The University of Dreams and Knowledge

by Harry Lang

part 2

Now and then Grimble encountered individuals or small groups on their way from Eastmine to Snaketown. Many carried empty baskets or small items to barter in the markets. Greeting them cordially, he made a quick study of each passing face. Little intelligence was in evidence; they seemed for the most part to be amiable rubes with nothing of significance on their minds.

One young man in particular, who stared vacantly and didn’t return his greeting, struck him as a fine illustration of the disadvantages of the bucolic life. With no techs to keep up the cybernetic interfaces, people fell into all kinds of nonsensical thought patterns and manifested humiliating idiosyncrasies.

The path began to rise as it wound around a hill covered with scrawny shrubs and pale grass. The air was warm and growing warmer, so he pulled off the uncomfortable gauntlets and stuffed them into his knapsack. No one out here needed to be fooled.

The path soon brought him to the other side of the hill where it began a steep descent. Below him the village of Eastmine lay spread across the valley like a handful of toys tossed by some careless giant.

Off to the right stood the black spidery structures of the iron mine and processing plant. Vast clouds of gray smoke billowed and wrapped themselves around the low hills which rolled like waves into the hazy blue distance. Small rows of square houses, white and immaculately kept, were arranged in blocks scattered here and there.

The path continued through what appeared to be the center of town where he could just make out signs for a general store, a post office, a doctor’s office and the like. The mining office and a few official looking buildings completed the picture.

Grimble paused to consider his strategy. Just finding Lorink could be difficult. Grimble had no address for Lorink, no record of employment, not even a reliable sketch of the man’s face. The locals might be unable or unwilling to help. And once he found him...

His stomach churned and his head throbbed a little. He hated confrontation out in the open world. A structured debate or a disagreement in the faculty lounge was as much as he could comfortably handle. Out here he was in his opponent’s territory with no real idea of his capabilities.

For at least the hundredth time he made a “final” check of the gear stored in his pockets and knapsack. There was no telling what might be needed in a place like this. He was reassured to find that Grael had done her usual thorough job, right down to placing his identity tag in the left hip pocket of his black overalls.

He decided to stop at the first official building he came to. It turned out to be the county agriculture office.

“Hello?” he called as he stepped into the tiny lobby. “Is anyone here?”

Behind the counter was a small square room with two desks buried beneath stacks of charts and spreadsheets. In spite of the untidy appearance, Grimble noticed that the office somehow felt more comfortable than his, as if it was meant to be pleasing rather than merely orderly and efficient. A door stood open to his right and from beyond the door came the unmistakable sound of snoring.

He raised his voice and called again. It took some doing but eventually the snoring stopped and a disheveled, sleepy-eyed bureaucrat emerged.

“Excuse me,” said Grimble, “I’m—”

“Don’t you know what time it is?” complained the man on the other side of the counter. “If you’re a farmer, you’d better get back to work. The mining company isn’t buying any more land right now.” With that he turned to head back into his office.

“I’m not a farmer!” protested Grimble. The idea! “I’m looking for somebody.”

“Then your work is done. You’ve found somebody. Good day!”

“Sir, please,” said Grimble. “I’m looking for Chebma Lorink. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Chebma? Well, you might find him behind that desk if he still worked for me. But since he doesn’t, I guess you might find him anywhere else in the world.”

“Can you tell me where he lives?”

“Lives with his mother... Say, you’re not from around here, are you? Those coveralls are brand new. Nobody has new clothes here. And you’re no farmer, not with those hands. What do you want with Chebma?”

“Nothing that concerns you. Now where...?”

“In that case, good luck finding him!” Slam went the door.

The bureaucrat’s atrocious behavior was hardly shocking. Grimble found such insolence wherever he went outside the city. He could stew about it later; right now he had work to do.

The path continued through small amber fields divided into well-kept gardens, where noisy children played happily. Most wore helmets to protect the cybernetic devices which had been installed at birth. The interfaces had been built centuries ago in order to augment brain functions impaired by mutations.

As the users died, the devices were reconditioned and passed on. New interfaces could not be built; the know-how did not exist, but as long as the spare parts held out and the techs could read the manuals, humanity continued to survive.

Grimble had planned to press on to the center of town but the morning was hot. As the path went through one of the neat residential sections he came upon a small park filled with children. A couple of droopy trees provided a little shade so he stopped to rest.

The park was located at a corner of a T intersection. The road intersecting the path ran straight toward a hill then became a precipitous switchback way ending at the entrance to the mine high above the town. On the opposite side of the path stood a row of white houses with flagstone walks and low iron fences adorned with unfamiliar and vaguely menacing symbols. An old woman mumbled to herself as she swept a walk.

Grimble watched her nervous, twitchy movements with growing interest. Occasionally she would stop her work and stand straight, listening or looking around with a quick jerk of her head, reminding him of a pigeon. Now and then she called across the way to the children, her thin worn siren of a voice warning them to stay out of the trees which were too small to bear their weight or telling them to put their helmets back on.

The woman who knows, surmised Grimble. No neighborhood is without one. Politics and ailments, marital problems and the names of ungrateful children; the list of facts known to her was bound to be endless.

“Gaah!” screamed the woman, swinging her broom at a number of chickens which had wandered onto the walk she had just swept. “You, you and you! Off or I’ll put you in the pot!”

Grimble made up his mind. There was no telling what he was letting himself in for, but he had to start somewhere.

“Excuse me,” he called as he crossed the path and stood outside her gate. “Excuse me, miss...?”

“People should say what they mean instead of hiding questions in greetings,” she responded crossly. “I’m not a ‘miss’ and you know it! Who are you?”

“I am Professor Majis Grimble,” he answered, hoping his demonstration of civility might be instructive.

“Those aren’t professor clothes. Those are miner’s clothes. If you’re looking for a job in the mine just go up and apply.”

“A miner? Certainly not!” He looked down at his hands and thought about the troglodytes scraping through the dirt and rock with prosthetic appendages and shoddy equipment. “I wear these clothes for traveling. They are more comfortable than my ‘professor clothes’.”

She looked him over as if annoyed he was still standing there. “I saw you lurking in the park, but you wouldn’t be talking to me if you were a kinderthief. I guess you could be a professor, at that. Yes, from UDAK. In that case, he’s in the mine.” She returned to her work.

“What? Who is in the mine? What are you talking about?”

“The one you’re looking for.”

Grimble just stood at the side of the path, looking at her in bewilderment.

Realizing she would never be rid of him at this rate, the old woman explained. “You walked here from Snaketown. You stopped at the agriculture office but Aro wouldn’t help you, probably because you were rude. You decided to go to the center of town but stopped here along the way. If the man you are looking for worked in the agriculture office you would be there. If he worked in the center of town he’d be prominent and easy to find, so you wouldn’t need to talk to me. That leaves the mine.”

Grimble had intended to stop at the mining office on the other side of town and ask about Lorink. The old woman’s logic made a certain amount of sense, and he recalled reading somewhere that the Lorinks were an old mining family. Maybe he could save himself a trip.

“You’re sure he’s in the mine?”

“The one you’re looking for? I know exactly where he is.”

It was still the middle of the morning and the day would only get hotter. Grimble made up his mind.

“Very well. Thank you, miss... madam.”

The old woman returned to sweeping the spotless walk and gave no reply, but as Grimble passed the far edge of the park on his way up the hill he heard her thin, dry screech rise after him.

“Professor! You, Professor!”

He turned to see her bent form standing behind the iron gate clutching the hickory handled broom, looking for all the world like a witch surrounded by the chilling symbols of her ancient vocation.

“The shafts are narrow! Mind the ricochet!”

Grimble turned and walked faster, as if distance might protect him from the infection of her insanity.

Three hours later the professor emerged from the mine, squinting and blinking hard against the savage glare of the sun directly overhead. The switchback road descending the hill was precarious as it shimmered in the waves of heat rising from its hard-baked surface and he stumbled most of the way, struggling to keep his footing.

The trip up the hill had been an absolute waste of time and he was convinced the old crone knew it would be. Chebma Lorink did not work at the mine, as he discovered after interviewing numerous slack-jawed yahoos who could barely form coherent sentences.

Apparently Chebma’s father had worked there for most of his life but had died in an accident a few years back. A number of the miners insisted they had spoken to the man “jus’ t’uder day” but couldn’t describe him or remember his first name. The onsite director contended that Chebma had given notice at the agriculture office and applied at the mine, but the director couldn’t find his application. When Grimble asked if he knew where the Lorinks lived, all he could remember was “somewheres down the hill.”

By the time he reached the bottom of the hill he was furious. His only thought was to find the old hag and hold her accountable for wasting his time; his business with Lorink could wait.

Proceed to part 3...