When the Five Moons Rise

by Jack Vance

  “Let me cite my personal experience,” said Luke. “This morning—as I say, in my temporary capacity as a flunky—I carried a shovel from tunnel head to warehouse and checked it. The operation required an hour and a half. If I were working steadily on a job of this sort, I’d be quite demoralized.”

  Ripp appeared untroubled. “I can only refer you to my superiors.” He spoke aside into his desk phone. “Please transmit File OR nine, Item one-two-three.” He turned back to Luke. “I can’t take responsibility, either for the directive or for revoking it. May I ask what sort of investigation takes you down into the tunnels? And to whom you report?”

  At a loss for words at once evasive and convincing, Luke conveyed an attitude of contemptuous silence.

  Judiath Ripp contracted the skin around his blank round eyes in a frown. “As I consider this matter I become increasingly puzzled. Why is this subject a matter for investigation? Just who—”

  From a slot appeared the directive Ripp had requested. He glanced at it, then tossed it to Luke. “You’ll see that this relieves me totally of responsibility,” he said curtly.

  The directive was the standard form:

  Office of

  The Commissioner of Public Utilities

  Policy Directive:

  Order Code:

  Reference:

  Date Code:

  Authorized:

  Checked:

  Counterchecked:

  449 Series UA-14-G2 GZP—AAR—REF TQ9—1422 BP—EQ—LLT PU-PUD-Org.

  G. Evan

  Hemon Klanech

  From: Parris deVicker, Commissioner of Public Utilities

  Through: All District Agencies of Sanitary Works

  To: All Department Heads

  Attention:

  Subject: The urgent need for sharp and immediate

  economies in the use of equipment and consumption of supplies. Instant of Application: Immediate

  Duration of Relevance: Permanent

  Substance: All department heads are instructed to

  initiate, effect, and enforce rigid economies in the employment of sup-

  plies and equipment, especially those items comprised of or manufac- tured from alloy metals or requiring the functional consumption of same, in those areas in which official authority is exercised. A decrement of 2% will be considered minimal. Status augmentation will in some measure be affected by economies achieved.

  Directive reviewed and transmitted: Lee Jon Smith, District Agent

  of Sanitary Works 8892.

  Luke rose to his feet, concerned now only to depart from the office as quickly as possible. He indicated the directive. “This is a copy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take it, if 1 may.” He included it with the previous two.

  Judiath Ripp watched with a faint but definite suspicion. “I fail to understand whom you represent.”

  “Sometimes the less one knows the better,” said Luke.

  The suspicion faded from Judiath Ripp’s piscine face. Only a person secure in his status could afford to use language of this sort to a member of the low High Echelon. He nodded slightly. “Is that all you require?” “No,” said Luke, “but it’s all I can get here.”

  He turned toward the door, feeling the rake of Ripp’s eyes on his

  back.

  Ripp’s voice cut at him suddenly and sharply. “Just a moment.”

  Luke slowly turned.

  “Who are you? Let me see your credentials?”

  Luke laughed coarsely. “I don’t have any.”

  Judiath Ripp rose to his feet, stood towering with knuckles pressed on the desk. Suddenly Luke saw that, after all, Judiath Ripp was choleric. His face, mackerel-pale, became suffused with salmon-pink. “Identify yourself,” he said throatily, “before I call the watchman.”

  “Certainly,” said Luke. “I have nothing to hide. I am Luke Grogatch. I work as Class D Flunky on Tunnel Gang Number Three, out of the Bureau of Sewer Construction and Maintenance.”

  “What are you doing here, misrepresenting yourself, wasting my time?”

  “Where did I misrepresent myself?” demanded Luke in a contentious voice. “I came here to find out why I had to carry my shovel to the warehouse this morning. It cost me an hour and a half. It doesn’t make sense. You’ve been ordered to economize two percent, so I spend three hours a day carrying a shovel back and forth.”

  Judiath Ripp stared at Luke for a few seconds, then abruptly sat down. “You’re a Class D Flunky?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmm. You’ve been to the Office of Procurement. The manager sent you here?”

  “No. He gave me a copy of his directive, just as you did.”

  The salmon-pink flush had died from Ripp’s flat cheeks. The carplike mouth twitched in infinitesimal amusement. “No harm in that, certainly. What do you hope to achieve?”

  “I don’t want to carry that blasted shovel back and forth. I’d like you to issue orders to that effect.”

  Judiath Ripp spread his pale mouth in a cold, drooping smile. “Bring me a policy directive to that effect from Parris deVicker and I’ll be glad to oblige you. Now—”

  “Will you make an appointment for me?”

  “An appointment?” Ripp was puzzled. “With whom?”

  “With the Commissioner of Public Utilities.”

  “Pffah!” Ripp waved his hand in cold dismissal. “Get out.”

  Luke stood in the blue mosaic entry seething with hate for Ripp, Limon, Miskitman, and every intervening functionary. If he were only chairman of the board for a brief two hours (went the oft-repeated daydream), how they’d quickstep! In his mind’s eye he saw Judiath Ripp shoveling wads of wet waste with a leaden shovel while a rotary driller, twice as noisy and twice as violent, blew back gales of hot dust and rock chips across his neck. Lavester Limon would be forced to change the

  smoking teeth of the drill with a small and rusty monkey wrench, while Fedor Miskitman, before and after the shift, carried shovel, monkey wrench, and all the worn teeth to and from the warehouse.

  Luke stood moping in the passage for five minutes, then escalated to the surface, which at this point, by virtue of Bramblebury Park, could clearly be distinguishable as the surface and not just another level among coequal levels. He walked slowly along the gravel paths, ignoring the open sky for the immediacy of his problems. He faced a dead end. There was no further scope of action. Judiath Ripp had mockingly suggested that he consult the Commissioner of Public Utilities. Even if by some improbable circumstance he secured an appointment with the Commissioner, what good would ensue? Why should the Commissioner revoke a policy directive of such evident importance? Unless he could be persuaded—by some instrumentality Luke was unable to define or even imagine—to issue a special directive exempting Luke from the provision of the policy... Luke chuckled hollowly, a noise which alarmed the pigeons strutting along the walk. Now what? Back to the dormitory. His dormitory privileges included twelve hours’ use of his cot per day, and he was not extracting full value from his expense account unless he made use of it. But Luke had no desire for sleep. As he glanced up at the perspective of the towers surrounding the park he felt a melancholy exhilaration. The sky, the wonderful clear open sky, blue and brilliant! Luke shivered, for the sun here was hidden by the Morgenthau Moonspike, and the air was brisk.

  Luke crossed the park, thinking to sit where a band of hazy sunlight slashed down between the towers. The benches were crowded with blinking old men and women, but Luke presently found a seat. He sat looking up into the sky, enjoying the mild natural sun warmth. How seldom did he see the sun! In his youth he had frequently set forth on long cross-city hikes, rambling high along the skyways, with space to right and left, the clouds near enough for intimate inspection, the sunlight sparkling and stinging his skin. Gradually the hikes had spread apart, coming at ever longer intervals, and now he could hardly remember when last he’d tramped the wind-lanes. What dreams he had had in those early da
ys, what exuberant visions! Obstacles seemed trivial; he had seen himself clawing up the list, winning a good expense account, the choicest of perquisites, unnumbered Special Coupons! He had planned to have a private air-car, unrestricted nutrition, an apartment far above the surface, high and remote... .Dreams. Luke had been victimized by his tongue, his quick temper, his obstinacy. At heart, he was no Nonconformist—no, cried Luke, never! Luke has been bom of tycoon stock, and through influence, a word here, a hint there, had been launched into the Organization of a high status. But circumstances and Luke’s chronic truculence had driven him into opposition with established ways, and down the Status List he had gone: through professional scholarships, technical

  trainee appointments, craft apprenticeships, all the varieties of semiskills and machine operation. Now he was Luke Grogatch, flunky, unskilled, Class D, facing the final declassification. But still too vain to carry a shovel. No: Luke corrected himself. His vanity was not at stake. Vanity he had discarded long ago, along with his youthful dreams. All he had left was pride, his right to use the word “I” in connection with himself. If he submitted to Policy Directive 6511 he would relinquish this right; he would be absorbed into the masses of the Organization as a spatter of foam falls back and is absorbed into the ocean—Luke jerked nervously to his feet. He wasted time sitting here. Judiath Ripp, with conger-like malice, had suggested a directive from the Commissioner of Public Utilities. Very well, Luke would obtain that directive and fling it down under Ripp’s pale round nostrils.

  How?

  Luke rubbed his chin dubiously. He walked to a communication booth and checked the directory. As he had surmised, the Commission of Public Utilities was housed in the Organization Central Tower, in Silverado, District 3666, ninety miles to the north.

  Luke stood in the watery sunlight, hoping for inspiration. The aged idlers, huddling on the benches like winterbound sparrows, watched him incuriously. Once again Luke was obscurely pleased with his purchase of new clothes. A fine figure he cut, he assured himself.

  How? wondered Luke. How to gain an appointment with the Commissioner? How to persuade him to change his views?

  No inkling of a solution presented itself.

  He looked at his watch: it was still only midmoming. Ample time to visit Organization Central and return in time to report for duty... .Luke grimaced wanly. Was his resolution so feeble, then? Was he, after all, to slink back into the tunnel tonight carrying the hated shovel? Luke shook his head slowly. He did not know.

  At the Bramblebury Interchange Luke boarded an express highline northbound for Silverado Station. With a hiss and a whine, the shining metal worm darted forward, sliding up to the 13th Level, flashing north at great speed in and out of the sunlight, through tunnels, across chasms between towers, with far below the nervous seethe of the city. Four times the express sighed to a halt: at IBM University, at Braemar, at Great Northern Junction, and finally, thirty minutes out of Bramblebury, at Silverado Central, Luke disembarked; the express slid away through the towers, lithe as an eel through waterweed.

  Luke entered the tenth-level foyer of the Central Tower, a vast cave of marble and bronze. Throngs of men and women thrust past him: grim, striding tycoons, stamped with the look of destiny, High Echelon personnel, their assistants, the assistants to their assistants, functionaries on down the list, all dutifully wearing high-status garments, the lesser folk

  hoping to be mistaken for their superiors. All hurried, tense-faced and abrupt, partly from habit, partly because only a person of low status had no need to hurry. Luke thrust and elbowed with the best of them, and made his way to the central kiosk where he consulted a directory.

  Parris deVicker, Commissioner of Public Utilities, had his office on the 59th Level. Luke passed him by and located the Secretary of Public Affairs, Mr. Sewell Sepp, on the 81st Level. No more underlings, thought Luke. This time I’m going to the top. If anyone can resolve this matter, it’s Sewell Sepp.

  He put himself aboard the lift and emerged into the lobby of the Department of Public Affairs—a splendid place, glittering with disciplined color and ornament after the mock-antique decor known as Second Institutional. The walls were of polished milk glass inset with medallions of shifting kaleidoscopic flashes. The floor was diapered in blue and white sparklestone. A dozen bronze statues dominated the room, massive figures symbolizing the basic public services: communication, transport, education, water, energy, and sanitation. Luke skirted the pedestals and crossed to the reception counter, where ten young women in handsome brown and black uniforms stood with military precision, each to her six feet of counter top. Luke selected one of these girls, who curved her lips in an automatic empty smile.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want to see Mr. Sepp,” said Luke brazenly.

  The girl’s smile remained frozen while she looked at him with startled eyes. “Mr. who?”

  “Sewell Sepp, the Secretary of Public Affairs.”

  The girl asked gently, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “No.”

  “It’s impossible, sir.”

  Luke nodded sourly. “Then I’ll see Commissioner Parris deVicker.”

  “Do you have an appointment to see Mr. deVicker?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  The girl shook her head with a trace of amusement. “Sir, you can’t just walk in on these people. They’re extremely busy. Everyone must have an appointment.”

  “Oh, come now,” said Luke. “Surely it’s conceivable that—”

  “Definitely not, sir.”

  “Then,” said Luke, “I’ll make an appointment. I’d like to see Mr. Sepp some time today, if possible.”

  The girl lost interest in Luke. She resumed her manner of impersonal courtesy. “I’ll call the office of Mr. Sepp’s appointment secretary.”

  She spoke into a mesh, then turned back to Luke. “No appointments are open this month, sir. Will you speak to someone else? Some under-official?”

  “No,” said Luke. He gripped the edge of the counter for a moment, started to turn away, then asked, “Who authorizes these appointments?

  “The secretary’s first aide, who screens the list of applications.”

  “I’ll speak to the first aide, then.”

  The girl sighed. “You need an appointment, sir.”

  “I need an appointment to make an appointment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do I need an appointment to make an appointment for an appointment?”

  “No, sir. Just walk right in.”

  “Where?”

  “Suite Forty-two, inside the rotunda, sir.”

  Luke passed through twelve-foot crystal doors and walked down a short hall. Scurrying patterns of color followed him like shadows along both the walls, grotesque cubistic shapes parodying the motion of his body: a whimsy which surprised Luke and which might have pleased him under less critical circumstances.

  He passed through another pair of crystal portals into the rotunda. Six levels above, a domed ceiling depicted scenes of legend in stained glass. Behind a ring of leather couches doors gave into surrounding offices; one of these doors, directly across from the entrance, bore the words:

  OFFICES OF THE SECRETARY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC AFFAIRS

  On the couches, half a hundred men and women waited with varying degrees of patience. The careful disdain with which they surveyed each other suggested that their status was high; the frequency with which they consulted their watches conveyed the impression that they were momentarily on the point of departure.

  A mellow voice sounded over a loudspeaker: “Mr. Artur Coff, please, to the Office of the Secretary.” A plump gentleman threw down the periodical he had fretfully been examining and jumped to his feet. He crossed to the bronze and black glass door and passed through.

  Luke watched him enviously, then turned aside through an arch marked Suite 42. An usher in a brown and black uniform stepped forward: Luke stated his business and was conducted into a smal
l cubicle.

  A young man behind a metal desk peered intently at him. Sit down, please.” He motioned to a chair. “Your name?”

  “Luke Grogatch.”

  “Ah, Mr. Grogatch. May I inquire your business?”

  “I have something to say to the Secretary of Public Affairs.”

  “Regarding what subject?”

  “A personal matter.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Grogatch. The Secretary is more than busy. He’s

  swamped with important Organization business. But if you’ll explain the situation to me, I’ll recommend you to an appropriate member of the staff.”

  “That won’t help,” said Luke. “I want to consult the Secretary in relation to a recently issued policy directive.”

  “Issued by the Secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wish to object to this directive?”

  Luke grudgingly admitted as much.

  “There are appropriate channels for this process,” said the aide decisively. “If you will fill out this form—not here, but in the rotunda— drop it into the suggestion box to the right of the door as you go out—”

  In sudden fury Luke wadded up the form and flung it down on the desk. “Surely he has five minutes free—”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Grogatch,” the aide said in a voice of ice. “If you will look through the rotunda you will see a number of very important people who have waited, some of them for months, for five minutes with the Secretary. If you wish to fill out an application, stating your business in detail, I will see that it receives due consideration.”

  Luke stalked out of the cubicle. The aide watched him go with a bleak smile of dislike. The man obviously had Nonconformist tendencies, he thought.. .probably should be watched.

  Luke stood in the rotunda, muttering, “What now? What now? What now?” in a half-mesmerized undertone. He stared around the rotunda, at the pompous High Echelon folk, arrogantly consulting their watches, and tapping their feet. “Mr. Jepper Prinn!” called the mellow voice over the loudspeaker. “The Office of the Secretary, if you please.” Luke watched Jepper Prinn walk to the bronze and black glass portal.