Wazir Sin would have put an end to all this, of course, for he was preparing to wipe out the poor entirely when Lonstantine Thrug overthrew him. Since then, men like Labrat had flourished. In fact, in the absence of any strong-minded utopian like Sin, it looked like the poor would be with Injiltaprajura always, and their vices likewise.
When Chegory brought his friends to Labrat’s lair — a rotting warehouse in a most insalubrious part of Marthandorthan — they experienced some difficulty gaining admission because the search for the wishstone had heightened the sense of paranoia which attended the activities of the loathsome Labrat.
However, Chegory was not entirely unknown to Labrat’s men, for on occasion he had earnt himself a little mango money by helping shift mysterious cargoes in the depths of bardardornootha. You see? He was an Ebrell Islander through and through. Tainted already by his willing association with the traffic in disease, insanity and death.
Thus in due course Chegory’s negotiations at the door to Labrat’s lair met with success, and he was admitted together with his companions. So there they were in a drug dealer’s den with soldiers doubtless scouring the streets for them.
‘Wait here,’ said a minion. ‘I’ll get friend Dunash.’
Off went the minion. Chegory and his companions settled themselves on barrels and prepared to wait.
Olivia stared around with the widest of eyes. She had never before been in a place like this. Shabble supplemented the efforts of a few feeble oil lanterns, illuminating a large hall studded with doors opening on to offices and strongrooms, the air heavy with the scent of joss sticks being burnt to conceal the taint of the drug which was stored in this house of evil.
‘How are we going to get out of this mess?’ said Chegory. ‘Shabble? You got us into it. Got any bright ideas?’
‘Burning, burning, burning,’ chanted Shabble in a lilting, high-singing voice. ‘Injiltaprajura entire, I could burn it, Chegory. The whole lot! Nothing left! All gone! No more problem then! Right now, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll burn it right now.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ said Pokrov.
‘Why not?’ said Shabble.
‘Because I,’ said Pokrov, ‘would be most annoyed. I might even send you to the therapist!’
Shabble squeaked with fear and ascended to the ceiling. ‘Could Shabble really incinerate Injiltaprajura?’ said Chegory, with a kind of horror.
‘No, of course not!’ said Pokrov briskly. ‘Or not at a single blow, in any case. It would probably take our bubbly little friend several days to barbecue the entire city.’
‘You know a lot about Shabble,’ said Ingalawa.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Pokrov, affecting impatience. ‘We chat, you know. Shabble tells me things. Why, it was Shabble who helped my grandfather design the Analytical Engine.’ Pokrov was lying. It was not Pokrov’s grandfather whom Shabble had helped. It was Pokrov himself.
‘I’ve seen a portrait of your grandfather,’ said Ingalawa. ‘He looks remarkably like you.’
‘What’s remarkable about family resemblance?’ said Pokrov. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: ‘Look, enough of this idle chit-chat. We have to think seriously. Shabble’s got us in a mess. What are we going to do?’
‘Justina,’ said Olivia. ‘The Empress.’
‘We know who the Empress is, child,’ said Pokrov.
‘Yes,’ said Olivia, ‘but, I mean, we could petition her, you know. People do it all the time. Up at the pink palace, I mean.’
‘Oh, we know all about the petitions process,’ said Pokrov.
‘She does have a point,’ said Ingalawa. ‘It might be the swiftest way out of our difficulties.’
‘Well I don’t want to get mixed up in any petition,’ said Chegory.
‘Why on earth not?’ said Ingalawa. ‘The Empress is very nice. She’s kind, sensible and merciful. Very few petitions fail, you know. If they’re at all reasonable she’ll grant them. She’ll understand about Shabble getting out of hand.’
‘I still don’t want to go petitioning,’ said Chegory. ‘Not Justina, not anyone.’
‘What’s the problem?’ said Ingalawa. ‘It’s a perfectly logical thing to do.’
Chegory was silent. This woman didn’t understand anything! A petition to the Empress was the most public matter imaginable. What if his uncle was to learn of it? If Dunash Labrat learnt that Chegory had fallen foul of the law, Chegory would be ashamed to ever again show his face at the worthy beekeeper’s smallholding.
Ingalawa, Qasaba and Pokrov began to bully Chegory. He must stop running; he must stand up for himself; he must act like a citizen, not like a furtive criminal. Meantime, the miscreant arch-illuminator of Injiltaprajura descended from the heights to join in the debate.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Shabble. ‘Do it, Chegory! Do it!’
The Ebrell Islander’s will began to crumble in the face of this combined onslaught. But he was still terrified of publicity, exposure, notoriety. He thought it safer by far to run, to hide, to vanish, to disappear from the face of the earth. At last, unable to defend himself directly any more, he begged leave to think things through overnight.
‘Don’t prevaricate like that,’ said Ingalawa. ‘Show some decisiveness for once. Make a decision!’
Fortunately, Chegory was rescued by the arrival of Firfat Labrat and his henchman Hooch Neesberry. Labrat himself was incongruously garbed in a green singlet, a white dhoti and pink slippers. He was a big man built in Ebrell Island red, his flesh largely smothered by luxurious red hair which grew from his cheeks, his chin, shoulders and the back of his hands; indeed, he was so furry that in a certain light he looked more like a rare kind of ape than a man.
This, then, was Firfat Labrat, son of Chegory Guy’s mother’s brother Vermont and hence Chegory’s cousin, and a cousin also of Dunash Labrat’s son Ham. He greeted Chegory warmly, and laughed when Chegory explained the troubles which had brought them to Marthandorthan.
‘That Shabble!’ said Firfat, shaking his head. ‘Always up to some mischief!’
‘Yes,’ said Chegory, ‘but it’s my fault really. I should have stayed on Jod. But these — these people persuaded me otherwise. I’m sorry we’re here, it puts you in danger.’
‘Danger’s my business,’ said Firfat, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘More, it’s my life.’ Then he laughed again. Then, growing serious, turned to one of Chegory’s companions. ‘You’re Ivan Pokrov, aren’t you? The man from the Analytical Institute, right?’
‘The same,’ acknowledged Pokrov.
‘Then maybe you can help me,’ said Firfat. ‘There’s this little thing I have to sort out with the inland revenue.’
‘If there’s accounting work to do,’ said Pokrov, ‘then Shabble can help us. We can get it done in no time.’ Shabble immediately began to drift away. Shabble was the best accountant on Untunchilamon and knew the intricacies of the tax system inside out, but nevertheless hated figurework of any description.
‘Come here,’ said Pokrov. ‘Or do I have to send you to a therapist to get any work out of you?’
‘It’s my holiday,’ said Shabble rebelliously. ‘I haven’t had a holiday for five thousand years. I’m taking one now. So!’
But Pokrov was insistent, and at last Shabble, with the greatest of reluctance, followed him into Labrat’s office.
These Shabbies! Lazy, idle, mischievous, wilful, wanton, irresponsible! Surely the collapse of the Golden Gulag is no longer a mystery once we realise that the Gulag relied heavily upon Shabbies for expertise of all descriptions. As it has often been remarked in Injiltaprajura, for practical purposes Shabble is scarcely worth a damn, since this creature must be supervised constantly and badgered incessantly if any work is to be got out of it.
Nevertheless, the invention of Shabbies remains the crowning achievement of the Gulag. The best brains of the Gulag laboured mightily for fifty thousand years to produce intelligent life which would surpass human genius — ) and, in the Shabbies, they succeeded.