When the Five Moons Rise

by Jack Vance

  and the music seems to burst forth as if somewhere someone flung wide curtains.

  I wander down to the lake. Across on the opposite shore once more I see the town. It seems clearer, more substantial; I note details that shimmered away to vagueness before—a wide terrace beside the lake, spiral columns, a row of urns. The silhouette is, I think, the same as when I saw it under the blue sun: silken tents, shimmering, reflecting cusps of light; pillars of carved stone, lucent as milk-glass; fantastic fixtures of no obvious purpose.... Barges drift along the quicksilver lake like moths, great sails bellying, the rigging a mesh of cobweb. Nodules of light hang on the stays, along the masts.... On sudden thought, I turn, look up to my own meadow. I see a row of booths as at an old-time fair, a circle of pale stone set in the turf, a host of filmy shapes.

  Step by step I edge toward my lifeboat. The music waxes. I peer at one of the shapes, but the outlines waver. It moves to the emotion of the music—or does the motion of the shape generate the music?

  I run forward, shouting. One of the shapes slips past me, and I look into a blur where a face might be. I come to a halt, panting hard; I stand on the marble circle. I stamp; it rings solid. I walk toward the booths, they seem to display complex things of pale cloth and dim metal—but as I look my eyes mist over as with tears. The music goes far, far away, my meadow lies bare and quiet. My feet press into silver-black turf; in the sky hangs the silver-black star.

  I am sitting with my back to the lifeboat, staring across the lake, which is still as a mirror. I have arrived at a set of theories.

  My primary proposition is that I am sane—a necessary article of faith; why bother even to speculate otherwise? So—events occurring outside my own mind cause everything I have seen and heard. But—note this!—these sights and sounds do not obey the laws of science; in many respects they seem particularly subjective.

  It must be, I tell myself, that both objectivity and subjectivity enter into the situation. I receive impressions which my brain finds unfamiliar, and so translates to the concept most closely related. By this theory the inhabitants of this world are constantly close; I move unknowingly through their palaces and arcades; they dance incessantly around me. As my mind gains sensitivity, I verge upon rapport with their way of life and I see them. More exactly, I sense something which creates an image in the visual region of my brain. Their emotions, the pattern of their life sets up a kind of vibration which sounds in my brain as music.... The reality of these creatures I am sure I will never know. They are diaphane, I am flesh; they live in a world of spirit, I plod the turf with my heavy feet.

  These last days I have neglected to broadcast the SOS. Small lack; the batteries are about done.

  The silver sun is at the zenith, and leans westward. What comes next? Back to the red sun? Or darkness? Certainly this is no ordinary planetary system; the course of this world along its orbit must resemble one of the pre-Copemican epicycles.

  1 believe that my brain is gradually tuning into phase with this world, reaching a new high level of sensitivity. If my theory is correct, the elan-vital of the native beings expresses itself in my brain as music. On Earth we would perhaps use the word “telepathy.” So I am practicing, concentrating, opening my consciousness wide to these new perceptions. Ocean mariners know a trick of never looking directly at a far light lest it strike the eyes’ blind spot. I am using a similar device of never staring directly at one of the gauzy beings. I allow the image to establish itself, build itself up, and by this technique they appear quite definitely human. I sometimes think I can glimpse the features. The women are like sylphs, achingly beautiful; the men—I have not seen one in detail, but their carriage, their form is familiar.

  The music is always part of the background, just as rustling of leaves is part of a forest. The mood of these creatures seems to change with their sun, so I hear music to suit. The red sun gave them passionate melancholy, the blue sun merriment. Under the silver star they are delicate, imaginative, wistful.

  The silver day is on the wane. Today I sat beside the lake with the trees a screen of filigree, watching the moth-barges drift back and forth. What is their function? Can life such as this be translated in terms of economies, ecology, sociology? 1 doubt it. The word intelligence may not even enter the picture; is not our brain a peculiarly anthropoid characteristic, and is not intelligence a function of our peculiarly anthropoid brain?...A portly barge sways near, with swampglobes in the rigging, and I forget my hypotheses. I can never know the truth, and it is perfectly possible that these creatures are no more aware of me than 1 originally was aware of them.

  Time goes by; I return to the lifeboat. A young woman-shape whirls past. I pause, peer into her face; she tilts her head, her eyes bum into mine as she passes.... I try an SOS—listlessly, because I suspect the batteries to be dank and dead.

  And indeed they are.

  The silver star is like an enormous Christmas tree bauble, round and glistening. It floats low, and once more I stand irresolute, half expecting night.

  The star falls; the forest receives it. The sky dulls, and night has come.

  I face the east, my back pressed to the hull of my lifeboat. Nothing.

  I have no conception of the passage of time. Darkness, timelessness.

  Somewhere clocks turn minute hands, second hands, hour hands—I stand staring into the night, perhaps as slow as a sandstone statue, perhaps as feverish as a salamander.

  In the darkness there is a peculiar cessation of sound. The music has dwindled; down through a series of wistful chords, a forlorn last cry....

  A glow in the east, a green glow, spreading. Up rises a magnificent green sphere, the essence of all green, the tincture of emeralds, deep as the sea.

  A throb of sound; rhythmical, strong music, swinging and veering.

  The green light floods the planet, and I prepare for the green day.

  I am almost one with the natives. I wander among their pavilions, I pause by their booths to ponder their stuffs and wares; silken medallions, spangles and circlets of woven metal, cups of fluff and iridescent puff, puddles of color and wafts of light-shot gauze. There are chains of green glass; captive butterflies; spheres which seem to hold all the heavens, all the clouds, all the stars.

  And to all sides of me go the flicker and flit of the dream-people. The men are all vague, but familiar; the women turn me smiles of ineffable provocation. But I will drive myself mad with temptations; what I see is no more than the formulation of my own brain, an interpretation.... And this is tragedy, for there is one creature so unutterably lovely that whenever I see the shape that is she my throat aches and I run forward, to peer into her eyes that are not eyes....

  Today I clasped my arms around her, expecting yielding wisp. Surprisingly, there was the feel of supple flesh. I kissed her, cheek, chin, mouth. Such a look of perplexity on the face as I have never seen; heaven knows what strange act the creature thought me to be performing.

  She went her way, but the music is strong and triumphant: the voice of comets, the resonant bass below.

  A man comes past; something in his stride, his posture, plucks at my memory. I step forward; I will gaze into his face, I will plumb the vagueness.

  He whirls past like a figure on a carousel; he wears flapping ribbons of silk and pompons of spangled satin. I pound after him, I plant myself in his path. He strides past with a side-glance, and I stare into the rigid face.

  It is my own face.

  He wears my face, he walks with my stride. He is I.

  Already is the green day gone?

  The green sun goes, and the music takes on depth. No cessation now; there is preparation, imminence.... What is that other sound? A far spasm of something growling and clashing like a broken gear box.

  It fades out.

  The green sun goes down in a sky like a peacock’s tail. The music is slow, exalted.

  The west fades, the east glows. The music goes toward the east, to the great bands of rose, yellow, orange, lav
ender. Cloud-flecks burst into

  flame. A golden glow consumes the sky.

  The music takes on volume. Up rises the new sun—a gorgeous golden ball. The music swells into a paean of light, fulfillment, regenera- tion.... Hark! A second time the harsh sound grates across the music.

  Into the sky, across the sun, drifts the shape of a spaceship. It hovers over my meadow, the landing jets come down like plumes.

  The ship lands.

  I hear the mutter of voices—men’s voices.

  The music is vanished; the marble carvings, the tinsel booths, the wonderful silken cities are gone.

  Ill

  Galispell rubbed his chin.

  Captain Hess asked anxiously, “What do you think of it?”

  Galispell looked for a long moment out the window. “What happened after you picked him up? Did you see any of these phenomena he

  talks about?”

  “Not a thing.” Captain Hess shook his big round head. “Sure, the system was a fantastic gaggle of dark stars and fluorescent planets and bumt-out old suns; maybe all these things played hob with his mind. He didn’t seem too overjoyed to see us, that’s a fact—just stood there, staring at us as if we were trespassers. ‘We got your SOS,’ I told him. ‘Jump aboard, wrap yourself around a good meal!’ He came walking forward as if his feet were dead.

  “Well, to make a long story short, he finally came aboard. We loaded on his lifeboat and took off.

  “During the voyage back he had nothing to do with anybody—just kept to himself, walking up and down the promenade.

  “He had a habit of putting his hands to his head; one time I asked him if he was sick, if he wanted the medic to look him over. He said no, there was nothing wrong with him. That’s about all I know of the man.

  “We made Sun, and came down toward Earth. Personally, I didn’t see what happened because I was on the bridge, but this is what they tell me:

  “As Earth got bigger and bigger Evans began to act more restless than usual, wincing and turning his head back and forth. When we were about a thousand miles out, he gave a kind of furious jump.

  “‘The noise!’ he yelled. ‘The horrible noiseV ” And with that he ran astern, jumped into his lifeboat, cast off, and they tell me disappeared back the way we came.

  “And that’s all I got to tell you, Mr. Galispell. It’s too bad, after our taking all that trouble to get him, Evans decided to pull up stakes—but that’s the way it goes.”

  “He took off back along your course/”

  “That 1 's right. If you’re wanting to ask, could he have made the planet where we found him, the answer is, not likely.”

  “But there’s a chance?

  “Oh, sure,” said Captain Hess. “There’s a chance.

  ■K

  %

  Dust of far Suns

  I

  Henry Belt came limping into the conference room, mounted the dais, settled himself at the desk. He looked once around the room: a swift bright glance which, focusing nowhere, treated the eight young men who faced him to an almost insulting disinterest. He reached in his pocket, brought forth a pencil and a flat red book, which he placed on the desk. The eight young men watched in absolute silence. They were much alike: healthy, clean, smart, their expressions identically alert and wary. Each had heard legends of Henry Belt, each had formed his private plans and private determinations.

  Henry Belt seemed a man of a different species. His face was broad, flat, roped with cartilage and muscle, with skin the color and texture of bacon rind. Coarse white grizzle covered his scalp, his eyes were crafty slits, his nose a misshapen lump. His shoulders were massive, his legs short and gnarled.

  “First of all,” said Henry Belt, with a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll make it clear that I don’t expect you to like me. If you do I’ll be surprised and displeased. It will mean that I haven’t pushed you hard enough.”

  He leaned back in his chair, surveyed the silent group. “You’ve heard stories about me. Why haven’t they kicked me out of the service? Incorrigible, arrogant, dangerous Henry Belt. Drunken Henry Belt. (The last of course is slander. Henry Belt has never been drunk in his life.) Why do they tolerate me? For one simple reason: out of necessity. No one wants to take on this kind of job. Only a man like Henry Belt can stand up to it:

  year after year in space, with nothing to look at but a half-dozen round- faced young scrubs. He takes them out, he brings them back. Not all of them, and not all of those who come back are spacemen today. But they 11 all cross the street when they see him coming. Henry Belt? you say. They 11 turn pale or go red. None of them will smile. Some of them are high-placed now. They could kick me loose if they chose. Ask them why they don’t. Henry Belt is a terror, they’ll tell you. He’s wicked, he’s a tyrant. Cruel as an axe, fickle as a woman. But a voyage with Henry Belt blows the foam off the beer. He’s ruined many a man, he’s killed a few, but those that come out of it are proud to say, I trained with Henry Belt!

  “Another thing you may hear: Henry Belt has luck. But don’t pay any heed. Luck runs out. You’ll be my thirteenth class, and that’s unlucky. I’ve taken out seventy-two young sprats, no different from yourselves; I’ve come back twelve times: which is partly Henry Belt and partly luck. The voyages average about two years long: how can a man stand it? There’s only one who could: Henry Belt. I’ve got more space-time than any man alive, and now I’ll tell you a secret: this is my last time out. I’m starting to wake up at night to strange visions. After this class I’ll quit. I hope you lads aren’t superstitious. A white-eyed woman told me that I’d die in space. She told me other things and they’ve all come true. We’ll get to know each other well. And you’ll be wondering on what basis I make my recommendations. Am I objective and fair? Do I put aside personal animosity? Naturally there won’t be any friendship. Well, here’s my system. I keep a red book. Here it is. I’ll put your names down right now. You, sir?”

  “I’m Cadet Lewis Lynch, sir.”

  “You?”

  “Edward Culpepper, sir.”

  “Marcus Verona, sir.”

  “Vidal Weske, sir.”

  “Marvin McGrath, sir.”

  “Barry Ostrander, sir.”

  “Clyde von Gluck, sir.”

  “Joseph Sutton, sir.”

  Henry Belt wrote the names in the red book. “This is the system. When you do something to annoy me, I mark you down demerits. At the end of the voyage I total these demerits, add a few here and there for luck, and am so guided. I’m sure nothing could be clearer than this. What annoys me? Ah, that’s a question which is hard to answer. If you talk too much: demerits. If you’re surly and taciturn: demerits. If you slouch and laze and dog the dirty work: demerits. If you’re overzealous and forever scuttling about: demerits. Obsequiousness: demerits. Truculence: demerits. If you sing and whistle: demerits. If you’re a stolid bloody bore:

  demerits. You can see that the line is hard to draw. Here’s a hint which can save you many marks. I don’t like gossip, especially when it concerns myself. I’m a sensitive man, and I open my red book fast when I think I’m being insulted.” Henry Belt once more leaned back in his chair. “Any questions?”

  No one spoke.

  Henry Belt nodded. “Wise. Best not to flaunt your ignorance so early in the game. In response to the thought passing through each of your skulls, I do not think of myself as God. But you may do so, if you choose. And this—” he held up the red book “—you may regard as the Syncretic Compendium. Very well. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Culpepper.

  “Speak, sir.”

  “Any objection to alcoholic beverages aboard ship, sir?”

  “For the cadets, yes indeed. I concede that the water must be carried in any event, that the organic compounds present may be reconstituted, but unluckily the bottles weigh far too much.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Henry Belt rose to his feet. “One last word. Have I mentioned that I run a tight ship?
When I say jump, I expect every one of you to jump. This is dangerous work, of course. I don’t guarantee your safety. Far from it, especially since we are assigned to old 25, which should have been broken up long ago. There are eight of you present. Only six cadets will make the voyage. Before the week is over I will make the appropriate notifications. Any more questions?.. .Very well, then. Cheerio.” Limping on his thin legs as if his feet hurt, Henry Belt departed into the back passage.

  For a moment or two there was silence. Then von Gluck said in a soft voice, “My gracious.”

  “He’s a tyrannical lunatic,” grumbled Weske. “I’ve never heard anything like it! Megalomania!”

  “Easy,” said Culpepper. “Remember, no gossiping.”

  “Bah!” muttered McGrath. “This is a free country. I’ll damn well say what I like.”

  Weske rose to his feet. “A wonder somebody hasn’t killed him.”

  “I wouldn’t want to try it,” said Culpepper. “He looks tough.” He made a gesture, stood up, brow furrowed in thought. Then he went to look along the passageway into which Henry Belt had made his departure. There, pressed to the wall, stood Henry Belt. “Yes, sir,” said Culpepper suavely. “I forgot to inquire when you wanted us to convene again.”

  Henry Belt returned to the rostrum. “Now is as good a time as any.” He took his seat, opened his red book. “You, Mr. von Gluck, made the remark, ‘My gracious’ in an offensive tone of voice. One demerit. You, Mr. Weske, employed the terms ‘tyrannical lunatic’ and ‘megalomania’ in

  reference to myself. Three demerits. Mr. McGrath, you observed that freedom of speech is the official doctrine of this country. It is a theory which right now we have no time to explore, but I believe that the statement in its present context carries an overtone of insubordination. One demerit, Mr. Culpepper, your imperturbable complacence irritates me. I prefer that you display more uncertainty, or even uneasiness.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “However, you took occasion to remind your colleagues of my rule, and so I will not mark you down ”