Their Majesties' Bucketeers Read Online Free Page B

white. Atop his jaws he wore a cone of parchment on which was crudely described a lidless eye.
    This, I recognized from recent newspaper accounts and from history lectures at College, was an ancient religious insignia lately resurrected by an unauthorized sect of fundamentalists in distorted mockery of the Church of the Martyred Trine, which is the official State religion of the Empire of Great Foddu. The ragged form upon the waggon harangued the gathering, and I began to be amused, imagining what my parents’ friend the Archsacerdot of Mathas might make of the fellow’s rude theology:
    “ Lamviin was instantaneously and miraculously created at the ordination and in the image of Our Maker, Pah! ” Thus far the cant was orthodox, though I am given to understand certain sophisticated scholars high in the Church will entertain without prejudice the notion that this is more a matter of poetic metaphor than philosophical necessity.
    “ And yet this vile blasphemer is allowed to teach that we ‘ascended’—through uncountable and monstrous accidents of birth—from creatures such as eat the bugs off arms of desert cactus! Will we permit this evil and indecent slander against the written word of Pah Himself? ”
    “ NO ! ” the crowd roared back at him, affrighting me far more than had the volumes of inanimate slime raised from the river earlier this evening. At least that foul substance had extinguished a blaze.
    “ NO ! ” they shouted once again. I began to be afraid that here was more than some small collection of benighted crackshells. I grasped Mav’s arm all the closer, taking comfort in the hard-edged outline of the pistol beneath his cloak. He signed to one of the Bucketeers at the door who recognized us and immediately detached himself from the cordon to escort us the few remaining yards. We passed through many a muffled threat, which discreet cuffs from the officer silenced only momentarily.
    “You’re the last,” announced an elderly lam at the top of the steps as he carefully ticked our admissions off against a roster of invited guests he carried with him. His uniform differed somewhat from those of our protectors in the street and I guessed, correctly as it turned out, that he was with the Museum. “We’ll lock the doors now and bar them for good measure. Any more as is late’ll hafta read about it in th’ mornin’ papers!” With this the guard secured the entrance and guided us across the dim, enormous front display hall toward our destination.
    Srafen Rotdu Rizmou, Professor and Curator of the Imperial Museum of Natural Philosophy, proved to be a surmale of sufficient age to make the elderly Museum guard who led us to our seats seem sprightly by comparison. Mav advised that I should not be deceived altogether by appearances, that Srafen had been ill in recent months but was now recovering and in fact complained of gaining weight. Here and there a patch of the professor’s carapace and limbs showed through rher thinning pelt and rhe moved upon the speaker’s platform with a gingerly stiffness that betrayed the ravages of a lifetime spent in moister climates than perhaps our bodies are ideally suited for. This, by interesting coincidence, seemed the very topic that rhe was addressing as we found our places toward the rear of the chamber:
    “Everywhere you look in Sodde Lydfe, everywhere I collected specimens during my youthful service to Their Majesties’ Navy, everywhere from which today’s youths with a similar penchant send me samples, everywhere but in our planet’s deserts , which I’ll be turning to in due course”—rhe leaned upon the lectern and held a finger aloft—“ everywhere , you will discover a single, common, highly educative circumstance!”
    Whether they agreed or not with Srafen, rher illustrious audience seemed captivated by rher unusually persuasive voice and assertive gesticulations. I cannot recall more than a teacher or three from my own school days who displayed