonight, — in there tonight, — in there tonight ...
The staff lounge is also dark and narrow, with a splintery wooden table running along the only wall with windows. Staff come in and out constantly. deKlend misses him at first, but the music director is sagging directly behind the door, under the unlit reading lamp, looking like an epitomization of fatigue. Two persons, and since the power is out it’s of course too dim in there to see them, but they sound like teachers, go striding by at a rate better suited to walking out-of-doors.
So-and-so was the worst mortician in the business. He was so bad his clients walked out on him.
Oh I think you’re crazy, (the other snaps peevishly)
— And? (is the dry rejoinder)
uhahem ... well ...
— Is this a sanatorium? (deKlend wonders, suddenly frightened)
He looks at the thick, bilious paint on the walls, the cruel, gleaming stone floors, polished with bloodstain-resistant wax. The sofa he lies on is not only narrow but so low to the ground no one could sit on it without their knees coming up around their ears. So, could it be he lies on a cot, actually? He jerks his blankets together and grips them tightly.
— I am not in the madhouse (he tells himself fiercely)
In Votu:
The shadows in Votu all look like shadows only as long as you don’t examine them too closely — then you notice they’re actually all a very dark white.
The stones of the city are blue and green as long as you don’t look at them too closely — if you do, then you see right away they’re all as white as snow, which is actually transparent, having no color at all, even though snow is white.
*
Citizens of Votu resort to litigation, even where crime is concerned, only as a last resort. All cases are tried in a chamber of the city factory called the court shop. This court is directly presided over, not quite in person, by the Goddess of Justice. This is a huge bronze machine, whose design applies certain principles gleaned from close observation of the natural robots. She approaches the bench from behind, with a tread so heavy it shakes the room, emerging from the gloom of a narrow recess to take her position at the gavel. Her position is so lofty, no one can see whether or not she takes up and strikes the gavel, or simply emits the knocks. Technically naked, she robes herself in rippling air, whose distortions help to preserve her dignity. She listens impassively to each counsel, who is permitted a fixed time in which to plead his case. It is understood that the attention of the Goddess is available to the speaker only during that time, and that, once its duration has elapsed, not another word can she hear. When the attorney is done, or when the time is up, a chime is rung.
A girl of no more than fourteen years is attached
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