horror."
"This must stop," declared Etzwane.
"Never! It is the law of our lives! Must we jeopardize our future simply for your irrational whims?"
Once more Etzwane shook his head in bafflement and went on into Canton Glaiy; a region somewhat primitive, inhabited by a backward folk. They offered him no problems; the regions near the Hwan were uninhabited save for a few feudal clans, who knew nothing of the Anome's instructions. Their relationship with the Roguskhoi was not unequal; whenever possible they waylaid and killed single Roguskhoi, in order to obtain the precious metal in bludgeon and scimitar.
At the principal town, Orgala, Etzwane taxed the three High Judges with their failure to commission a militia; the Judges merely laughed. "Any time you wish a band of able men for your purposes, give us two hour's notice. Until you can provide weapons and definite orders, why should we inconvenience ourselves? The emergency may pass."
Etzwane could not dispute the logic of the remarks. "Very well," he said. "See that when the time comes you are able to perform as promised. . . . Whereas Camp Three, the balloon-way's work agency?"
The Judges looked at him curiously. "What will you do at Camp Three?"
"I have certain orders from the Anome."
The Judges looked at each other and shrugged. "Camp Three is twenty-five miles south, along the Salt Bog Road. You plan to use your fine balloon?"
"Naturally; why should I walk?"
"No reason, but you must hire a tow of pacers; there is no slot."
An hour later Etzwane and Casallo in the Iridixn set forth to the south. The balloon guys were attached to the ends of a long pole, which counteracted the buoyancy of the balloon. One end of the pole was attached to the backs of two pacers; the other end was supported by a pair of light wheels, with a seat on which the driver rode. The pacers set off down the road at a fast trot, with Casallo adjusting the aspect of the balloon to produce as little strain as possible. The ride was noticeably different from the movement of a balloon on the wind, a rhythmic impulse being communicated up the guys to the balloon.
The motion and a growing tension—or perhaps he felt guilt? By dint of no great effort he might have come sooner to Camp Three—put Etzwane into a dour, dyspeptic mood. The airy Casallo, with no concerns other than the abatement of boredom, brought forth his khitan; assured of his own musicianship and Etzwane's envious admiration, he attempted a mazurka of the classical repertory which Etzwane knew in a dozen variations. Casallo played the tune woodenly and almost accurately, but on one of the modulations he consistently used an incorrect chord, which presently exasperated Etzwane to a state where he cried out in protest: "No, no, no! If you must pound that instrument, at least use the correct chords I"
Casallo raised his eyebrows in easy amusement. "My friend, you are hearing the Sunflower Blaze; it is traditionally rendered thus and so; I fear you have no ear for music."
"In rough outline, the tune is recognizable, though many times I have heard it played correctly."
Casallo languidly extended the khitan. "Be so good as to instruct me, to my vast gratitude."
Etzwane snatched the instrument, tuned the thumb-string, [7] which was a pinprick sharp, played the passage correctly, with perhaps unnecessary brilliance. Then, working through a second modulation, he played an inversion of the melody in a new mode; then modulating again, he performed an excited staccato improvisation upon the original strain, more or less in accordance with his mood. He struck a double-handed coda with offbeats on the scratch-box and handed the khitan back to the crestfallen Casallo. "So goes the tune, with an embellishment or two."
Casallo looked from Etzwane to the khitan, which he now somberly hung on a peg, and set about oiling his winches. Etzwane went to stand by the observation window.
The countryside had become wild, almost hostile: patches of
"This must stop," declared Etzwane.
"Never! It is the law of our lives! Must we jeopardize our future simply for your irrational whims?"
Once more Etzwane shook his head in bafflement and went on into Canton Glaiy; a region somewhat primitive, inhabited by a backward folk. They offered him no problems; the regions near the Hwan were uninhabited save for a few feudal clans, who knew nothing of the Anome's instructions. Their relationship with the Roguskhoi was not unequal; whenever possible they waylaid and killed single Roguskhoi, in order to obtain the precious metal in bludgeon and scimitar.
At the principal town, Orgala, Etzwane taxed the three High Judges with their failure to commission a militia; the Judges merely laughed. "Any time you wish a band of able men for your purposes, give us two hour's notice. Until you can provide weapons and definite orders, why should we inconvenience ourselves? The emergency may pass."
Etzwane could not dispute the logic of the remarks. "Very well," he said. "See that when the time comes you are able to perform as promised. . . . Whereas Camp Three, the balloon-way's work agency?"
The Judges looked at him curiously. "What will you do at Camp Three?"
"I have certain orders from the Anome."
The Judges looked at each other and shrugged. "Camp Three is twenty-five miles south, along the Salt Bog Road. You plan to use your fine balloon?"
"Naturally; why should I walk?"
"No reason, but you must hire a tow of pacers; there is no slot."
An hour later Etzwane and Casallo in the Iridixn set forth to the south. The balloon guys were attached to the ends of a long pole, which counteracted the buoyancy of the balloon. One end of the pole was attached to the backs of two pacers; the other end was supported by a pair of light wheels, with a seat on which the driver rode. The pacers set off down the road at a fast trot, with Casallo adjusting the aspect of the balloon to produce as little strain as possible. The ride was noticeably different from the movement of a balloon on the wind, a rhythmic impulse being communicated up the guys to the balloon.
The motion and a growing tension—or perhaps he felt guilt? By dint of no great effort he might have come sooner to Camp Three—put Etzwane into a dour, dyspeptic mood. The airy Casallo, with no concerns other than the abatement of boredom, brought forth his khitan; assured of his own musicianship and Etzwane's envious admiration, he attempted a mazurka of the classical repertory which Etzwane knew in a dozen variations. Casallo played the tune woodenly and almost accurately, but on one of the modulations he consistently used an incorrect chord, which presently exasperated Etzwane to a state where he cried out in protest: "No, no, no! If you must pound that instrument, at least use the correct chords I"
Casallo raised his eyebrows in easy amusement. "My friend, you are hearing the Sunflower Blaze; it is traditionally rendered thus and so; I fear you have no ear for music."
"In rough outline, the tune is recognizable, though many times I have heard it played correctly."
Casallo languidly extended the khitan. "Be so good as to instruct me, to my vast gratitude."
Etzwane snatched the instrument, tuned the thumb-string, [7] which was a pinprick sharp, played the passage correctly, with perhaps unnecessary brilliance. Then, working through a second modulation, he played an inversion of the melody in a new mode; then modulating again, he performed an excited staccato improvisation upon the original strain, more or less in accordance with his mood. He struck a double-handed coda with offbeats on the scratch-box and handed the khitan back to the crestfallen Casallo. "So goes the tune, with an embellishment or two."
Casallo looked from Etzwane to the khitan, which he now somberly hung on a peg, and set about oiling his winches. Etzwane went to stand by the observation window.
The countryside had become wild, almost hostile: patches of
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