Eight Fantasms and Magics

by Jack Vance

  “No, I don’t think it did.”

  “That means it’s on one or the other of their persons.” “It might be unintentional—a plant. But how would the Teleks know the Kurgills intended to come down here?” Shorn shook his head.

  Circumbright sighed. “I guess not.”

  “The bug will be where it can see, but where it can’t be seen—or at least, not noticed.”

  Their glances went to the ornate headdress Cluche Kurgill wore on one side of his head: a soft roll of gray-green leather, bound by a strip across his hair, trailing a dangle of moon-opals past his ear.

  Circumbright said in a tight voice, “We can expect destruction at any time. Explosion-”

  Shorn said slowly, “I doubt if they’ll send an explosion. If they feel they are unsuspected, they’ll prefer to bide their time.”

  Circumbright said huskily, “Well, what do you propose, then?”

  Shorn hesitated a moment before replying. “We’re in a devil of a ticklish position. Do you have a narco-hypnotic stinger handy?”

  Circumbright nodded.

  “Perhaps then .. .”

  Two minutes later Circumbright rejoined the Kurgills. The old doctor was in a fine humor. “Gorman,” he said to Circumbright, “I’m very proud of Cluche here. He’s been a scapegrace all his life—but now he wants to make something of himself.”

  “Good,” said Circumbright with hollow heartiness. “If he were of our conviction, I could use him right now—but I wouldn’t want him to do anything against his-”

  “Oh no, not at all,” said Cluche. “What’s your problem?” “Well, Shorn just left for a very important meeting—the regional chiefs—and he’s forgotten his code book. I couldn’t trust an ordinary messenger, but if you will deliver the code book you’d be doing us a great service.”

  “Any little thing I can do to help,” said Cluche. “I’ll be delighted.”

  His father regarded him with fatuous pride. “Cluche has surprised me. He caught me out just the day before yesterday, and now nothing must do but that he plunges in after me. Needless to say, I’m very pleased; glad to see that he’s a chip off the old block; nothing stands in his way.”

  Circumbright said, “I can count on you, then? You’ll have to follow instructions exactly.”

  “Quite all right, sir, glad to help.”

  “Good,” said Circumbright. “First thing then—you’ll have to change your clothes. You’d be too conspicuous as you are.”

  “Oh, now!” protested Cluche. “Surely a cloak-”

  “No!” snapped Circumbright. “You’ll have to dress as a dock worker from the skin out. No cloak would hide that headgear. In the next room you’ll find some clothes. Come with me, I’ll make a light.”

  He held open the door; reluctantly Cluche stepped through.

  The door closed. Shorn expertly seized Cluche’s neck, digging strong fingers into the motor nerves. Cluche stiffened, trembling.

  Circumbright slapped the front of his neck with a barbful of drug, then fumbled for Cluche’s headdress. He felt a smooth little object bulging with two eyes like a tadpole.

  He said easily, “Can’t seem to find the light. . . He tucked the bug into his pouch. “Here it is. Now—that fancy headgear. I’ll put it into this locker; it’ll be safe till you get back.” He winked at Shorn, shoved the pouch into a heavy metal tool chest.

  They looked down at the sprawled body. “There’s not much time,” said Circumbright. “I’ll send Kurgill home and we’ll have to get out ourselves.” He looked regretfully around the room. “There’s a lot of fine equipment here. . . . We can get more, I suppose.”

  Shorn clicked his tongue. “What will you tell Kurgill?”

  “Um-m-m. The truth would kill him.”

  “Cluche was killed by the Teleks. He died defending the code book. The Teleks have his name; he’ll have to go underground himself.”

  “He’ll have to go under tonight. I’ll warn him to lay low, say in Capistrano’s, until we call him, then we can give him the bad news. As soon as he’s gone we’ll take Cluche out the back way, to Laurie’s.”

  Cluche Kurgill sat in a chair, staring into space. Circumbright leaned back smoking his pipe. Laurie, in white pajamas and a tan robe, lay sidewise on-a couch in the corner watching; Shorn sat beside her.

  “How long have you been spying for the Teleks, Cluche?”

  “Three days.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “I found some writings of my father’s which led me to believe he was a member of a suborganization. I needed money. I reported to a police sergeant who I knew to be interested. He wanted me to furnish him the details; I refused. I demanded to speak to a Telek. I threatened the policeman-”

  “What is his name?”

  “Sergeant Henry Lewis, of the Moxenwohl Precinct.”

  “Go on.”

  “Finally he arranged an appointment with Adlari Dominion. I met Dominion at the Pequinade, out in Vireburg. He gave me a thousand crowns and a spy-cell which I was to

  carry with me at all times. When anything interesting occurred I was to press an attention button.”

  “What were your instructions?”

  “I was to become a conspirator along with my father, accompanying him as much as possible. If my efforts resulted in the arrest of important figures, he hinted that I might be made a Telek myself.”

  “Did he intimate how this metamorphosis is accomplished?” “No.”

  “When are you to report to Dominion again?”

  “I am to contact him by visiphone at two p.m. tomorrow, at Glarietta Pavilion.”

  “Is there any password or identification code?”

  “No.”

  Silence held the room for several minutes. Shorn stirred, rose to his feet. “Gorman—suppose I were to be metamorphosed, suppose I were to become a Telek.”

  Circumbright chewed placidly on his pipestem. “It would be a fine thing. I don’t quite understand how you’ll manage. Unless,” he added in a dry voice, “you intend to turn us all in to Adlari Dominion.”

  “No. But look at Cluche. Look at me.”

  Circumbright looked, grimaced, straightened up in his seat. Shorn watched expectantly. “Could it be done?”

  “Oh. I see. Give you more nose, a longer chin, fuller

  cheeks, a lot of red hair-”

  “And Cluche’s clothes.”

  “You’d pass.”

  “Especially if I come with information.”

  “That’s what’s puzzling me. What kind of information could you give Dominion that would please him but wouldn’t hurt us?”

  Shorn told him.

  Circumbright puffed on his pipe. “It’s a big decision. But it’s a good exchange. Unless he’s got the same thing already, from other sources.”

  “Such as Geskamp? In which case, we lose nothing.”

  “True.” Circumbright went to the visiphone. “Tino? Bring

  your gear over to—” he looked at Laurie: “What’s the address?”

  “Two-nine two-four fourteen Martinvelt.”

  V

  The red-haired man moved with a taut wiriness that had not been characteristic of Cluche Kurgill. Laurie inspected him critically.

  “Walk slower, Will. Don’t flail your arms so. Cluche was very languid.”

  “Check this.” Shorn walked across the room.

  “Better.”

  “Very well. I’m gone. Wish me luck. My first stop is the old workshop for Cluche’s spy-cell. He’d hardly be likely to leave it there.”

  “But aren’t you taking a chance, going back to the workshop?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope not. If the Teleks planned to destroy it, they would have done so last night.” He waved his hand abruptly and was gone.

  He rode the slipway, aping the languorous and lofty condescension he associated with Cluche. The morning had been overcast and blustery, with spatters of cold rain, but at noon the clouds broke. The sun surged through g
aps in the hurrying wrack, and the great gray buildings of Tran stood forth like proud lords. Shorn tilted his head back; this was the grandeur of simple bulk, but nevertheless impressive. He himself preferred construction on a smaller scale, buildings to suit a lesser number of more highly individualized people. He thought of the antique Mediterranean temples, gaudy in their pinks and green and blues, although now the marble had bleached white. Such idiosyncrasy was possible, even enforced, in the ancient monarchies. Today every man, in theory his own master, was required to mesh with his fellows, like a part in a great gear cluster. The culture-colors and culture-tones came out at the common denominator, the melange of all colors: gray. Buildings grew taller and wider from motives of economy—the volume increased by the cube but the enclosing surface only by the square. The motif was utilitarianism, mass policy, each tenant relinquishing edges and fringes of his personality, until only the common basic core—a sound roof, hot and cold water, good light, air-conditioning, and good elevator service—remained.

  People living in masses, thought Shorn, were like pebbles on a beach, each grinding and polishing his neighbor until all were absolutely uniform. Color and flair were to be found only in the wilderness and among the Teleks. Imagine a world populated by Teleks; imagine the four thousand expanded to four hundred million, four billion! First to go would be the cities. There would be no more concentrations, no more giant gray buildings, no directed rivers of men and women. Humanity would explode like a nova. The cities would corrode and crumble, great mournful hulks, the final monuments to medievalism. Earth would be too small, too limited. Out to the planets, where the Teleks claimed to roam at will. Flood Mars with blue oceans, filter the sky of Venus. Neptune, Uranus, Pluto—call them in, bestow warm new orbits upon them. Bring in even Saturn, so vast and yet with a surface gravity only a trifle more than Earth’s. . . . But these great works, suppose they exhausted the telekinetic energy, wherever it originated? Suppose some morning the Teleks awoke and found the power gone! Then—the crystal sky-castles falling! Food, shelter, warmth needed, and no secure gray cities, no ant-hill buildings, none of the pedestrian energies of metal and heat "and electricity! Then what calamity! What wailing and cursing!

  Shorn heaved a deep sigh. Speculation. Telekinetic energy might well be infinite. Or it might be at the point of exhaustion at this moment. Speculation, and not germane to his present goal.

  He frowned. Perhaps it was important. Perhaps some quiet circuit in his mind was at work, aligning him into new opinions. . . .

  Ahead was the basement recreation hall. Shorn realized guiltily that he had been swinging along at his own gait, quite out of character with the personality of Cluche Kurgill. Best not forget these details; there would be opportunity for only one mistake.

  He descended the stairs, strode through the hall, past the clicking, glowing, humming game machines, where men, rebelling at the predictability of their lives, came to buy synthetic surprise.

  He walked unchallenged through the door marked “Employees”; at the next door he paused, wondering whether he had remembered to bring the key, wondering if a spy-cell might be hidden in the shadows, watching the door.

  If so, would Cluche Kurgill be likely to possess a key? It was in the bounds of possibility, he decided, and in any event would not be interpreted as suspicious.

  Shorn groped into his pouch. The key was there. He opened the door and assuming the furtive part of a spy entered the workshop.

  It was as they had left it the night before. Shorn went quickly to the tool chest, found Circumbright’s pouch, brought forth the bug, set it carefully into his headdress.

  Now—get out as fast as possible. He looked at his watch. Twelve noon. At two, Cluche’s appointment with Adlari Dominion, chief of the Telek Liaison Committee.

  Shorn ate an uncomfortable lunch in one corner of the Mercantile Mart Foodarium, a low-ceilinged acreage dotted with tables precisely as a tile floor, and served by a three-tier display of food moving slowly under a transparent case. His head itched furiously under the red toupee, and he dared not scratch lest he disturb Tino’s elaborate effort. Secondly, he decided that the Foodarium, the noon resort of hurried day-workers, was out of character for Cluche Kurgill. Among the grays and dull greens and browns, his magnificent Telek-style garments made him appear like a flamingo in a chicken-run. He felt glances of dull hostility; the Teleks were envied but respected; one of their own kind aping the Teleks was despised with the animosity that found no release elsewhere.

  Shorn ate quickly and departed. He followed Zyke Alley into Multiflores Park, where he sauntered back and forth among the dusty sycamores.

  At two he sat himself deliberately in a kiosk, coded Glarietta Pavilion on the visiphone. The connection clicked home; the screen glowed with a fanciful black and white drawing of Glarietta Pavilion, and a terse man’s voice spoke. “Glarietta Pavilion.”

  “I want to speak to Adlari Dominion; Cluche Kurgill calling.”

  A thin face appeared, inquisitive, impertinent, with a lumpy nose, pale blue eyes set at a birdlike slant. “What do you want?”

  Shorn frowned. He had neglected an important item of information; it would hardly do to ask the man in the visiphone if he were Adlari Dominion whom he was supposed to have met three days previously.

  “I had an appointment for today at two,” and cautiously he watched the man in the screen.

  “You can report to me.”

  “No,” said Shorn, now confident. The man was too pushing, too authoritative. “I want to speak to Adlari Dominion. What I have to say is not for your ears.”

  The thin man glared. “I’ll be the judge of that; Dominion can’t be bothered every five minutes.”

  “If Dominion learns that you are standing in my way, he will not be pleased.”

  The thin face flushed red. His hand swept up, the screen went pale green. Shorn waited.

  The screen lit once more, showing a bright room with high white walls. Windows opened on sun-dazzled clouds. A man, thin as the first to answer the screen, but somber, with gray hair and oil-black eyes, looked quietly at him. Under the bore of the sharp eyes, Shorn suddenly felt uneasy. Would his disguise hold up?

  “Well, Kurgill, what do you have to tell me?”

  “It’s a face-to-face matter.”

  “Hardly wise,” Dominion commented. “Don’t you trust the privacy of the visiphone? I assure you it’s not tapped.”

  “No. I trust the visiphone. But—I stumbled on something big. I want to be sure I get what’s coming to me.”

  “Oh.” Dominion made no play at misunderstanding. “You’ve been working—how long?”

  “Three days.”

  “And already you expect the greatest reward it’s in our power to bestow?”

  “It’s worth it. If I’m a Telek, it's to my advantage to help you. If I’m not—it isn’t. Simple as that.”

  Dominion frowned. “You’re hardly qualified to estimate the value of your information.”

  “Suppose I knew of a brain disease which attacks only Teleks. Suppose I knew that inside of a year half or three-quarters of the Teleks would be dead?”

  Dominion’s face changed not a flicker. “Naturally I want to know about it.”

  Shorn made no reply.

  Dominion said slowly, “If such is your information, and we authenticate it, you will be rewarded suitably.”

  Shorn shook his head. “I can’t take the chance. This is my windfall. I've got to make sure I get what I’m after; I may not have another chance.”

  Dominion’s mouth tightened, but he said mildly enough, “I understand your viewpoint.”

  “I want to come up to the Pavilion. But a word of warning to you; there’s no harm in clear understanding between friends.”

  “None whatever.”

  “Don’t try drugs on me. I’ve got a cyanide capsule in my mouth. I’ll kill myself before you get something for nothing.”

  Dominion smiled grimly. “Very well, Kurgill. Don’t
execute yourself, swallow it by mistake.”

  Shorn smiled likewise. “Only as a gesture of protest. How shall I come up to Glarietta?”

  “Hire a cab.”

  “Openly?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re not afraid of counterespionage?”

  Dominion’s eyes narrowed; his head tilted slightly. “I thought we discussed that at our previous meeting.”

  Shorn took care not to protest his recollection too vehemently. “Very well, I’ll be right up.”

  Glarietta Pavilion floated high above the ocean, a fairy-book cloud-castle—shining white terraces, ranked towers with red and blue parasol roofs, gardens verdant with foliage and vines trailing down into the air.

  The cab slid down on a landing flat. Shorn alighted. The driver looked at him without favor. “Want me to wait?” “No, you can go.” Shorn thought wryly, he’d either be leaving under his own power or not be leaving at all.

  A door slid back before him; he entered a hall walled with russet, orange, purple, and green prisms, glowing in the brilliant upper-air light. In a raised alcove sat a young woman, a beautiful creature with glossy butter-colored hair, a cream-smooth face.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked, impersonally courteous.

  “I want to see Adlari Dominion. I’m Cluche Kurgill.” She touched a key below her. “To your right.”

  He climbed a glass staircase which spiraled up a green glass tube, came out in a waiting room walled with gold-shot red rock that had never been quarried on Earth. Dark-green ivy veiled one wall; white columns opposite made a graceful frame into an herbarium full of green light and lush green growth, white and scarlet flowers.

  Shorn hesitated, looked around him. A golden light blinked in the wall, an aperture appeared. Adlari Dominion stood in the opening. “Come in, Kurgill.”

  Shorn stepped into the wash of light, and for a moment lost Dominion in the dazzle. When vision returned, Dominion was lounging in a hammock-chair supported by a glistening rod protruding horizontally from the wall. A red-leather ottoman was the only other article of furniture visible. Three of the walls were transparent glass, giving on a magnificent vista: clouds bathed in sunlight, blue sky, blue sea. Dominion pointed to the ottoman. “Have a seat.”