Read Online Dramocles: An Intergalactic Soap Opera by Robert Sheckley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Sheckley
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Opening it she laid out a highly polished gold mirror and a razor blade whose edge remained forever sharp. From a small bottle carved from a single ruby she poured a quantity of crystalline substance onto the mirror.
“Look at them rocks,” Dramocles said.
Drusilla’s total concentration was directed now toward the ritual pulverization of the crystalline matter by means of the razor blade. Music of oboe and hautboy came up strongly now. Colored lights began to pulse, casting ambiguous shadows across the stone walls. With solemn slowness Drusilla raked the sacred powder into snaky white lines. Finally she took a dry hollow bone from the sandalwood box, bowed toward the still face of the Goddess, and handed it to Dramocles.
“Now Father, partake of the divine energy.”
“I can’t get this stuff anymore over in Glorm,” Dramocles said, his nose running slightly in anticipation. He knelt before the altar, an imposing figure in his ermine sports jacket. Placing one end of the tube within his nostril, he brought the other end to a point of close adjacency with the white powder. Sniffing strongly, he took down four king-sized lines. His eyes were popping and a broad smile crept over his face as he handed the golden mirror to Drusilla.
She too partook of the crystalline substance. Now, swiftly, Drusilla turned to the third box. Opening it, she removed five dried mushrooms imported from secret corners of Old Earth. The music swelled as she prepared the visionary dose, took half herself, and gave the rest to Dramocles. While the substance was taking effect, Drusilla served marzipan cookies and herbal tea. Soon Dramocles could feel twinges and tinglings in his stomach, and there were multicolored dots flashing in his eyes and uncontrollable twitchings and tremblings affecting his extremities, and when he tried to sit erect the chamber tilted alarmingly to one side, and the carved face of the Goddess seemed to leer at him with a grin of dubious import.
The flood of sensations increased, and soon Dramocles felt as though he had fallen into a raging mountain river. The Shrine Room faded, to be replaced by darting images that grimaced at him and then were gone. Violet shadows twisted loose from the dark corners and reached out ragged tendrils toward him. A chorus of a thousand voices chanted in the background, and now the chamber was flooded with light and transformed utterly.
Dramocles found himself within a great and sumptuous room, itself enclosed within a palatial structure of colossal size. “What is this place?” he asked.
Faintly, as from a great distance, Drusilla’s voice came to him. “Give thanks to the Goddess, Father, for she has transported you to the Palace of Memory. Whatever you have seen or heard throughout your lifetime is somewhere here. The secrets you concealed from yourself are here, too. Go forth, O King, and find what you require.”
The Palace of Memory was very like Ultragnolle, Dramocles decided, but nobler, finer, more beautiful, an idealized castle such as could only exist in dreams or memories. He drifted across subtly hued rugs, past glittering statues set in niches. Tinkling crystal chandeliers overhead threw bright darts of light against the ancient wall tapestries.
Dramocles drifted down a corridor that seemed to stretch to infinity in either direction. Thete were rooms on either side, doors open, and Dramocles peered briefly into each as he floated wraithlike down the endless corridor.
Some of the rooms were densely filled with objects, others had only one item or two. Here were the remains of feasts he had consumed in the past. There was his first mangleberry crumpet, his first salted herring, his first pumpernickel bagel. Other rooms were filled with discarded clothing, old books, crumpled cigarette packs. Some of the rooms had motionless figures sitting in them, human or statue he could not tell. Here was old Gregorious, his boyhood instructor in swordcraft–how quiet the voluble
“Look at them rocks,” Dramocles said.
Drusilla’s total concentration was directed now toward the ritual pulverization of the crystalline matter by means of the razor blade. Music of oboe and hautboy came up strongly now. Colored lights began to pulse, casting ambiguous shadows across the stone walls. With solemn slowness Drusilla raked the sacred powder into snaky white lines. Finally she took a dry hollow bone from the sandalwood box, bowed toward the still face of the Goddess, and handed it to Dramocles.
“Now Father, partake of the divine energy.”
“I can’t get this stuff anymore over in Glorm,” Dramocles said, his nose running slightly in anticipation. He knelt before the altar, an imposing figure in his ermine sports jacket. Placing one end of the tube within his nostril, he brought the other end to a point of close adjacency with the white powder. Sniffing strongly, he took down four king-sized lines. His eyes were popping and a broad smile crept over his face as he handed the golden mirror to Drusilla.
She too partook of the crystalline substance. Now, swiftly, Drusilla turned to the third box. Opening it, she removed five dried mushrooms imported from secret corners of Old Earth. The music swelled as she prepared the visionary dose, took half herself, and gave the rest to Dramocles. While the substance was taking effect, Drusilla served marzipan cookies and herbal tea. Soon Dramocles could feel twinges and tinglings in his stomach, and there were multicolored dots flashing in his eyes and uncontrollable twitchings and tremblings affecting his extremities, and when he tried to sit erect the chamber tilted alarmingly to one side, and the carved face of the Goddess seemed to leer at him with a grin of dubious import.
The flood of sensations increased, and soon Dramocles felt as though he had fallen into a raging mountain river. The Shrine Room faded, to be replaced by darting images that grimaced at him and then were gone. Violet shadows twisted loose from the dark corners and reached out ragged tendrils toward him. A chorus of a thousand voices chanted in the background, and now the chamber was flooded with light and transformed utterly.
Dramocles found himself within a great and sumptuous room, itself enclosed within a palatial structure of colossal size. “What is this place?” he asked.
Faintly, as from a great distance, Drusilla’s voice came to him. “Give thanks to the Goddess, Father, for she has transported you to the Palace of Memory. Whatever you have seen or heard throughout your lifetime is somewhere here. The secrets you concealed from yourself are here, too. Go forth, O King, and find what you require.”
The Palace of Memory was very like Ultragnolle, Dramocles decided, but nobler, finer, more beautiful, an idealized castle such as could only exist in dreams or memories. He drifted across subtly hued rugs, past glittering statues set in niches. Tinkling crystal chandeliers overhead threw bright darts of light against the ancient wall tapestries.
Dramocles drifted down a corridor that seemed to stretch to infinity in either direction. Thete were rooms on either side, doors open, and Dramocles peered briefly into each as he floated wraithlike down the endless corridor.
Some of the rooms were densely filled with objects, others had only one item or two. Here were the remains of feasts he had consumed in the past. There was his first mangleberry crumpet, his first salted herring, his first pumpernickel bagel. Other rooms were filled with discarded clothing, old books, crumpled cigarette packs. Some of the rooms had motionless figures sitting in them, human or statue he could not tell. Here was old Gregorious, his boyhood instructor in swordcraft–how quiet the voluble
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