Eight Fantasms and Magics

by Jack Vance

  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-Copernican epicycles.

  I 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 economics, ecology, sociology?

  I 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 swamp-globes 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 I 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 burn 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 cornets, 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 pompoms 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, lavender.

  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, regeneration. . . . 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.

  III

  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 burnt-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 noise!' 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’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.”

  The New Prime

  Music, carnival lights, the slide of feet on waxed oak, perfume, muffled talk and laughter.

  Arthur Caversham of twentieth-century Boston felt air along his skin, and discovered himself to be stark naked.

  It was at Janice Paget's coming-out party: three hundred guests in formal evening-wear surrounded him.

  For a moment he felt no emotion beyond vague bewilderment. His presence seemed the outcome of logical events, but his memory was fogged and he could find no definite anchor of certainty.

  He stood a little apart from the rest of the stag line, facing the red and gold calliope where the orchestra sat. The buffet, the punch bowl, the champagne wagons, tended by clowns, were to his right; to the left, through the open flap of the circus tent, lay the garden, now lit by strings of colored lights, red, green, yellow, blue, and he caught a glimpse of a merry-go-round across the lawn.

  Why was he here? He had no recollection, no sense of purpose. . . . The night was warm; the other young men in the full-dress suits must feel rather sticky, he thought. . . . An idea tugged at a corner of his mind. There was a significant aspect of the affair that he was overlooking.

  He noticed that the young men nearby had moved away from him. He heard chortles of amusement, astonished exclamations. A girl dancing past saw him over the arm of her escort; she gave a startled squeak, jerked her eyes away, giggling and blushing.

  Something was wrong. These young men and women were startled and amazed by his naked skin to the point of embarrassment. The gnaw of urgency came closer to the surface. He must do something. Taboos felt with such intensity might not be violated without unpleasant consequences; such was his understanding. He was lacking garments; these he must obtain.

  He looked about him, inspecting the young men who watched him with ribald delight, disgust, or curiosity. To one of these latter he addressed himself.

  “Where can I get some clothing?”

  The young man shrugged. “Where did you leave yours?”

  Two heavyset men in dark blue uniforms entered the tent; Arthur Caversham saw them from the corner of his eye, and his mind worked with desperate intensity.

  This young man seemed typical of those around him. What sort of appeal would have meaning for him? Like any other human being, he could be moved to action if the right chord were struck. By what method could he be moved?

  Sympathy?

  Threats?

  The prospect of advantage or profit?

  Caversham rejected all of these. By violating the taboo he had forfeited his claim to sympathy. A threat would excite derision, and he had no profit or advantage to offer. The stimulus must be more devious. . . . He reflected that young men customarily banded together in secret societies. In the thousand cultures he had studied this was almost infallibly true. Long-houses, drug-cults, tongs, instruments of sexual initiation—whatever the name, the external aspects were near-identical: painful initiation, secret signs and passwords, uniformity of group conduct, obligation to service. If this young man were a member of such an association, he might react to an appeal to this group-spirit.

  Arthur Caversham said, “I’ve been put in this taboo situation by the brotherhood; in the name of the brotherhood, find me some suitable garments.”

  The young man stared, taken aback. “Brotherhood? . . . You mean fraternity?” Enlightenment spread over his face. “Is this some kind of hell-week stunt?” He laughed. “If it is, they sure go all the way.”

  “Yes,” said Arthur Caversham. “My fraternity.”

  The young man said, “This way, then—and hurry, here comes the law. We’ll take off under the tent. I’ll lend you my topcoat till you make it back to your house.”

  The two uniformed men, pushing quietly through the dancers, were almost upon them. The young man lifted the flap of the tent, Arthur Caversham ducked under, his friend followed. Together they ran through the many-colored shadows to a little booth painted with gay red and white stripes that was near the entrance to the tent.

  “You stay back, out of sight,” said the young man. “I’ll check out my coat.”

  “Fine,” said Arthur Caversham.

  The young man hesitated. “What’s your house? Where do you go to school?”

  Arthur Caversham desperately searched his mind for an answer. A single fact reached the surface.

  “I’m from Boston.”

  “Boston U? Or MIT? Or Harvard?”

  “Harvard.”

  “Ah.” The young man nodded. “I’m Washington and Lee myself. What’s your house?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Oh,” said the young man, puzzled but satisfied. “Well— just a minute. .. .”

  Bearwald the Halforn halted, numb with despair and exhaustion. The remnants of his platoon sank to the ground around him, and they stared back to where the rim of the night flickered and glowed with fire. Many villages, many wood-gabled farmhouses had been given the torch, and the Brands from Mount Medallion reveled in human blood.

  The pulse of a distant drum touched Bearwald's skin, a deep thrumm-thrumm-thrumm, almost inaudible. Much closer he heard a hoarse human cry of fright, then exultant killing-calls, not human. The Brands were tall, black, manshaped but not men. They had eyes like lamps of red glass, bright white teeth, and tonight they seemed bent on slaughtering all the men of the world.

  “Down," hissed Kanaw, his right arm-guard, and Bearwald crouched. Across the flaring sky marched a column of tall Brand warriors, rocking jauntily, without fear.

  Bearwald said suddenly, “Men—we are thirteen. Fighting arm to arm with these monsters we are helpless. Tonight their total force is down from the mountain; the hive must be near deserted. What can we lose if we undertake to burn the home-hive of the Brands? Only our lives, and what are these now?”

  Kanaw said, “Our lives are nothing; let us be off at once."

  “May our vengeance be great,” said Broctan the left arm-guard. “May the home-hive of the Brands be white ashes this coming morn. . . ."

  Mount Medallion loomed overhead; the oval hive lay in Pangborn Valley. At the mouth of the valley, Bearwald divided the platoon into two halves, and placed Kanaw in the van of the second. “We move silently twenty yards apart; thus if either party rouses a Brand, the other may attack from the rear and so kill the monster before the vale is roused. Do all understand?”

  “We understand.”

  “Forward then, to the hive.”

  The valley reeked with an odor like sour leather. From the direction of the hive came a muffled clanging. The ground was soft, covered with runner moss; careful feet made no sound. Crouching low, Bearwald could see the shapes of his men against the sky—here indigo with a violet rim. The angry glare of burning Echevasa lay down the slope to the south.

  A sound. Bearwald hissed, and the columns froze. They waited. Thud-thud-thud-thud came the steps—then a hoarse cry of rage and alarm.

  “Kill, kill the beast!" yelled Bearwald.

  The Brand swung his club like a scythe, lifting one man, carrying the body around with the after-swing. Bearwald leapt close, struck with his blade, slicing as he hewed; he felt the tendons part, smelled the hot gush of Brand blood.

  The clanging had stopped now, and Brand cries carried across the night.

  “Forward," panted Bearwald. “Out with your tinder, strike fire to the hive. Burn, burn, burn. . . ."

  Abandoning stealth he ran forward; ahead loomed the dark dome. Immature Brands came surging forth, squeaking and squalling, and with them came the genetrices—twenty-foot monsters crawling on hands and feet, grunting and snapping as they moved.

  “Kill!" yelled Bearwald the Halforn. “Kill! Fire, fire, fire!"

  He dashed to the hive, crouched, struck spark to tinder, puffed. The rag, soaked with saltpeter,
flared; Bearwald fed it straw, thrust it against the hive. The reed-pulp and withe crackled.

  He leapt up as a horde of young Brands darted at him. His blade rose and fell; they were cleft, no match for his frenzy. Creeping close came the great Brand genetrices, three of them, swollen of abdomen, exuding an odor vile to his nostrils.

  “Out with the fire!" yelled the first. “Fire, out. The Great Mother is tombed within; she lies too fecund to move. . . . Fire, woe, destruction!" And they wailed, “Where are the mighty? Where are our warriors?"

  Thrumm-thrumm-thrumm came the sound of skindrums. Up the valley rolled the echo of hoarse Brand voices.

  Bearwald stood with his back to the blaze. He darted forward, severed the head of a creeping genetrix, jumped back. . . . Where were his men? “Kanaw!" he called. “Laida! Theyat! Gyorg! Broctan!"

  He craned his neck, saw the flicker of fires. “Men! Kill the creeping mothers!" And leaping forward once more, he hacked and hewed, and another genetrix sighed and groaned and rolled flat.

  The Brand voices changed to alarm; the triumphant drumming halted; the thud of footsteps came loud.

  At Bearwald’s back the hive burnt with a pleasant heat. Within came a shrill keening, a cry of vast pain.

  In the leaping blaze he saw the charging Brand warriors. Their eyes glared like embers, their teeth shone like white sparks. They came forward, swinging their clubs, and Bearwald gripped his sword, too proud to flee.

  After grounding his air sled Ceistan sat a few minutes inspecting the dead city Therlatch: a wall of earthen brick a hundred feet high, a dusty portal, and a few crumbled roofs lifting above the battlements. Behind the city the desert spread across the near, middle, and far distance to the hazy shapes of the Allune Mountains at the horizon, pink in the light of the twin suns Mig and Pag.