Raymond Jones - The King of Eolim

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2024-12-22 0 0 608.84KB 143 页 5.9玖币
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The King of Eolim by
Raymond F. Jones
Chapter I
It was his parents' Friday night soiree. He never understood
what that meant except it brought a lot of people to the
apartment. Tonight the place was filled with them, all three
levels. People always frightened him.
He could hear rivers of conversation bursting everywhere,
loud, whispering—always insistent, penetrating, demanding.
There was the sound of music as some of the guests played their
own compositions. Tape players exposed other sounds, all of
them meaningless to him and equally exhausting. He wished he
could shut it all out and make it go away. He knew his father
didn't like it much either, but put up with it because his mother
demanded it.
He remembered he still had to tell his father about being
made King today at school. King of Eolim. He looked towards the
dresser, on which his crown lay. The little lights flashed on and
off at the peaks of the gold plastic crown. He crossed the room
and put the crown on his head again and looked at himself in the
mirror.
He wanted his father to see it. What better time than now? All
the guests would see it, too, and they would know he was King of
Eolim.
His mother wouldn't like it. He had been sternly warned never
to come out during one of these gatherings. But she never liked
anything he did.
Freeman Bradwell was 16 years old. He hated to be described
for what he was, "tall for his age." He was over six feet in height.
He was lanky, but not skinny, and he had already developed the
tall person's stoop, a kind of leaning forward that made him
seem perpetually anxious. The glasses that sat on the high bridge
of his nose added to the effect.
He hesitated a moment and thought about putting on his
clothes, but then decided on just a robe over his pajamas. That
would be all right. Everybody probably knew anyway that he
ambled off to his room when the 'tparty started. They wouldn't
think anything of his coming out in his robe. He glanced once
more in the mirror and decided the robe added to the effect of
the crown.
Little groups of people were congregated in the hall near his
door. A large man was loudly explaining an obscure principle of
art to a half dozen listeners grouped around him. His arms
pumped up and down to enforce his words. Then he stopped
suddenly, arms in mid-air, as Freeman Bradwell moved abreast
of the group.
The boy saluted, the lights on his crown twinkling madly. He
grinned. The big man who had been talk-ing so explosively
twisted his face into a weak grin in response.
"I'm Free," said the boy. "I'm King of Eolim. They crowned me
King in school today."
The big man rubbed his hands together as if in placation. "I'm
sure that's very nice," he said. "I mean, it's wonderful. Sure, it's
just great!"
Free was conscious of the hush that swept behind him. They
were surprised to see him, and that's the way he wanted it. He
was tired of being sent away—even though it terrified him to be
in the midst of so many people. His father had often told him the
only way to get over that was to move out among them. Well,
that's what he was doing tonight.
He approached the top of the stairs, hearing the whispers
behind him. He heard a woman say to another, "It's him" And he
wondered why she had to say it that way.
The knots and groups of people closed in on one another
behind him as he made his way down the stairs. This was where
the music rooms were, and he heard the sounds as people
entertained one another.
He came to the piano room. Inside, a crowd of twenty-five or
thirty people clustered about the instrument, at which a young
man was playing something jolly and humorous. Free edged his
way through the crowd until he stood by the keyboard. His
lighted crown flickered defiantly. The laughter died away as the
party goers became aware of his presence. The hands of the
player stopped above the keyboard.
"Hello," the man said. He hadn't stopped smiling.
"I'm Free. I'm King of Eolim."
The pianist swallowed hard. His smile dimmed a moment, but
he brought it back. "That's great, Free. That's just great." He
turned to the keyboard, and his fingers picked out a tinkling
melody that seemed timed to the flickering lights on the crown.
"King of Eolim," he said musingly. "I didn't know there was still a
land of Eolim." He began to hum.
"Freeman Bradwell King of Eolim King of Eolim Long live the
King Long live Free!"
The others began to unfreeze now and sang along with rising
enthusiasm and happiness. Free looked about. They were
smiling. They liked him, he thought. They really liked him.
"Thanks," he said to the man at the keyboard. "Thanks very
much."
"Thanks to you, King Free. A long and happy reign."
He left the piano room quickly, overwhelmed by their gesture.
His father had been right. He didn't need to be afraid of all these
people. They were willing to be his friends.
He passed other music rooms and came to the game rooms.
The first was the big Universe room, which had been installed
only a few weeks ago. Two men and two women were intent on
this game. The goal was to build a universe of galaxies, solar
systems, star clusters, and other objects within the space of the
room. The universe was built of metallic spheres and particles
suspended in a modified magnetic field within the ten-meter
high room. Any instability in-traduced by new elements would
cause the whole thing to collapse with a clatter on the floor. The
player who caused the collapse was the loser, heavily ridiculed
for his awkwardness.
The players worked intently with computers to determine
where they could place a new cluster or galaxy without upsetting
the equilibrium of the entire system. Free liked this game. He
played it often with his father, and often he won. He didn't use
the computers, of course. They were vast mysteries he would
never understand. But he could usually tell where to place the
items without all the intricate computations. By "feel" he said.
He stood in the doorway as one of the women players placed a
star cluster deep in the center of a galaxy. She withdrew the
tractors triumphantly and laughed in delight. "There! That puts
our side a hundred points ahead."
Her companion nodded smugly at his opponents, who were
already preparing their next moves.
"I'm Free," the boy announced suddenly. "I'm King of Eolim."
He spoke to the man who was setting his tractors. "You shouldn't
put that solar system there. It'll make everything come down."
The man turned, startled, and backed the tractors to a neutral
position. "Who are—?" he began harshly. Then he stopped, his
gaze softening. He was an older man, but his face was youthful
and vigorous. "So you're Free. And King of Eolim. We're happy to
know you, Free. You say my positioning of the solar system was
off?"
Free nodded. "It should go a couple of degrees to the right of
where you were going to put it."
"How do you know?" the man asked kindly. "I checked it on
my computer, and that's what it tells me."
"I don't know," said Free. "I don't know how to use a
computer. It just looked wrong to me. Maybe you ought to check
it again."
"I'll do that." He sat down at the complex console of the
mini-computer and began feeding in the data of his proposed
addition once more. The data on all the rest of the elements of
the game were already in the computer. He pressed the button to
read out the answer od the screen. He frowned at the figures and
turned to Free. "You're right. I made a mistake. But I don't see
how in the world you knew that."
"It just seemed that way," said Free.
The man on the opposing team objected. "You can't make a
change after you're committed to placement. You forfeit the
game."
The first player smiled. "You surely wouldn't object if I took a
hunch from the King of Eolim, would you? That ought to make
for an unopposed position in any game."
"I guess you're right. He couldn't possibly have picked the
right coordinates except by sheer chance, could he?"
The player adjusted his tractors and picked up the solar
system once again. Carefully, he moved it to the coordinate
position Free had indicated, and which his own computer had
confirmed. He locked it in place with the magnetic field and
removed the tractors. The adjacent systems shuddered a trifle as
they adjusted to the new influence hi their fields, but there was
no catastrophic reaction.
The man smiled at Free. "We won that one, didn't we?"
Free nodded happily. He moved beneath the simulated
universe under the domed, night-dark ceiling with its pin points
of light that added realism to the scene of the players.
He stared upward, his gaze fixed on the metal marbles that
simulated the worlds in the immensity of space. "My world is out
there—somewhere," he said pointing and searching with his
eyes.
The man bent closer to hear his almost inaudible words.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not from Earth," Free said. "Not many people know that.
I haven't told many. I'm from out there. I can't see my world, but
it's up there somewhere. I don't think you've put it in yet."
"What's the name of your world?"
"I don't know. I can't remember. But they called me the Star
Prince. Some day I'm going back. Nobody knows that, either. But
I am."
"Sure, Free. Sure you are. Your father will see that you get
back to where you came from. Why don't you just let it stay a
secret and not tell anybody else about it? They might think
you're just making up a story."
"You don't think that, do you?" said Free in sudden alarm.
"No, of course not! I'm just saying there might be those who
do."
"I guess you're right. I guess I shouldn't tell anybody else."
"Thanks for your help with the game move. I sure would have
lost that one, and now I think maybe you have helped us win the
game."
"It's all right. I'm glad I kept you from making that wrong
move. I play this game a lot with my father."
He left the room, the players watching him half sadly until he
was out of sight. He moved to the stairs and hesitated before
going down to the first level. His father and mother were down
there. He could see his father now, standing in the center of a
group that listened intently to Morten Bradwell's words. Now
and then they offered comments or questions, but for the most
part they were quiet as if listening to an oracle.
Free knew it was always like that. People listened to his father.
They acted and shaped their lives on his opinions and assertions.
It gave Free a warm feeling to watch his father, respected and
honored. He would never be like his father, but he could be
proud that he was the son of such a man.
Morton Bradwell was just past forty. His hair was faintly
streaked with gray strands, but his face and body were as
vigorous and unlined as when he was twenty. He was a Genetic
Engineer, a Research Professor at the city's great college. Free
had tried to understand what his father did, what his work
meant, but he didn't grasp any more than Morton Bradwell's
simplified explanation: "I just try to make people better and
better—children better than their parents, and their children
better still."
Free didn't understand how people could be any better than
they were. People who came to the apartment on Friday nights
were so beautiful and wonder-ful—the shining people, Free called
them. That's the way they seemed to him, bright and shining. He
supposed that two hundred of them, gathered together in the
apartment, knew everything in the world. Two hundred of the
shining people, picked from anywhere in the city, undoubtedly
knew everything there was to know.
He hesitated still, standing on the top stair, one foot twisted
around the post. Maybe he shouldn't have come. Even his father
might not like his appearing in that group of big, important,
shining people.
But then his father saw him. Morten Bradwell glanced up at
the stairway, and a mere flicker of dismay, so slight that no one
noticed it, crossed his face. He continued to smile. "Free," he
called. "Come down, son. You don't need to stay up there."
The others turned, and Free saw their faces. But then they
smiled too, just as all the others had. They would like him, too. It
was just that they hadn't expected to see him.
He moved slowly down the stairs. He didn't see his mother
yet. He hoped she wasn't near. Morten Bradwell strode towards
the foot of the stairs as Free reached the bottom step. He put an
arm around his son and faced the group. "I'd like you all to know
Freeman, my son."
Free nodded, the lights of the crown twinkling. The group
surrounding his father nodded greetings and continued smiling.
No one seemed to notice his crown.
"I wanted to tell you," said Free to his father. "I got this crown
in school today. They made me King of Eolim. It was great. They
put me on a chair on a platform and carried me all through the
halls and sang songs and gave me this crown. I wanted to tell you
before I went to bed."
"I'm glad you did, son," said Morten gently. "You were very
thoughtful. I'll come up in a little while and you can tell me some
more about it."
"All right." Then Free chuckled suddenly. "I was just up in the
Universe Room. The man was about to blow the whole game. I
showed him how to make his play. He didn't think I knew how to
play."
"I'll bet you surprised him!"
"I sure did. He thanked me, too. The others weren't going to
let him have the play, but he said it ought to be all right to
accept the play of the King of Eolim. The other man agreed. I
guess the King of Eolim has some influence around here!"
"Yes, he does," said Morten Bradwell. He swallowed hard, and
his voice was quiet. "The King of Eolim will always swing a big
influence around here."
"I'll see you later, Dad." Freeman turned away and moved
back toward the stairs. The pointed crown continued blinking all
the way up to the next floor.
Morten Bradwell turned again to his guests. They began
backing away now. They saluted, nodded, made polite noises and
took their farewells to other parts of the gathering. Only one
companion remained beside Morten when the others had
retreated. Dr. Bryner Cavner stood beside him, looking up the
stairway after Free's retreat.
"That was quite a shock," said Dr. Cavner. "Most of them had
never seen one before."
"My son—Freeman—?"
"That's your problem, Morten. You continue to think of him
as my son. If you had disposed of him you would have no such
term to clutter your thinking and your feelings."
"I'm sorry, Bryner," said Morten wearily. "We've gone over
this many tune before, and I don't want to go over it again
tonight. You understand, this has been something of a strain,
even to me."
"I do understand. I don't see how you keep your equilibrium.
But there's one thing I want to say that hasn't been said before.
These people tonight have seen him for the first time. Before, he
was only something that was talked about. Now they know. Face
to face, they know what a Retard looks and acts like. People hi
your own field. People who can and will influence your own
progress in your career.
"You are damaging yourself, Morten. I am confident that you
can make no further progress in your field as long as you persist
in this whim of keeping your Retard. It is just not consistent
with the character of your position. I tell you this as a friend,
Morten. And we have been friends for a long tune. You know
that, don't you?"
"Yes, of course I know it. I don't expect you— or any of
them—to understand. But I'm not going to euthanize him. If he's
a Retard, then so am I—he's part of me. We've gone over it a
thousand times. I don't want to talk about it any more."
"I know. Neither do I. But remember, Morten, you're at the
end of the road with this decision. You have nowhere to go from
here."
nowhere to go from here.
Those words stayed with Morten long after Bryner had left,
long after Free was in bed and the lights were out and
nightdarkness infiltrated the residence.
nowhere.
But he knew that that was not true. There was always an
answer. And for the three of them, that answer would have the
ingredients for changing the course of their lives.
Chapter II
They were alone in the main living room of the apartment.
The automatic cleaning machines were restoring the rooms and
disposing of the debris. Their faint whine was the only sound.
Morten Bradwell sat on one end of the sofa that faced the
window overlooking the city far below. Arlee Bradwell, his wife,
sat at the other end, as far away as possible.
"It was like an exodus," said Arlee Bradwell. "They couldn't
get out of here fast enough. I looked around and suddenly
everybody was gone. Most of them didn't even stop to say thanks
and goodbye."
"They should have better manners," said Morten quietly. "It's
not like engineered humans to behave so rudely. We'll have to
take another look at the gene charts we're using. Of course,
they're older models —virtually obsolete now. We'll have to take
that into consideration."
"Be as sarcastic as you like. But those people are our friends.
Influential friends who can determine future course of your
career and our status."
"Another fault of our genetic engineering, then," said Morten.
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ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedby.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.TheKingofEolimbyRaymondF.JonesChapterIItwashisparents'Fridaynightsoiree.Heneverunderstoodwhatthatmeantexceptitbroughtalotofpeopletotheapartment.Tonighttheplacewasfilledwiththem,allthreelevels.Peoplealwaysfrightenedhim.Hecoul...

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