by Jack Vance
“Listen!” said Claghorn. From on high they heard the hoarse yells of men, the crackle of energy-cannon. “Some of them, at least, hold out on the ramparts!”
Xanten went to a nearby group of Birds who were for once awed and subdued by events. “Lift me up above the castle, out of range of the pellets, but where I can see what the Meks do!”
“Care, take care!” croaked one of the Birds. “Ill things occur at the castle.”
“Never mind; convey me up, above the ramparts!”
The Birds lifted him, swung in a great circle around the crag and above the castle, sufficiently distant to be safe from the Mek pellet-guns. Beside those cannon which yet operated stood thirty men and women. Between the great Houses, the Rotunda and the Palace, everywhere the cannon could not be brought to bear, swarmed Meks. The plaza was littered with corpses: gentlemen, ladies and their children — all those who had elected to remain at Castle Hagedorn.
At one of the cannon stood O.Z. Garr. Spying Xanten he gave a shout of hysterical rage, swung up the cannon, fired a bolt. The Birds, screaming, tried to swerve aside, but the bolt smashed two. Birds, car, Xanten fell in a great tangle. By some miracle, the four yet alive caught their balance and a hundred feet from the ground, with a frenzied groaning effort, they slowed their fall, steadied, hovered an instant, sank to the ground. Xanten staggered free of the tangle. Men came running. “Are you safe?” called Claghorn.
“Safe, yes. Frightened as well.” Xanten took a deep breath and went to sit on an outcrop of rock.
“What’s happening up there?” asked Claghorn.
“All dead,” said Xanten, “all but a score. Garr has gone mad. He fired on me.”
“Look! Meks on the ramparts!” cried A.L. Morgan.
“There!” cried someone else. “Men! They jump! … No, they are flung!”
Some were men, some were Meks whom they had dragged with them; with awful slowness they toppled to their deaths. No more fell. Castle Hagedorn was in the hands of the Meks.
Xanten considered the complex silhouette, at once so familiar and so strange. “They can’t hope to hold out. We need only destroy the sun-cells, and they can synthesize no syrup.”
“Let us do it now,” said Claghorn, “before they think of this and man the cannon! Birds!”
He went off to give the orders, and forty Birds, each clutching two rocks the size of a man’s head, flapped up, circled the castle and presently returned to report the sun-cells destroyed.
Xanten said, “All that remains is to seal the tunnel entrances against a sudden eruption, which might catch us off guard — then patience.”
“What of the Peasants in the stables — and the Phanes?” asked Hagedorn in a forlorn voice.
Xanten gave his head a slow shake. “He who was not an Expiationist before must become one now.”
Claghorn muttered, “They can survive two months — no more.”
But two months passed, and three months, and four months: then one morning the great portals opened and a haggard Mek stumbled forth. He signaled: “Men: we starve. We have maintained your treasures. Give us our lives or we destroy all before we die.”
Claghorn responded: “These are our terms. We give you your lives. You must clean the castle, remove and bury the corpses. You must repair the spaceships and teach us all you know regarding them. We will then transport you to Etamin Nine.”
2
Five years later Xanten and Glys Meadowsweet, with their two children, had reason to travel north from their home near Sande River. They took occasion to visit Castle Hagedorn, where now lived only two or three dozen folk, among them Hagedorn.
He had aged, so it seemed to Xanten. His hair was white; his face, once bluff and hearty, had become thin, almost waxen. Xanten could not determine his mood.
They stood in the shade of a walnut tree, with castle and crag looming above them. “This is now a great museum,” said Hagedorn. “I am curator, and this will be the function of all the Hagedorns who come after me, for there is incalculable treasure to guard and maintain. Already the feeling of antiquity has come to the castle. The Houses are alive with ghosts. I see them often, especially on the nights of the fêtes … Ah, those were the times, were they not, Xanten?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Xanten. He touched the heads of his two children. “Still, I have no wish to return to them. We are men now, on our own world, as we never were before.”
Hagedorn gave a somewhat regretful assent. He looked up at the vast structure, as if now were the first occasion he had laid eyes on it. “The folk of the future — what will they think of Castle Hagedorn? Its treasures, its books, its tabards?”
“They will come, they will marvel,” said Xanten. “Almost as I do today.”
“There is much at which to marvel. Will you come within, Xanten? There are still flasks of noble essence laid by.”
“Thank you, no,” said Xanten. “There is too much to stir old memories. We will go our way, and I think immediately.”
Hagedorn nodded sadly. “I understand very well. I myself am often given to reverie these days. Well then, goodbye, and journey home with pleasure.”
“We will do so, Hagedorn. Thank you and goodbye.”
The idea behind this story is highly ingenious and novel; in fact I’ll go so far as to say “inspired.” I wish only that I had formulated it myself. In point of fact the. concept was generated somewhere within the hypcrdimcnsional recesses of Damon Knight’s inlcllcct.
This is how 1 happened to write the story. During Ihe lime that Damon edited the maga-/.ine World's Beyond, I sold him two stories: “The New Prime” and “The Secret.” One day in casual conversation he outlined the idea upon which “Abercrombie Station” is built, and in effect commissioned the story.
I produced the required verbiage, but just as I imprinted the final period, World’s Beyond folded and I sold the story elsewhere. A year or two later I saw Damon, who by this time had forgotten the entire transaction. He paid me a generous if rather wistful compliment upon the theme of the story. “Oddly enough,” said Damon, “at one time I had a very similar notion, but never got around to writing the story.”
I finally inquired, “Damon, don’t you remember when you tossed me this idea and ordered it written up for World’s Beyond?” Damon was and is much too polite to contradict me, and I take this occasion to acknowledge his contribution to the story which follows.
An interesting footnote to my. connection with World's Beyond concerns “The Secret,” the second story I sold Damon. When World’s Beyond folded it carried with it into limbo the still unpublished story which thereupon mysteriously vanished and was seen no more. About five years later I rewrote the story, using the same title. Again “The Secret” disappeared, somewhere after leaving Scott Meredith’s office, but before finding a market. I have searched high and low for carbons to these stories without success; both versions have vanished without a trace. I can surmise only that I brushed upon an elemental verity, most truly secret indeed, and that one or another of the Upper Forces saw fit to expunge the dangerous knowledge before it gained currency. I will not attempt a third version; 1 value my life and sanity, and can take a hint.
ABERCROMBIE STATION
I
The doorkeeper was a big hard-looking man with an unwholesome horse-face, a skin like corroded zinc. Two girls spoke to him, asking arch questions.
Jean saw him grunt noncommittally. “Just stick around; I can’t give out no dope.”
He motioned to the girl sitting beside Jean, a blond girl, very smartly turned out. She rose to her feet; the doorkeeper slid back the door. The blond girl walked swiftly through into the inner room; the door closed behind her.
She moved tentatively forward, stopped short.
A man sat quietly on an old-fashioned leather couch, watching through half-closed eyes.
Nothing frightening here, was her initial impression. He was young—twenty-four or twenty-five. Mediocre, she thought, neither tall nor shor
t, stocky nor lean. His hair was nondescript, his features without distinction, his clothes unobtrusive and neutral.
He shifted his position, opened his eyes a flicker. The blond girl felt a quick pang. Perhaps she had been mistaken.
“How old are you?”
“I’m—twenty.”
“Take off your clothes.”
She stared, hands tight and white knuckled on her purse. Intuition came suddenly; she drew a quick shallow breath. Obey him once, give in once, he’ll be your master as long as you live.
“No…no, I won’t.”
She turned quickly, reached for the door-slide. He said unemotionally, “You’re too old anyway.”
The door jerked aside; she walked quickly through the outer room, looking neither right nor left.
A hand touched her arm. She stopped, looked down into a face that was jet, pale rose, ivory. A young face with an expression of vitality and intelligence: black eyes, short black hair, a beautiful clear skin, mouth without makeup.
Jean asked, “What goes on? What kind of job is it?”
The blond girl said in a tight voice, “I don’t know. I didn’t stay to find out. It’s nothing nice.” She turned, went through the outer door.
Jean sank back into the chair, pursed her lips speculatively. A minute passed. Another girl, nostrils flared wide, came from the inner room, crossed to the door, looking neither right nor left.
Jean smiled faintly. She had a wide mouth, expansive and flexible. Her teeth were small, white, very sharp.
The doorkeeper motioned to her. She jumped to her feet, entered the inner room.
The quiet man was smoking. A silvery plume rose past his face, melted into the air over his head. Jean thought, There’s something strange in his complete immobility. He’s too tight, too compressed.
She put her hands behind her back and waited, watching carefully.
“How old are you?”
This was a question she usually found wise to evade. She tilted her head sidewise, smiling, a mannerism which gave her a wild and reckless look. “How old do you think I am?”
“Sixteen or seventeen.”
“That’s close enough.”
He nodded. “Close enough. What’s your name?”
“Jean Parlier.”
“Whom do you live, with?”
“No one. I live alone.”
“Father? Mother?”
“Dead.”
“Grandparents? Guardian?”
“I’m alone.”
He nodded. “Any trouble with the law on that account?”
She considered him warily. “No.”
He moved his head enough to send a kink running up the feather of smoke. “Take off your clothes.”
“Why?”
“It’s a quick way to check your qualifications.”
“Well—yes. In a way I guess it is…Physical or moral?”
He made no reply, sat looking at her impassively, the gray skein of smoke rising past his face.
She shrugged, put her hands to her sides, to her neck, to her waist, to her back, to her legs, and stood without clothes.
He put the cigarette to his mouth, puffed, sat up, stubbed it out, rose to his feet, walked slowly forward.
He’s trying to scare me, she thought, and smiled quietly to herself. He could try.
He stopped two feet away, stood looking down into her eyes. “You really want a million dollars?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You took the advertisement in the literal sense of the words?”
“Is there any other way?”
“You might have construed the language as—metaphor, hyperbole.”
She grinned, showing her sharp white teeth. “I don’t know what those words mean. Anyway, I’m here. If the advertisement was only intended for you to look at me naked, I’ll leave.”
His expression did not change. Peculiar, thought Jean, how his body moved, his head turned, but his eyes always seemed fixed. He said as if he had not heard her, “Not too many girls have applied.”
“That doesn’t concern me. I want a million dollars. What is it? Blackmail? Impersonation?”
He passed over her question. “What would you do with a million if you had it?”
“I don’t know…I’ll worry about that when I get it. Have you checked my qualifications? I’m cold.”
He turned quickly, strode to the couch, seated himself. She slipped into her clothes, came over to the couch, took a tentative seat facing him.
He said dryly, “You fill the qualifications almost too well!”
“How so?”
“It’s unimportant.”
Jean tilted her head, laughed. She looked like a healthy, very pretty high-school girl who might be the better for more sunshine. “Tell me what I’m to do to earn a million dollars.”
“You’re to marry a wealthy young man, who suffers from—let us call it, an incurable disease. When he dies, his property will be yours. You will sell his property to me for a million dollars.”
“Evidently he’s worth more than a million dollars.”
He was conscious of the questions she did not ask. “There’s somewhere near a billion involved.”
“What kind of disease does he have? I might catch it myself.”
“I’ll take care of the disease end. You won’t catch it if you keep your nose clean.”
“Oh—oh, I see—tell me more about him. Is he handsome? Big? Strong? I might feel sorry if he died.”
“He’s eighteen years old. His main interest is collecting.” Sardonically: “He likes zoology too. He’s an eminent zoologist. His name is Earl Abercrombie. He owns”—he gestured up—“Abercrombie Station.”
Jean stared, then laughed feebly. “That’s a hard way to make a million dollars…Earl Abercrombie…”
“Squeamish?”
“Not when I’m awake. But I do have nightmares.”
“Make up your mind.”
She looked modestly to where she had folded her hands in her lap. “A million isn’t a very large cut out of a billion.”
He surveyed her with something like approval. “No, it isn’t.”
She rose to her feet, slim as a dancer. “All you do is sign a check. I have to marry him, get in bed with him.”
“They don’t use beds on Abercrombie Station.”
“Since he lives on Abercrombie, he might not be interested in me.”
“Earl is different,” said the quiet man. “Earl likes gravity girls.”
“You must realize that once he dies, you’d be forced to accept whatever I chose to give you. Or the property might be put in charge of a trustee.”
“Not necessarily. The Abercrombie Civil Regulation allows property to be controlled by anyone sixteen or over. Earl is eighteen. He exercises complete control over the Station, subject to a few unimportant restrictions. I’ll take care of that end.” He went to the door, slid it open. “Hammond.”
The man with the long face came wordlessly to the door.
“I’ve got her. Send the others home.”
He closed the door, turned to Jean. “I want you to have dinner with me.”
“I’m not dressed for dinner.”
“I’ll send up the couturier. Try to be ready in an hour.”
He left the room. The door closed. Jean stretched, threw back her head, opened her mouth in a soundless exultant laugh. She raised her arms over her head, took a step forward, turned a supple cartwheel across the rug, bounced to her feet beside the window.
She knelt, rested her head on her hands, looked across Metropolis. Dusk had come. The great gray-golden sky filled three-quarters of her vision. A thousand feet below was the wan gray, lavender and black crumble of surface buildings, the pallid roadways streaming with golden motes. To the right, aircraft slid silently along force-guides to the mountain suburbs—tired normal people bound to pleasant normal homes. What would they think if they knew that she, Jean Parlier, was watching? For instance, the man
who drove that shiny Skyfarer with the pale green chevrets…She built a picture of him: pudgy, forehead creased with lines of worry. He’d be hurrying home to his wife, who would listen tolerantly while he boasted or grumbled. Cattle-women, cow-women, thought Jean without rancor. What man could subdue her? Where was the man who was wild and hard and bright enough?…Remembering her new job, she grimaced. Mrs. Earl Abercrombie. She looked up into the sky. The stars were not yet out and the lights of Abercrombie Station could not be seen.
A million dollars, think of it! “What will you do with a million dollars?” her new employer had asked her, and now that she returned to it, the idea was uncomfortable, like a lump in her throat.
What would she feel? How would she…Her mind moved away from the subject, recoiled with the faintest trace of anger, as if it were a subject not to be touched upon. “Rats,” said Jean. “Time to worry about it after I get it…A million dollars. Not too large a cut out of a billion, actually. Two million would be better.” Her eyes followed a slim red airboat diving along a sharp curve into the parking area: a sparkling new Marshall Moon-Chaser. Now there was something she wanted. It would be one of her first purchases.
