Cosmocopia Read online

  “Yes, Crutchsump.”

  Leaving the girl shoveling sea-coal with a wooden scuttle, Crutchsump walked down lush carpets through the dining room, the front parlor, the games room and the rear parlor, until she reached a wide ascending staircase. Every spotless, well-furnished inch of the apartment’s first floor brought her immense pleasure and pride.

  For the past eight months, Lazorg and Crutchsump had occupied three rented, high-ceilinged levels—the fourth, fifth and sixth—in an exclusive residential building in the Stallkamp district. They had moved out of the squalor of Telerpeton within a week of Lazorg’s gallery debut (within a week of the thrilling consummation of their passions for each other, thought Crutchsump), but only into modestly better lodgings just a mile or so away, in the Ubiwerke district, home to middle-class merchants and skilled workers. But as soon as Lazorg had amassed a fair amount of money, as soon as his continued sales seemed assured, and not a passing fad among collectors, he had determined to splurge on what Crutchsump could only regard as a mansion in the clouds.

  “We need a residence befitting our dreams, Crutchsump. A reward for all your hard work—for my genius. And we cannot command the highest prices for my creations if we don’t represent ourselves as quality. So this expenditure is really in the nature of an investment, you see, that will repay itself a hundredfold!”

  Leery of spending anything above the bare necessities, already feeling guiltily self-indulgent in their Ubiwerke lodgings, Crutchsump had grudgingly consented.

  What surprised her, once they were ensconced in the Stallkamp quarters and the money continued to flow in reassuring freshets much larger than their expenses, was how quickly she had gotten used to the new mode of living.

  The second floor of their rental quarters hosted their private rooms, bed, bath, wardrobes full of new clothes and cauls. An entire suite for Pirkle!

  One room remained empty. Crutchsump had a dream for this space—but more and more, that dream seemed fated never to materialize.

  The ascent from fifth to sixth floor consisted of a spiral staircase that debouched directly in the middle of Lazorg’s wide-open studio space. This penthouse with its glass roof echoed but outdid Arbogast’s atelier, and had been outfitted similarly.

  As Crutchsump spiraled round the stairs, closer and closer to poking her head into the studio, she could hear two voices raised in argument. She recognized the speakers as Lazorg and Arbogast. While she was always pleased to see the stern but enthusiastic ex-teacher who had set their feet on the path to such prosperity, Crutchsump could not help feeling a bit disappointed at not having Lazorg all to herself.

  Lazorg and Arbogast stood near a rack of ideations. Arbogast held one in his hand.

  “But why? Why can’t you be content with producing small items like this? If I could summon up such outré imagery from my brains, I’d regard myself as blessed!”

  Lazorg took the ideation from Arbogast. Crutchsump saw that it was one of the series Lazorg called “Cars.” The four-wheeled object was plainly meant to represent some kind of enclosed vehicle. But its bizarre lines, its lack of any attachment for motivating beasts of burden, its weird interior accoutrements, all radiated a fascinating sense of alienness.

  “This damn ‘tonka toy’!” exclaimed Lazorg. “It’s nothing, just a straight reproduction of something I would see every day back home in my world.”

  Lazorg chucked the ideation—for which any collector in Sidetrack City would have gratefully paid a large sum—across the room, where it struck a wall and shattered. Although cured nacre was strong, it wasn’t indestructible.

  Lazorg’s voice reeked of rue, but not at the destruction of the ideation. “It’s so ironic! These mimetic reproductions from my old world are the stuff of high fantasy here. They shock and intrigue your jaded collectors. And if I could ever somehow smuggle your Standard Series Six back to my plane, they’d have the same effect. Our two worlds are each the other’s dream and nightmare!”

  Arbogast pondered this seeming paradox for a moment, then said, “But that’s only a natural reciprocity, it seems to me. What’s your problem?”

  “The relationship between our worlds locks me and my art in a double bind.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for most of my career back home, I traded in fantastical imagery, but longed to ‘paint’ naturalistically. I was working on such a ‘canvas’ at the end. ‘The Origin of the World.’ But if I were to take up that subject matter here, as an ideation, it would come across as purest fantasy, just like my ‘Cars’ series or my ‘Dogs’ series or my ‘House’ series.”

  “True.”

  “Yet at the same time, if I attempt to work in a similar ‘realistic’ mode here, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m creating fantasy again—because the things of this world are so alien to me.”

  “What would you like to do then? What can you do?”

  Lazorg mulled this question for a while. His answer surprised Crutchsump.

  “The most real ‘objects’ to me here are the people. The individuals in my life. I want to do ‘portraits.’ But your race has no tradition of portraiture!”

  “We’ve discussed this before,” Arbogast said with some small exasperation. “You’ve tried to tell me about ‘mirrors,’ and how they can reveal one’s likeness to oneself in a flat surface. But without them, portraiture was never born here. For while it’s true that we might theoretically like to hold and admire and cherish the ideation of a loved one, the prime mover in that hypothetical mode is ego, seeing the representation of oneself. And without the initial seed of that idea, your ‘portraiture’ mode died aborning—”

  Lazorg interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Whatever the reason for this lack, I’m determined to pioneer the mode. That’s the reason for my dinner tonight. I’ll introduce the concept at table.”

  “I doubt you’ll find many patrons for this odd conceit.”

  “We’ll see. But now, another matter. I want to determine if you can help me increase the amount of nacre I can pull. Eventually, I want my portraits to be life-sized.”

  “You know that’s impossible. Wrestling that amount of nacre would result in you yourself being dragged into the interstices.”

  “But with two of us?”

  “Coordinating the wills of two ideation makers is problematical. …”

  “Let’s try.”

  Still unwitting of Crutchsump’s silent presence, Lazorg and Arbogast took up tranches and proceeded to rip a slit in the continuum. Soon they began to pull a massive blob of nacre, doubly pierced and snaffled, like taffy from out of the air. Arcane coiling motions by the tranches caused more and more of the pliable substance to be accreted. But the strain began to show on the quivering arms of the makers, and sweat stained their cauls.

  Crutchsump found herself holding her breath.

  “Detach! Detach!” yelled Arbogast.

  “No! Just a while longer—!”

  But Arbogast had already released his grapple, and Lazorg could not maintain the person-sized mass on his own. He was forced also to relinquish his hold, and the nacre snapped back into its lair.

  Panting, the makers dropped down among the cushions.

  Crutchsump hastened to their side.

  Lazorg saw her first. “Ah, little Moley! Did you witness our heroic struggle?”

  Hugging Lazorg, Crutchsump said, “Yes, yes I did! And it looked very dangerous! Please don’t try that again!”

  Lazorg disengaged himself from Crutchsump’s embrace and stood up with the decisive air of a man of action, committed to his art. “I can’t promise that, little Moley. But I do promise I’ll be as careful as possible. Now, tell me what you’ve got planned for our menu tonight.”

  Crutchsump outlined the exotic dishes they would enjoy, with Lazorg nodding approvingly and Arbogast chiming in with his own delight and anticipation. Then she left the two makers, to begin her own work with Flumareen’s help.
r />   Descending, she thought, “Little Moley!” How sweet it sounds, every time he says it—whatever a “mole” is. But if only we could have a moment’s privacy these days, like when we were poor. …

  Lazorg sat at one end of the long table, spiked with flickering candles amidst the shining cutlery and plates, and Crutchsump, as mistress of the house, occupied the other end, with guests ranked between them.

  But that left the closest seats to Lazorg, at either hand, to be apportioned to Arbogast—and Serrapane.

  When the latter had swept into their apartments that evening, Crutchsump had been nearly overwhelmed by the intoxicating and domineering female aura of the rich, high-status, famous and extraordinarily endowed woman. She had felt her own introciptor adopting a male configuration, even though there was no overt emotional attraction between her and her guest. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Following behind Serrapane, other guests trailed like so many Pirkles on the scent trail of a particularly ripe midden.

  Or so Crutchsump uncharitably thought. And she was chiding herself for the mean comparison when Serrapane handed Crutchsump her shawl and said, “Here, you, please find a hook for this.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  Serrapane looked down on Crutchsump from her superior height. “Oh, it’s you, dear. I mistook you for one of the servants. How foolish of me! Please forgive.”

  Crutchsump thought to hear a few stifled sniggers from the other guests, but chose to ignore them. She handed off the shawl to Dunt, the house’s second servant.

  “An easy enough mistake—if one’s poorly tailored caul slips and slides all about and interferes with one’s vision. I’ll give you the name of the place where I shop.”

  Not easily disconcerted, Serrapane replied, “Oh, please do. It’s so hard these days to find good solid everyday wear for doing housework and other chores.”

  Appetizers and drinks were served in the main parlor. Crutchsump received many compliments, as usual, particularly for her breaded land-shrimp. Lazorg circulated with good humor and witty remarks.

  For a moment, memories of their earliest days of poverty together washed over Crutchsump, and she experienced a curious doubling and disorientation that, luckily, soon passed.

  The meal went well, with each perfect and surprising course meriting oohs and aahs. But Crutchsump resented how Serrapane monopolized Lazorg. The only time the woman paid any heed to her hostess was when she took a moment to say, “Oh, Crutchsump, how clever—you’ve taken all the bones out of the clandestini!”

  Crutchsump felt mortified down to the soles of feet.

  Eventually, Lazorg made a public announcement of his “portraiture” series. As usual, the collectors all deferred to Serrapane’s initial reaction. The woman paused for a dramatic interval, then said, “I will be the first to sit for our genius! A new history of ideations begins with me!”

  After that, the commissions flowed fast and deep.

  But Serrapane could not be content with deserting center-stage so soon, and chose that moment to make an announcement of her own.

  “I’m holding a séance next week, and you’re all invited. It’s been too long since anyone has dared to visit with our local ghosts, and they’ve all probably grown quite lonely!”

  The notion of a séance disturbed and frightened Crutchsump, but she held her tongue. Perhaps there would be some way to talk Lazorg out of going.

  A problem with dessert necessitated Crutchsump visiting the kitchen.

  When she returned to the dining room, both Lazorg and Serrapane were missing.

  “Where have they gone?” she demanded of Arbogast.

  Arbogast had the grace to look chagrinned on Crutchsump’s behalf. “Serrapane insisted on seeing what Lazorg was currently working on.”

  Crutchsump practically ran through the house, toward the studio.

  The penthouse was mostly dark, with just a single handheld candle lighting a small sphere of space: Lazorg and Serrapane standing close to each other, near cushions, not inspecting the rack of finished ideations.

  Crutchsump cleared her throat noisily, and the two turned to face her.

  The strings of Serrapane’s caul dangled loose.

  And at that exact moment, Crutchsump knew what she must do to keep Lazorg.

  8. Love and Ghosts

  THE SHRINE RUN BY Palisander hadn’t changed in any objectively discernible manner in the past year, but to Crutchsump’s eyes the two-room ghetto outpost of the Cosmocopian teachings appeared to have shrunken and acquired new layers of grime, poverty and despair. She marveled at how the ineffable majesty of the Cosmocopia could be contained in such a humble hole. (And the visit here certainly dissuaded her immediately from seeking out the old apartment she had shared with Lazorg, where their romance had first been consummated, for fear of experiencing a similar dreary disillusionment.)

  Behind Crutchsump, entering the shrine through its clattering curtain, Lazorg said, “I can’t believe I let you drag me here. Don’t you know I should be home doing studies? I’m using Dunt as a model for small busts. He’ll do well enough, until I feel confident in having Serrapane sit for me.”

  “I know your work is important, Lazorg. But this visit is too.”

  “I’m not making the progress I thought I would. It’s these damn cauls. They hide so much that’s distinctive to an individual. Mouth, cheekbones, jaw line—I know the veils are socially necessary, but still. … If only I could convince Serrapane to sit face-naked—what a triumph! I know I’d craft a masterpiece then! Although how could she possibly show the portrait off to anyone afterwards!”

  Crutchsump bit the inside of her cheek to keep from replying to this bold effrontery. How could Lazorg dare to display his infidelity and lust so openly, masquerading as artistic ambition?

  Or did his alien origin innocently betray propriety?

  She couldn’t decide.

  But given what she had witnessed, she knew she couldn’t risk not acting on her worst suspicions.

  Confronted in the penthouse on the night of the dinner, both Serrapane and Lazorg had cavalierly shrugged off Crutchsump’s polite but brittle insistence on knowing what they were about. Serrapane casually securing her caul as if it had come undone in a wind, the trio had rejoined the dinner party amidst a politely suppressed air of general curiosity. And the next day, Crutchsump had chosen not to trouble Lazorg with any further accusations or imputations.

  Argument or threats or recriminations were all beside the point anyway: she possessed ultimate confidence in her instantly inspired plan to retain Lazorg’s affections forever.

  A plan which would utilize Serrapane’s own grandiose séance, and which first involved a visit to Palisander.

  Crutchsump advanced to the altar. “I know your work is very important, dear. But so is this visit. And it won’t take long. You need to understand about ghosts, and I don’t have the words. They’re dangerous, and you’re not familiar with them, being from another plane.”

  Lazorg seemed to take these words to heart. “Well, all right. I admit that much about this plane is still foreign to me.”

  Crutchsump grabbed a handful of incense sticks and began arranging them in the sand-filled pot set before the Cosmocopian model. “I only have your safety at heart, Lazorg.”

  The incense smoldering, they ventured into Palisander’s private quarters.

  The noetic had removed his traditional loaf of a hat and was furiously scratching his scalp through his caul. He replaced the hat with whatever dignity remained to him, exclaiming, “Conceptus blast this case of scaly itch! Not even Hackberry’s Salve works! Now, how can I help you, children?”

  Crutchsump laid a hefty sum of scintilla into a brazen bowl, and Palisander assumed an attentive pose.

  “I’d like you to explain ghosts to Lazorg.”

  Lazorg preempted Palisander. “I never believed in ghosts back home. But I’m willing to admit they exist here. Stil
l, what real harm can the dead do to the living? Spirits are by definition immaterial. They can only affect weak psyches.”

  Palisander looked at Crutchsump, who returned his gaze and shrugged.

  “What are you talking about?” the noetic asked Lazorg.

  “Ghosts. The uneasy souls of the dead.”

  “That may be what ghosts are on your plane, but such is not the case here.”

  “What are your ghosts then?”

  “Ghosts, insofar as long experience with them over millennia have taught us, are direct sendings from the Conceptus, his agents.”

  Lazorg blithely waved off the mention of that distant demiurge. “That grain of sand at the heart of the Cosmocopian pearl? How can anyone know anything definite about the doings of such an enigma?”

  “This is the job of a noetic, to assimilate all the lore and wisdom relating to the Conceptus, cadged one iota at a time from the grudging multiverse. You may trust what I tell you as being the most expert knowledge available.”

  “All right, all right, then. The Conceptus sends out his ghosts. Why? What are they? And what do they accomplish?”

  “Like your ghosts, ours are immaterial but visible. Ghosts roam our world indiscriminately, seeking receptive minds to fasten upon. The kind of mind they look for is one possessed of a deep yearning ache, an emotional and spiritual wound. We hypothesize that ghosts are a mechanism engineered by the Conceptus to remedy any innate defects in his creation. The ghost seeks to supply whatever the person feels they must have to fill their void.”

  “Seeks to supply? How?”

  “By reifying the wish.”

  Lazorg contemplated this momentarily. “You get whatever you wish for from a ghost? Why avoid them?”

  “Wishes are dangerous. Everyone knows that.”

  “Why have I never seen a ghost?”

  “Sidetrack City is entirely protected against them. Surely you’ve noted ghost catchers everywhere, inside and out.”

  Crutchsump chimed in. “That’s one reason hunting the volvox was so dangerous, Lazorg, why so few attempted it. I never mentioned it at the time. I was afraid you wouldn’t risk it with me then, and we needed the money so badly. But we were outside the city, unprotected. I just prayed neither one of us were in such a state as to attract a ghost.”