“Woof woof a goldfish,” she tossed off as a final insult.
“(Click!)” answered Deere, sticking his tongue out.
It was a huge, featureless block in the midst of completely empty ground. Something about it suggested that it was an edifice of total disinterest. Themus recalled buildings he had seen in his youth that had been vaguely like this one. Buildings he would make a point of not bothering to enter, so uninteresting were they.
Inside it was a cave.
Stalactites hung down from the ceiling in wedge-shaped rockiness. Stalagmites pushed their way up from the floor, spiking the stone underfoot. A mud collar surrounded a small pool in which clear water rippled. The walls were hewn out of rock, the floor was sand-covered stone.
They could have been five miles underground. It was another world.
It was crammed with Crackpots.
Themus walked between two huge men wearing fezzes and sword-belts, behind the clicking Deere and next to Darfla who looked uneasy. Themus felt more than merely uneasy. He was terrified.
“Deere!”
It was Darfla. She had stopped, was being pushed unwillingly by the weight of people moving behind her. “I want this talked out right now. Here. Now. Here. Now. Here. Now—”
“Don’t (Click!) try that here, Darfla. We have ours, too, you know (Click-click!).”
“All right. Straight, then.”
“Were you taking him to see Boolbak?”
“Yes, why?”
“You know your uncle isn’t reliable. He could say anything, Darfla. We have no fear, really, but why tempt the Chances.” He pursed his pudgy lips and said, “We’ll have to recondition your Watcher, girl. I’m sorry.” There was a murmur from the large, restless crowd.
Themus did not know what reconditioning was, nor what the whole conversation had been about, nor who these people were, but he recognized the Watcher part, and the fact that something unpleasant was about to happen to him.
He looked around for a way out, but there was none. He was effectively manacled by the sheer weight of numbers. The Cave was filled, and the walls were lined with people. All they had to do was move in and he’d be squashed.
He remained very still, turned his inward eyes upward and ran painstakingly over the list of his family Lords, offering up to each of them paeans of praise and pleas for help and deliverance.
“No, no!” Darfla was pleading, “He’s not really. He’s a Kyben. I wouldn’t have been able to stand him, would I, if he were a real Stuff?”
Deere bit the inside of his cheek in thought. “We thought so, too, when we got the list, but since he’s been here, it’s been too early to tell, and now you’ve let him too close to it all. We don’t like this, Darfla, but—”
“Test him. He’ll show you.” She was suddenly close to Deere, his hand in hers, her face turned down to the fat little man’s pudgy stare. “Please, Deere. For what uncle used to be.”
Deere exhaled fully, pursed his lips again and said, “All right, Darfla. If the others say it’s all right. It’s not my decision to make.”
He looked around. There was a mutter of assent from the throng. Deere turned to Themus, looking at the Watcher appraisingly.
Then suddenly—
“Here it is: we’re mad. You must prove to us you are mad. You must do—oh, let’s see—five mad acts. Truly mad. Right here in the Cave. You can do anything but harm one of us or try to escape. And we’re mad, so we’ll know if they’re mad acts or not. Now, go on.”
“Tell him the rest, Deere, tell him—” Darfla began.
“Quiet, woman! That’s all there is, Watcher. Go on.” He stood back, arms folded across his round little belly.
“Mad? What kind of madness? I mean, like what? I don’t … I can’t do any…” Themus looked at Darfla. Something became unhinged within him at the sight of her, about to cry.
He thought for a while. The crowd became impatient, voices called out things from the pack. He thought longer. Then, in a wonderful way, his face smiled all the way from his mouth to his hairline.
Calmly he walked over to Darfla and began undressing her.
The clack of jaws falling was an audible thing in the sudden silence of the Cave.
Themus stripped her piece by piece, carefully knotting and pulling each piece of clothing before he went on to the next. Blouse. Knot and pull tight. Belt. Knot and pull tight. Skirt. Knot and pull tight.
Darfla offered no resistance, but her face went stoney and her jaw muscles worked rhythmically.
Eventually she was naked to the skin.
Themus bent down, made sure each item of clothing was securely knotted. Then he gathered it all up in a bundle and brought the armful to the girl. She put out her arms and he dropped the bundle into them.
“Knots to you,” he said.
“One,” said Deere.
Themus could feel small generators in his head begin to spin, whir and grind as they worked themselves up to a monstrous headache.
He stood spraddle-legged in the open area among the Crackpots, a tall, blue-haired man with a nose just a trifle too long and cheeks just a trifle too sunken, and rubbed his a-trifle-too-long nose in deep concentration.
Again he smiled.
Then he spun three times on his toes, badly, and made a wild dash for one of the onlookers.
The Crackpot looked around in alarm, saw his neighbors smiling at his discomfort, and looked back at Themus, who had stopped directly in front of him.
The Crackpot wore a shirt and slacks of motley, a flat mortarboard-type hat askew over his forehead. The mortarboard slipped a fraction of an inch as he looked at Themus.
The Watcher stood before him, intently staring at his own hand. Themus was clutching his left elbow with his right hand. His left hand was extended, the fingers bent up like spikes, to form a rough sort of enclosure. “See my guggle-fish?” asked Themus. The Crackpot opened his mouth once, strangled a bit, closed his mouth, strangled a bit, opened his mouth again. Nothing came out. Themus extended his hand directly under the other’s nose. It was obviously a bowl he was holding in his hand. “See my guggle-fish?” he repeated. Confused, the Crackpot managed to say, “W-what g-guggle-fish? I don’t see any fish.” “That isn’t odd,” said Themus, grinning, “they all died last week.” Over the roar of the crowd the voice of a blocky-faced man next to the motley-wearer rose: “I see your guggle-fish. Right there in the bowl. I see them. Now what?” “You’re crazier than I am,” said Themus, letting the mythical bowl evaporate as he opened his hand, “I don’t have any bowl.”
“Two,” said Deere, his brow furrowed.
Without wasting a moment, Themus began shoving the Crackpots toward the wall. Without resistance they allowed themselves to be pushed a bit. Then they stopped.
“For this one I’ll need everyone’s help,” said Themus. “Everybody has to line up. I need everyone in a straight line, a real straight line.” He began shoving again. This time they all allowed themselves to be pushed into a semblance of order, a line straight across the Cave.
“No, no,” muttered Themus slowly, “that isn’t quite good enough. Here.” He went to one end, began moving each Crackpot a bit forward or backward till they were all approximately in the same positions of the line.
He went to the right end and squinted down the line.
“You there, fourth from the end, move back a half-step, will you. Uh, yes, that’s—just—stop! Fine. Now you,” he pointed to a fellow with yellow bagged-out trousers and no shirt, “move up just a smidgee-un-uh-nuh! Stop! That’s just perfect.”
He stepped back away from them and looked along both ways, surveying them as a general surveys his troops.
“You’re all nicely in line. All the same. The Crackpots are neatly maneuvered into being regimented Stuffed-Shirts. Thank you,” he said, grinning widely.