by Jack Vance
“Oh, yes," said Superintendent Flint. “How are you, Perrin? What’s the trouble?"
“My partner, Andy Seguilo, disappeared—vanished into nowhere; I’m alone out here."
Superintendent Flint looked shocked. “Disappeared? What happened? Did he fall into the ocean?"
“I don’t know. He just disappeared. It happened last night-”
“You should have called in before," said Flint reprovingly. “I would have sent out a rescue copter to search for him.”
“I tried to call," Perrin explained, “but I couldn’t get the regular transceiver to work. It burnt up on me. ... I thought I was marooned here."
Superintendent Flint raised his eyebrows in mild curiosity. “Just what are you using now?"
Perrin stammered, “It’s a brand new instrument . . . floated up out of the sea. Probably was lost from a barge.”
Flint nodded. “Those bargemen are a careless lot—don’t seem to understand what good equipment costs. . . . Well, you sit tight. I’ll order a plane out in the morning with a relief crew. You’ll be assigned to duty along the Floral Coast. How does that suit you?"
“Very well, sir,” said Perrin. “Very well indeed. I can’t think of anything I’d like better. . . . Isel Rock is beginning to get on my nerves.”
“When the five moons rise, it’s not wise to believe anything,” said Superintendent Flint in a sepulchral voice.
The screen went dead.
Perrin lifted his hand, slowly turned off the power. A drop of rain fell on his face. He glanced skyward. The squall was almost on him. He tugged at the transceiver, although well aware that it was too heavy to move. In the storeroom was a tarpaulin that would protect the transceiver until morning. The relief crew could help him move it inside.
He ran back to the lighthouse, found the tarpaulin, hurried back outside. Where was the transceiver? . . . Ah—there. He ran through the pelting drops, wrapped the tarpaulin around the box, lashed it into place, ran back to the lighthouse. He barred the door, and whistling, opened a canned dinner unit.
The rain spun and slashed at the lighthouse. The twin shafts of white and red swept wildly around the sky. Perrin climbed into his bunk, lay warm and drowsy. . . . Seguilo's disappearance was a terrible thing; it would leave a scar on his mind. But it was over and done with. Put it behind him; look to the future. The Floral Coast . . .
In the morning the sky was bare and clean. Maurnilam Var spread mirror-quiet as far as the eye could reach. Isel Rock lay naked to the sunlight. Looking out the window, Perrin saw a rumpled heap—the tarpaulin, the lashings. The transceiver, the Manasco raft had disappeared utterly.
Perrin sat in the doorway. The sun climbed the sky. A dozen times he jumped to his feet, listening for the sound of engines. But no relief plane appeared.
The sun reached the zenith, verged westward. A barge drifted by, a mile from the rock. Perrin ran out on the shelf, shouting, waving his arms.
The lank, red bargemen sprawled on the cargo stared curiously, made no move. The barge dwindled into the east.
Perrin returned to the doorstep, sat with his head in his hands. Chills and fever ran along his skin. There would be no relief plane. On Isel Rock he would remain, day in, day out, for eleven weeks.
Listlessly, he climbed the steps to the commissary. There was no lack of food, he would never starve. But could he bear the solitude, the uncertainty? Seguilo going, coming,
going. . . . The unsubstantial transceiver. . . . Who was responsible for these cruel jokes? The five moons rising together—was there some connection?
He found an almanac, carried it to the table. At the top of each page five white circles on a black strip represented the moons. A week ago they strung out at random. Four days ago Liad, the slowest, and Poidel, the fastest, were thirty degrees apart, with Ista, Bista, and Miad between. Two nights ago the peripheries almost touched; last night they were even closer. Tonight Poidel would bulge slightly out in front of Ista, tomorrow night Liad would lag behind Bista. . . . But between the five moons and Seguilo’s disappearance—where was the connection?
Gloomily, Perrin ate his dinner. Magda settled into Maurnilam Var without display, a dull dusk settled over Isel Rock, water rose and sighed across the shelf.
Perrin turned on the light, barred the door. There would be no more hoping, no more wishing—no more believing. In eleven weeks the relief ship would convey him back to Spacetown; in the meantime he must make the best of the situation.
Through the window he saw the blue glow in the east, watched Poidel, Ista, Bista, Liad, and Miad climb the sky. The tide came with the moons. Maurnilam Var was still calm, and each moon laid a separate path of reflection along the water.
Perrin looked up into the sky, around the horizon. A beautiful, lonesome sight. With Seguilo he sometimes had felt lonely, but never isolation such as this. Eleven weeks of solitude. ... If he could select a companion . . . Perrin let his mind wander.
Into the moonlight a slim figure came walking, wearing tan breeches and a short-sleeved white sports shirt.
Perrin stared, unable to move. The figure walked up to the door, rapped. The muffled sound came up the staircase. “Hello, anybody home?” It was a clear girl’s voice.
Perrin swung open the window, called hoarsely, “Go away!”
She moved back, turned up her face, and the moonlight
fell upon her features. Perrin’s voice died in his throat. He felt his heart beating wildly.
“Go away?” she said in a soft puzzled voice. “I’ve no place to go.”
“Who are you?” he asked. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—desperate, hopeful. After all, she was possible— even though almost impossibly beautiful. . . . She might have flown out from Spacetown. “How did you get here?”
She gestured at Maurnilam Var. “My plane went down about three miles out. I came over on the life raft.”
Perrin looked along the water’s edge. The outline of a life raft was barely visible.
The girl called up, “Are you going to let me in?”
Perrin stumbled downstairs. He halted at the door, one hand on the bolts, and the blood rushed in his ears.
An impatient tapping jarred his hand. “I’m freezing to death out here.”
Perrin let the door swing back. She stood facing him, half-smiling. “You’re a very cautious lighthouse-tender—or perhaps a woman-hater?”
Perrin searched her face, her eyes, the expression of her mouth. “Are you . . . real?”
She laughed, not at all offended. “Of course I’m real.” She held out her hand. “Touch me.” Perrin stared at her—the essence of night-flowers, soft silk, hot blood, sweetness, delightful fire. “Touch me,” she repeated softly.
Perrin moved back uncertainly, and she came forward, into the lighthouse. “Can you call the shore?”
“No . . . my transceiver is out of order.”
She turned him a quick firefly look. “When is your next relief boat?”
“Eleven weeks.”
“Eleven weeks!” she sighed a soft shallow sigh.
Perrin moved back another half-step. “How did you know I was alone?”
She seemed confused. “I didn’t know. . . . Aren’t lighthouse-keepers always alone?”
“No.”
She came a step closer. “You don’t seem pleased to see me. Are you ... a hermit?”
“No,” said Perrin in a husky voice. “Quite the reverse. . . . But I can’t quite get used to you. You’re a miracle. Too good to be true. Just now I was wishing for someone . . . exactly like you. Exactly.”
“And here I am.”
Perrin moved uneasily. “What’s your name?”
He knew what she would say before she spoke. “Sue.”
“Sue what?” He tried to hold his mind vacant.
“Oh . . . just Sue. Isn’t that enough?”
Perrin felt the skin of his face tighten. “Where is your home?”
She looked vaguely over her shoulde
r. Perrin held his mind blank, but the word came through.
“Hell.”
Perrin’s breath came hard and sharp.
“And what is Hell like?”
“It is . . . cold and dark.”
Perrin stepped back. “Go away. Go away.” His vision blurred; her face melted as if tears had come across his eyes.
“Where will I go?”
“Back where you came from.”
“But”—forlornly—“there is nowhere but Maurnilam Var. And up here—” She stopped short, took a swift step forward, stood looking up into his face. He could feel the warmth of her body. “Are you afraid of me?”
Perrin wrenched his eyes from her face. “You’re not real. You’re something which takes the shape of my thoughts. Perhaps you killed Seguilo. ... I don’t know what you are. But you’re not real.”
“Not real? Of course I’m real. Touch me. Feel my arm.” Perrin backed away. She said passionately, “Here, a knife. If you are of a mind, cut me; you will see blood. Cut deeper . . . you will find bone.”
“What would happen,” said Perrin, “if I drove the knife into your heart?”
She said nothing, staring at him with big eyes.
“Why do you come here?” cried Perrin. She looked away, back toward the water.
“It’s magic . . . darkness. . . .” The words were a mumbled confusion; Perrin suddenly realized that the same words were in his own mind. Had she merely parrotted his thoughts during the entire conversation? “Then comes a slow pull,” she said. “I drift, I crave the air, the moons bring me up. ... I do anything to hold my place in the air. . . .”
“Speak your own words,” said Perrin harshly. “I know you’re not real—but where is Seguilo?”
“Seguilo?” She reached a hand behind her head, touched her hair, smiled sleepily at Perrin. Real or not, Perrin’s pulse thudded in his ears. Real or not. . . .
“I’m no dream,” she said. “I’m real. . . .” She came slowly toward Perrin, feeling his thoughts, face arch, ready.
Perrin said in a strangled gasp, “No, no. Go away. Go away!”
She stopped short, looked at him through eyes suddenly opaque. “Very well. I will go now-”
“Now! Forever!”
“-but perhaps you will call me back. . . .”
She walked slowly through the door. Perrin ran to the window, watched the slim shape blur into the moonlight. She went to the edge of the shelf; here she paused. Perrin felt a sudden intolerable pang; what was he casting away? Real or not, she was what he wanted her to be; she was identical to reality. . . . He leaned forward to call, “Come back . . . whatever you are. . . .” He restrained himself. When he looked again she was gone. . . . Why was she gone? Perrin pondered, looking across the moonlit sea. He had wanted her, but he no longer believed in her. He had believed in the shape called Seguilo; he had believed in the transceiver— and both had slavishly obeyed his expectations. So had the girl, and he had sent her away. . . . Rightly, too, he told himself regretfully. Who knows what she might become when his back was turned. . . .
When dawn finally came, it brought a new curtain of overcast. Blue-green Magda glimmered dull and sultry as a moldy orange. The water shone like oil. . . . Movement in the west —a Panapa chieftain’s private barge, walking across the horizon like a water-spider. Perrin vaulted the stairs to the lightroom, swung the lumenifer full at the barge, dispatched an erratic series of flashes.
The barge moved on, jointed oars swinging rhythmically in and out of the water. A torn banner of fog drifted across the water. The barge became a dark, jerking shape, disappeared.
Perrin went to Seguilo’s old transceiver, sat looking at it. He jumped to his feet, pulled the chassis out of the case, disassembled the entire circuit.
He saw scorched metal, wires fused into droplets, cracked ceramic. He pushed the tangle into a corner, went to stand by the window.
The sun was at the zenith, the sky was the color of green grapes. The sea heaved sluggishly, great amorphous swells rising and falling without apparent direction. Now was low tide; the shelf shouldered high up, the black rock showing naked and strange. The sea palpitated, up, down, up, down, sucking noisily at bits of sea-wrack.
Perrin descended the stairs. On his way down he looked in at the bathroom mirror, and his face stared back at him, pale, wide-eyed, cheeks hollow and lusterless. Perrin continued down the stairs, stepped out into the sunlight.
Carefully he walked out on the shelf, looked in a kind of fascination down over the edge. The heave of the swells distorted his vision; he could see little more than shadows and shifting fingers of light.
Step by step he wandered along the shelf. The sun leaned to the west. Perrin retreated up the rock.
At the lighthouse he seated himself in the doorway. Tonight the door remained barred. No inducement could persuade him to open up; the most entrancing visions would beseech him in vain. His thoughts went to Seguilo. What had Seguilo believed; what being had he fabricated out of his morbid fancy with the power and malice to drag him away? ... It seemed that every man was victim to his own imaginings. Isel Rock was not the place for a fanciful man when the five moons rose together.
Tonight he would bar the door, he would bed himself down and sleep, secure both in the barrier of welded metal and his own unconsciousness.
The sun sank in a bank of heavy vapor. North, east, south flushed with violet; the we$t glowed lime and dark green, dulling quickly through tones of brown. Perrin entered the lighthouse, bolted the door, set the twin shafts of red and white circling the horizon.
He opened a dinner unit, ate listlessly. Outside was dark night, emptiness to all the horizons. As the tide rose, the water hissed and moaned across the shelf.
Perrin lay in his bed, but sleep was far away. Through the window came an electric glow, then up rose the five moons, shining through a high overcast as if wrapped in blue gauze.
Perrin heaved fitfully. There was nothing to fear, he was safe in the lighthouse. No human hands could force the door; it would take the strength of a mastodon, the talons of a rock choundril, the ferocity of a Maldene land-shark. . . .
He elbowed himself up on his bunk. ... A sound from outside? He peered through the window, heart in his mouth. A tall shape, indistinct. As he watched, it slouched toward the lighthouse—as he knew it would.
“No, no,” cried Perrin softly. He flung himself into his bunk, covered his head in the blankets. “It’s only what I think up myself, it’s not real. . . . Go away,” he whispered fiercely. “Go away.” He listened. It must be near the door now. It would be lifting a heavy arm, the talons would glint in the moonlight.
“No, no,” cried Perrin. “There’s nothing there. . . .” He held up his head and listened.
A rattle, a rasp at the door. A thud as a great mass tested the lock.
“Go away!” screamed Perrin. “You’re not real!”
The door groaned, the bolts sagged.
Perrin stood at the head of the stairs, breathing heavily through his mouth. The door would slam back in another instant. He knew what he would see: a black shape tall and round as a pole, with eyes like coach-lamps. Perrin even knew the last sound his ears would hear—a terrible grinding discord. . . .
The top bolt snapped, the door reeled. A huge black arm shoved inside. Perrin saw the talons gleam as the fingers reached for the bolt.
His eyes flickered around the lighthouse for a weapon. . . . Only a wrench, a tableknife.
The bottom bolt shattered, the door twisted. Perrin stood staring, his mind congealed. A thought rose up from some hidden survival-node. Here, Perrin thought, was the single chance.
He ran back into his room. Behind him the door clattered, he heard heavy steps. He looked around the room. His shoe.
Thud! Up the stairs, and the lighthouse vibrated. Perrin’s fancy explored the horrible, he knew what he would hear. And so came a voice—harsh, empty, but like another voice which had been sweet. “I told you I’d be back.”<
br />
Thud—thud—up the stairs. Perrin took the shoe by the toe, swung, struck the side of his head.
Perrin recovered consciousness. He stumbled to the wall, supported himself. Presently he groped to his bunk, sat down.
Outside there was still dark night. Grunting, he looked out the window into the sky. The five moons hung far down in the west. Already Poidel ranged ahead, while Liad trailed behind.
Tomorrow night the five moons would rise apart.
Tomorrow night there would be no high tides, sucking and tremulous along the shelf.
Tomorrow night the moons would call up no yearning shapes from the streaming dark.
Eleven weeks to relief. Perrin gingerly felt the side of his head... . Quite a respectable lump.
Telek
I
Geskamp and Shorn stood in the sad light of sundown, high on the rim of the new Telek-ordained arena, which seemed to them so eccentric and arbitrary. They were alone; no sound was to be heard but the murmur of their voices. Wooded hills rose to right and left; far to the west, the skyline of Tran crossed the sunset.
Geskamp pointed east, up Swanscomb Valley. “There, by that row of poplars, is where I was born. I knew the valley well in the old days.” He spent a moment in reflection. “I hate to see the changes, the old things wiped out.” He pointed. “By the stream yonder was Pirn’s croft and the old stone barn. Where you see the grove of oaks, that was the village Cobent. Can you believe it? And there, by Poll Point, the old aqueduct crossed the river. Only six months ago! Already it seems a hundred years.”
Shorn, intending to make a delicate request, considered how best to take advantage of Geskamp’s nostalgia for the irretrievable past; he was faintly surprised to find Geskamp, a big jut-faced man with gray-blond hair, indulging in sentiment of any kind. “There certainly is no recognizing it now.”
“No. It’s all tidy and clean. Like a park. I liked it better in the old days. Now it’s waste, nothing else.” Geskamp cocked his bristling eyebrows at Shorn. “Do you know, they hold me responsible, the farmers and villagers? Because I’m in charge, I gave the orders?’’
