The Magnificent Showboats

by Jack Vance

  “I am despondent,” said Zamp, “but not discouraged. I start afresh. Eventually I will reward my friends and punish my enemies. In a certain sense that wicked person who arranged my misadventure has done me a service; but still he will find no mercy.”

  “Ha, ha, Zamp, very good! I am pleased that events have not conquered your spirit!” He glanced down at Damsel Blanche-Aster in obvious curiosity, but Zamp performed no introductions. Ashgale spoke reflectively: “What of that affair up the river at Mornune?”

  Zamp grunted. “King Waldemar can amuse himself by counting his toes for all of me.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster raised her eyes; meeting her blue gaze, Zamp said, “Nothing has yet been decided. We may still undertake the journey.”

  “In the pinnaces which brought you to Lanteen?”

  “At Coble affairs will order themselves.”

  Ashgale could no longer contain his curiosity. “And this charming lady, what of her?”

  “She is a member of my troupe.”

  “Indeed!” Ashgale addressed himself to Damsel Blanche-Aster. “May I enquire your specialties?”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster made an airy gesture. “I am highly versatile. I sing in two voices; I wrestle bearded champions; I train oels to dance the mazurka.”

  “Remarkable!” declared Ashgale. “Since Zamp no longer owns a boat, would you care to transfer your capabilities to my vessel?”

  “I am content as I am.”

  Ashgale made a suave gesture, then looked across the room to where the members of Zamp’s old troupe sat over their gruel. Ashgale signaled the innkeeper: “At my expense, set before those excellent folk the fare they deserve. Are there more of those larks? Bring them forth, with trenchers of goulash and two dozen white cheese pasties.”

  “Bravo!” cried Viliweg. “Master Ashgale is a true nobleman!”

  “My generosity is not entirely unpremeditated,” said Ashgale. “I have decided to augment my programs with material of a frivolous nature, and I will consider hiring any qualified artists who are currently at liberty.”

  “Hurrah for Master Ashgale!” cried Alpo the acrobat.

  Ashgale bowed and again signaled the innkeeper. “Serve flasks of medium-quality wine to my friends.” Once again Ashgale was cheered. He held up his hand for silence. “I will not intrude upon your meal. Tonight relax and rest; tomorrow I will interview you aboard Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit.” He slapped clinking iron coins into the innkeeper’s palm, bowed serenely to Damsel Blanche-Aster and departed the tavern.

  Zamp immediately rose to his feet and went to address his former troupe. “Do not be fooled by Ashgale! The opportunities he offers are worthless!”

  Viliweg uttered a jeering laugh. “Can you offer better?”

  “The question is sterile,” said Zamp. “However I will say this: when the new Miraldra’s Enchantment floats the river, you may well regret deserting Apollon Zamp for the silken reptile who just departed the premises.”

  “We will salve those aches as we become aware of them!” retorted Alpo the acrobat, to stimulate an outburst of merriment from his fellows. Viliweg, in his exuberance, bestowed a gratuity upon the fat woman in the gown of black beads, and she played her concertina with even greater gusto.

  Zamp leaned across the table and addressed himself to Damsel Blanche-Aster, “In this den of ruffians conversation is impossible. Let us go out upon the verandah, or perhaps you would care to walk up and down the esplanade?”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster said in a voice abstracted and somewhat listless: “I do not care for conversation. But sleep is impossible amid so much din.”

  Zamp rose to his feet and with a flourish which belied his own fatigue drew back her chair and helped her to arise. “We will go to sit out upon the verandah.”

  The innkeeper appeared at his elbow. “I have prepared your reckoning, Master Zamp.”

  Zamp stared in bewilderment. “My reckoning? I will settle my account when I leave the premises.”

  “There has been a mistake. Viliweg had already reserved the chamber into which I mistakenly placed you.”

  Zamp lowered his hand to the pommel of his rapier. “Three options are open for your consideration. You may return to Viliweg that sum double your ordinary rent which he has just paid you; you may arrange for me free and without charge the best room available at the Jolly Glassblower; or you may elect to spill a quantity of your red blood upon this floor.”

  The innkeeper drew back a step. “Your imputations are insulting! I am not a man to take kindly to threats! Still, as I now reflect upon the matter, the accommodation I promised Viliweg was not ‘River Vista’ which you occupy, but a section of the ‘Placid Repose’ dormitory overlooking the tide-flats. All is well, after all.”

  “Very good,” said Zamp. “I trust there will be no further mistakes.”

  As they walked toward the door, Zamp was jostled by Viliweg the magician on his way to the bar. Viliweg said in a sharp voice: “Please be more careful; just now you trod upon my foot.”

  “Hold your tongue, Viliweg,” said Zamp, more dispirited than annoyed. “Your complaints do not impress me.”

  Viliweg gave back a haughty glance, then turned away; Zamp and Damsel Blanche-Aster proceeded out upon the verandah. They seated themselves as far as possible from the group of glass-blowers who still sat drinking beer and enjoying the evening air. Before them the great river Lant flowed deep and quiet toward its junction with the Vissel; on the far bank shone a few flickering yellow lamps. Aboard Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit only the masthead lamp and the thief-takers still burned; but the light along the esplanade from the various booths and taverns made a vivacious show. Walls, talk and laughter reduced the wheezing of the concertina to a not-unpleasant undertone. Zamp inquired: “Would you care for a cordial, or a glass of Dulcinato?”

  Taking her silence for assent, he signaled the pot-boy who had just brought beer to the glassblowers. “Bring us two goblets of Ysander’s Quality Cordial, cool but not iced.”

  The pot-boy shook his head. “We keep a tub of Blue Ruin and another of Mutiny Rum; take your choice.”

  “Bring us a flask of good wine,” said Zamp. He leaned back in his chair. “Back to our conversation —”

  “I would prefer to sit in quiet.”

  Zamp gripped the arms of his chair. “But there is so much to discuss! I know absolutely nothing about you, other than that you are both lovely and proud.”

  “I do not care to discuss myself.”

  “Tell me one thing,” Zamp insisted. “Are you espoused, or betrothed or faithful to some far lover? Is this the reason for your behavior?”

  “None of these.”

  “So then, you find me repulsive?”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster focused her eyes upon Zamp. “If we must talk, let it be to practical ends. First, how do you propose to gain control of another boat?”

  “When we reach Coble, we shall see.”

  “And how long might be required to prepare such a boat for a voyage up the Vissel?”

  Zamp shrugged. “A dozen factors are involved. If I owned my five pounds of iron, no more than a week or two. But I am curious to know why you are so anxious to reach Mornune.”

  “There is no mystery. Whoever wins Waldemar’s competition earns a palace and great wealth. I wish to espouse such a man and live the life of a princess.”

  Zamp gave his head a marveling shake and poured the wine which the pot-boy had served. “You have calculated the course of your life with meticulous care.”

  “Why should I not? Have I any other life?”

  “I hold no fixed beliefs,” said Zamp. “Much has been said, up one side and down another; the question remains open. Still, folk who plot their lives with too exact a precision often miss the fascinating twists and by-ways of a more picturesque route, ultimately to the same destination.”

  “How long until we can arrive at Coble?”

  “Before long one vessel or another will depart Lanteen down-ri
ver. We will take passage aboard.”

  “What of the fare? Can you pay?”

  “Certainly! I salvaged all my jewels, which command considerable value.” And Zamp struck the pocket of his jacket, only to find it flat. He sat up in his chair. “I have been robbed! How did it occur?” He jerked around and gazed toward the door. “When Viliweg jostled me, he made a set of confusing gestures. The jewels are now gone!”

  “What of the silver plaque?”

  Zamp touched an inner pocket. “It is safe.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Zamp brought forth the glittering tablet. Damsel Blanche-Aster took it into her hand and gave a grateful sigh. “It is the same.”

  Zamp retrieved the tablet and restored it to his pocket. “It is also my last resource. I must use it to pay for our bed and board.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster shook her head. “I will pay the innkeeper. I will also secure our passage to Coble.”

  Zamp looked at her in surprise. “I had no idea that you carried so much iron!”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster ignored the remark. “We can now arrange matters on a business-like footing. I can expedite our journey to Coble, but I insist that you exclude me from your erotic fantasies.”

  “Bah,” grunted Zamp. “What if I choose to throw the plaque in the river?”

  “I could not prevent you.”

  “You could dissuade me.”

  Damsel Blanche-Aster made no reply. Zamp brought forth the plaque and held it in his hand, hefting it thoughtfully. Damsel Blanche-Aster rose to her feet and went into the tavern, presumably to her bed in ‘River Vista’.

  Zamp clenched his teeth and looked up at the sky. He replaced the plaque in his pocket and sat alone in the darkness.

  Within, the sounds of revelry waxed and waned. Viliweg came reeling through the door and went to stand by the rail. Zamp, approaching quietly, seized the magician about the legs and hurled him over the rail, down into the slime of the mud-flats.

  Zamp went moodily to ‘River Vista’. A lamp burnt low on the table. Damsel Blanche-Aster lay under her cloak in a corner of the room, her sleek blonde head pillowed on the embroidered jacket.

  Zamp knew that she was not asleep. He said gruffly: “You may share the mattress without agonizing over the priceless sanctity of your body, which after all is much like any other. At this moment it means no more to me than the table.”

  Chapter VII

  Coble, situated where the main channel of the Vissel entered Surmise Bay, was a town of tall steep-gabled buildings of timber and black brick, netted by a hundred canals, shaded by a thousand lordly halcositic dendrons, along with innumerable lantans, palms and plume willows. The business of Coble centered on the Burse, a small square overlooked by crooked old buildings, the windows tinted purple and green with age. A hundred yards east flowed the Vissel River, and here at Bynum’s Dock was moored the Universal Pancomium, a floating museum owned by Throdorus Gassoon. The Universal Pancomium had never been reckoned a beautiful vessel, being somewhat spare and gaunt of outline, with a stern paddle-wheel powered by eighteen bullocks at three capstans, in addition to the sails which Gassoon used only under optimum conditions.

  Gassoon was as spare, gaunt and graceless as his boat. His face was long and pale, his eyes were pale, small and close beside his long equine nose; his hair was an unruly shock of white tufts. He habitually wore a tight and threadbare suit of black twill with black stockings and black shoes, in unkind contrast to his pale skin and white hair. His arms and legs were lank; he walked at a lope; halting, he tended to throw his long face back like a neighing horse.

  Gassoon had few friends; he devoted all his time, love and attention to the curios, relicts and oddities of his collection. Travelers from afar marveled at the Universal Pancomium; never had they seen the match of Gassoon’s remarkable exhibits. His cases displayed the most diverse objects: costumes from far regions of Big Planet; weapons and musical instruments; models of space-ships and aircraft; dioramas of fabulous scenes; maps and globes of various inhabited worlds; photographs, books and art reproductions of Earthly provenance brought to Big Planet during the original immigrations; a periodic table with glass vials containing samples of each element; a collection of minerals and crystals; a toy steam engine built of brass, which Gassoon sometimes operated to amuse the children.

  Twice a year, during those intervals between the monsoons, when the air hung still and heavy, he took the Universal Pancomium out on the river and performed a cautious circuit of the delta towns, sometimes venturing up the Vissel as far as Wigtown, or even Ratwick, and once, throwing caution to the winds, he had voyaged to Badburg. As much as possible he traveled on the thrust of his stern-wheel. Sailing made him uneasy; he distrusted the whims of awesome and uncontrollable forces out of the sky, and was truly comfortable only when moored snug up against Bynum’s Dock.

  Aboard the Universal Pancomium came all sorts of folk, of every race and gradation of caste. Gassoon reckoned himself as expert at identifying and classifying these folk as a man could be. He also had an appreciative eye for beautiful women, and his interest, therefore, was doubly stimulated one afternoon by the sight of a slim young woman in a gray cloak, whose erect carriage suggested aristocracy, but whose racial background was not immediately evident. Gassoon approved of her coolness and poise, her sleek blonde hair, the delightful modeling of her features. Gassoon often indulged himself in grand day-dreams, wherein he conquered empires, founded noble cities and made the name Throdorus Gassoon revered across the lunes of Big Planet. This particular young woman might have stepped out of one of these day-dreams, so clear-eyed and romantically pensive was she, so charged with an indefinable élan.

  Definitely a most interesting young woman. Gassoon considered her features, her garments, her posture as she wandered among his exhibits. She showed interest in his maps, charts and globes, which pleased Gassoon; here was no vulgar little hussy to coo and gurgle over trinkets and gew-gaws.

  Gassoon, for all his lore, subscribed to a common fallacy: he assumed that all those whom he encountered appraised him in the same terms as he did himself. To Gassoon his tight black suit signified elegant simplicity. When he saw his pallid long-nosed face with its wild brush of white hair in the mirror, he saw the face of a defiant Prometheus, a visionary aesthete. Musing among his relics, Gassoon had loved, suffered, gloried, despaired; he had known the surge and crash of empires; he had listened to titanic musics; he had roamed far space. A single glance must convey to a sensitive mind the wondrous richness which Gassoon carried behind the noble jut of his forehead.

  Therefore, without modesty or diffidence, he approached the young woman in the gray cloak. “I see that you are interested in maps. I approve of this. Maps nurture the imagination, enrich the soul.”

  The young woman appraised him with candid interest. Gassoon approved her self-possession: no titters, no simpering, no insipid confessions of utter ignorance. She asked: “Are you the proprietor of this ship?”

  “Yes, I am Throdorus Gassoon. Do you find my exhibits worthy of note?”

  The young woman nodded rather absently. “Your exhibits are most interesting. I would think that they are unique in Lune XXIII.”

  “And elsewhere! Have you never before heard of the Universal Pancomium?”

  “Never.”

  “Ha ha! At least you are frank. And where, may I ask, is your home?”

  The young woman stared absently at the map. “At the moment I am staying here in Coble. Do you often take your vessel to distant places?”

  “From time to time. I have visited Ratwick and Wigtown at the mouth of the Murne, and I frequently cruise the waters of the delta.”

  “You are, in a sense, a benefactor for all the folk who otherwise might never see these things.”

  Gassoon gave a modest wave of his big white hand. “This might be true. I never think of myself in such terms; I enjoy my work. I like showing people my collection. Come along over here, notice in this cabinet: the skel
eton of a fossil oel! And this is the trance-mask of a Kalkar shaman! And here are silver coins from the Earthly Middle Ages; they were antiques even when brought here to Big Planet!”

  “Remarkable! Of all the showboats this is truly the finest!”

  Gassoon raised his eyebrows. “‘Showboat’? Well, why not? I refuse to recoil at a word.”

  “You evidently disapprove of the other showboats?”

  Gassoon pursed his lips. “No doubt they serve their purpose.”

  “At Lanteen I witnessed productions aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment and Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit. Both were elaborate and carefully staged.”

  “Quite so. Still, on either boat did you discern any scintilla of intellectual content? No? I thought not. Apollon Zamp is a popinjay, Ashgale a poseur; their audiences leave no better than when they arrived. Is it any wonder why many folk along the Vissel are semi-barbarous?”

  “You would seem to believe that showboats might serve a more constructive function.”

  “That goes without saying. Consider the human mind! It is capable of amazing feats when used properly. Conversely, without exercise it atrophies to a lump of gray-yellow fat. But why not come to my office, where we can continue our chat in comfort?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Gassoon made no apology for the disorder of his office which was cluttered with papers, folios, books, crates, oddments of this and that, as well as a table and two leather chairs, which through some deficiency in the tanning process, had never ceased to exude an unpleasant odor.

  Gassoon cleared off one of the chairs. “Be seated if you please. Will you take a cup of tea? Excuse me while I notify my factotum.” Gassoon stepped out of the office and called down a companionway. “Berard, are you there? Be so good as to reply when I call! Prepare a pot of fresh tea and bring it to the office. Use the preparation in the red jar.”

  Gassoon returned to find Damsel Blanche-Aster inspecting a pamphlet she had picked up from the table. Gassoon seated himself, hitched forward his chair and clasped his hands across his chest. “I see that you are interested in botany?”