by Jack Vance
To avoid a fashionable social function, Jantiff, without informing his sisters, took himself off to the family houseboat, which was moored at a pier on the Shard Sea. Fearful that either Juille or Ferfan or both might come out to fetch him, Jantiff immediately cast off the mooring lines and drove across Pallas Bay to the shallows, where he anchored his boat among the reeds.
Solitude the peace at last, thought Jantiff. He boiled up a pot of tea, then settled into a chair on the foredeck and watched the orange sun Mur settle toward the horizon. Late-afternoon breeze rippled the water; a million orange coruscations twinkled among the slender black reeds. Jantiff’s mood loosened; the quiet, wide sky, the play of sunlight on the water were balm to his uncertain soul. If only he could capture the peace of this moment and maintain it forever! Sadly he shook his head: life and time were inexorable; the moment must pass. A photograph was useless, and pigment could never reproduce such space, such glitter and glow. Here in fact was the very essence of his yearnings: he wanted to control that magic linkage between the real and the unreal, the felt and the seen. He wanted to pervade himself with the secret meaning of things and use this lore as the mood took him. These “secret meanings” were not necessarily profound or subtle; they simply were what they were. Like the present circumstances for instance: the mood of late afternoon, the boat among the reeds, with—perhaps most important of all—the lonely figure on the deck. In his mind Jantiff composed a depiction, and went so far as to select pigments… He sighed and shook his head. An impractical idea. Even were he able to achieve such a representation, what could he do with it? Hang it on a wall? Absurd. Successive viewings would neutralize the effect as fast as repetition of a joke.
The sun sank; water moths fluttered among the reeds. From seaward came the sound of quiet voices in measured discussion. Jantiff listened intently, eerie twinges co along his skin. No one could explain the sea-voices. If a person tried to drift stealthily near in a boat the sounds ceased. And the meaning, no matter how intently one listened, always just evaded intelligibility. The sea voices had always haunted Jantiff. Once, he had recorded the sounds, but when he played them back, the sense was even more remote. Secret meanings, mused Jantiff… He strained to listen. If he could comprehend, only a word so as to pick up the gist, then he might understand everything. As if becoming aware of the eavesdropper, the voices fell silent, and night darkened the sea.
Jantiff went Into the cabin. He dined on, bread, meat and beer, then returned to the deck. Stars blazed across the sky; Jantiff sat watching, his mind adrift among the far places, naming those stars he recognized, speculating about others.[7]
So much existed: so much to be felt and seen and known! A single life was not enough… Across the water drifted a murmur of voices, and Jantiff imagined pale shapes floating in the dark, watching the stars… The voices dwindled and faded. Silence. Once more Jantiff retreated into the cabin, where he boiled, up another pot of tea ..
Someone had left a copy of the Transvoyer on the table. Leafing through the pages Jantiff’s attention was caught by a heading:
THE ARRABIN CENTENARY:
A Remarkable
Era of Social Innovation on the
Planet Wyst: Alastor 1716
Your Transvoyer correspondent visits Uncibal, the mighty city beside the sea. Here he discovers a dynamic society, propelled by novel philosophical energies. The Arrabin goal is human fulfillment, in, a condition of leisure and amplitude. How has this miracle been accomplished? By a drastic revision of traditional priorities. To pretend that racks and stress do not exist would cheapen the Arrabin achievement, which shows no signs of flagging. The Arrabins are about to celebrate their first century. Our correspondent supplies the fascinating details.
Jantiff read the article with more than casual interest; Wyst rejoiced in the remarkable light of the sun Dwan, where—how did the phrase go?—“every surface quivers with its true and just color.” He put the magazine aside, and went once more out upon the deck. The stars had moved somewhat across the sky; that constellation known locally as the “Shamizade” had risen in the east and was reflected on the sea. Jantiff inspected the heavens, wondering which star was Dwan. Stepping back into the cabin, he consulted the local edition of the Alastor Almanac, where Dwan was identified as a dim white star in the Turtle constellation, along the edge of the carapace.[8]
Jantiff climbed to the top deck of the houseboat and scanned the sky. There, to the north, under the Stator hung the Turtle, and there shone the pale flicker of Dwan. Perhaps imagination played Jantiff tricks, but the star indeed seemed charged with color.
The information regarding Wyst might have been only of idle interest, had not Jantiff on the very next day noticed an advertisement sponsored by Central Space Transport Systems, announcing a promotional competition. For that depiction best illustrating the scenic charm of Zeck, the System would provide transportation to and from any world of the Cluster, with an additional three hundred ozols spending money. Jantiff instantly assembled panel and pigments and from memory rendered the shallows of the Shard Sea, with the houseboat at anchor among the reeds. Time was short; he worked in a fury of concentrated energy, and submitted the composition to the agency only minutes before the deadline.
Three days later he was notified, not altogether to hi, surprise, that he had won the grand prize.
Jantiff waited until evening to break the news to his family. They were astounded both that Jantiff’s daubings could command value and that he yearned for far strange worlds. Jantiff tried earnestly to explain his motives. “Naturally I’m not unhappy at home; how could I be? I’m just at loose ends. I can’t settle myself. I have the feeling that just out of sight, just past the corner of my eye, something new and shimmering and wonderful waits for me—if only I knew where to look!”
His mother sniffed. “Really, Jantiff, you’re so fanciful.”
Lile Ravensroke asked sadly: “Haven’t you any ambition for a normal and ordinary life? No shimmering flapdoodle, just honest work and a happy home?”
“I don’t know what my ambitions are! That’s the entire difficulty. My best hope is to get away for a bit and see something of the Cluster. Then perhaps I’ll be able to settle down.”
His mother in distress cried, “You’ll go far from here and make your career, and well never see you again!”
Jantiff gave an uneasy laugh. “Of course not! I plan nothing so stern! I’m restless and uneasy; I want to see how other people live so that I can decide how I want to live myself.”
Lile Ravensroke said somberly: “When I was young I had similar notions. For better or worse, I put them aside and now I feel sure that I acted for the best. There’s nothing out there that isn’t better at home.”
Ferfan said to Jantiff, “There’ll never be sour-grass pie, or brunts, or shushings the way mother cooks.”
“I’m prepared to rough it for a bit. I might even like the exotic foods.”
“Ugh,” said Juille. “They all sound so odd and rank.”
The group sat silent for a moment. Then: “If you feel you must go,” said Juille’s father, “our arguments won’t dissuade you.”
“It’s really for the best,” said Jantiff hollowly. “Then, when I come back, with the wander-dust off my heels, I’ll hopefully be settled and definite, and you’ll be proud of me.”
“But Janty, we’re proud of you now,” said Ferfan without any great conviction.
Julie asked: “Where will you go, and what will you do?’
Jantiff spoke with spurious joviality: “Where will I go? Here, there, everywhere! And what will I do? Everything! Anything! All for the sake of experience. I’ll try the carbuncle mines on Arcady; I’ll visit the Connatic at Lusz; perhaps I’ll drop at Arrabus and spend a few weeks with the emancipated folk.”
“‘Emancipated folk’ ?” growled Lile Ravensroke. “A twittering brook of dilly-bugs is more likely.”
“Well, that’s their claim. They only work thirteen hours a week, and it
seems to agree with them.”
Juille cried: “You’ll settle in Arrabus and, become emancipated and we’ll never see you again!”
“My dear girl, there is not the slightest chance of such a thing.”
“Then don’t go to Wyst! The Transvoyer article said that people arrive from everywhere and never leave.”
Ferfan, who also cherished secret dreams of travel, said wistfully: “If it’s such a wonderful place, perhaps we’d all better go there.”
Her father laughed humorlessly. “I can’t spare the time from work.”
Chapter 3
Arriving at Uncibal on a rainy night Jantiff was reminded of a paragraph in the Alastrid Gazeteer: “Across many years wise travelers have learned to discount their first impression of a new environment. Such judgments are derived from previous experience in previous places and are infallibly distorted.” On this dismal evening Uncibal Space-port lacked every quaint or charming quality, and Jantiff wondered why a system which for a century had gratified uncounted Arrabins could not better promote the comfort of a relatively few visitors.
Two hundred and fifty passengers, debarking from the spaceships, found themselves alone in the gloom, a quarter-mile from a line of low blue lights which presumably marked the terminal building. Muttering and grumbling the passengers squelched off through the puddles.[9]
Jantiff walked to the side of the straggling troop, thrilling to contact with alien soil. From the direction of Uncibal drifted a waft of odor, oddly sour and heavy, yet half-familiar, which only served to emphasize the strangeness of the world Wyst.
At the terminal a droning voice addressed the newcomers: “Welcome to Arrabus. We distinguish three types of visitors: first, commercial representatives and tourists intending brief visits; second, persons planning sojourns of less than a year; third, immigrants. Please form orderly queues at the designated doorways. Attention: the import of food-stuffs is prohibited. All such items must be surrendered at the Contraband Property desk. Welcome to Arrabus. We distinguish three types of visitors…”
Jantiff pushed through the crowds; apparently several hundred arrivals from a previous ship still waited in the reception hall. Eventually he discovered the file marked 2, which snaked back and forth across the room in a most confusing manner, and took his place in the line. Most arriving persons, he noted, intended immigration, and the queue in File 3 stretched several times as far as that in File 2. The queue in File 1 was very short indeed.
Step by sidling step Jantiff crossed the room. At the far end an array of eight wickets controlled the movement of the new arrivals, but only two of these wickets were in operation. A corpulent man, immediately behind Jantiff, thought to hasten the motion of the line by standing close to Jantiff and pressing with his belly. When Jantiff, to avoid the contact, moved as close as convenient to the person ahead, the corpulent man promptly inched forward, to squeeze Jantiff even more closely. The man ahead at last looked around at Jantiff and said in a cold voice: “Really, sir, I am as anxious as you to negotiate this file; no matter how you press the line moves no faster.”
Jantiff could offer no explanation which would not offend the corpulent man, who now stood so close that his breath warmed Jantiff’s cheek. Finally, when the man ahead stepped forward, Jantiff resolutely held his ground, despite the fat man’s breathing and jostling.
Ultimately Jantiff arrived at the wicket, where he presented his landing pass. The clerk, a young woman with extravagant puffs of blond hair over her ear, thrust it aside. “That’s not correct! Where is your green clearance card?”
Jantiff fumbled through his pockets. “I don’t seem to have any green card. They gave me no such document.”
“Sir, you’ll have to go back to the ship for your green clearance card.”
Jantiff chanced to notice that the fat man carried a white card similar to his own. In desperation he said: “This man here has no green card either.”
“That’s a matter of no relevance. I can’t allow you entry unless you present the proper documents.”
“This was all they gave me; surely it’s sufficient?”
“Sir, please, you’re obstructing the line.”
In numb dismay Jantiff stared at his white card. “It says here, ‘Landing pass and clearance card’.”
The clerk looked at it sidelong, and made a clicking sound with her tongue. She went to the second booth and conferred with the clerk, who made a telephone call.
The blond girl returned to the wicket. “This is a new form; it was introduced only last month. I haven’t drudged this office for a year and I’ve been sending everyone back to the ship. Your questionnaire, please—no, the blue sheet.”
Jantiff produced the proper document: an intricate form which he had painstakingly completed.
“Hm… Jantiff Ravensroke .. Frayness, on Zeck. Occupation: technical graphics expert. Reason for visit: curiosity.” She glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Curiosity? About what?”
Jantiff hurriedly said: “I want to study the Arrabin social system.”
“Then you should have written ‘study.’”
“I’ll change it.”
“No, you can’t alter the document; you’ll have to fill out a new form. Somewhere in the outer chambers you’ll find blank forms and a desk; at least that’s how it went a year ago.”
“Wait!” cried Jantiff. “After ‘curiosity’ I’ll write: ‘about Arrabin social system.’ There’s plenty of room, and that’s not alteration.”
“Oh, very well. It’s not regular, of course.”
Jantiff quickly made the entry and the clerk reached for the validation stamp. A gong sounded; she dropped the stamp, rose to her feet and went to the back of the wicket where she tossed a cape around her shoulders. A young man entered the wicket: round-faced, boyish, his eyelids drooping as if from lack of sleep. “Here I am!” he told the blond girl. “A trifle late, but that’s not too bad; I’ve only just returned from a swill at Serce and directly to drudge. Still, I might as well recover on drudge as off. Come to think, it’s the best way.”
“Lucky you. I’m low tomorrow. I’ll probably draw sanitation or greasing the rollers.”
“I drew a shoe machine last week; it’s really rather amusing once you learn which handles to pull. Halfway through my stint the circuits went wrong and the shoes all came away with funny big toes. I sent them on anyway, in hopes of launching a new style. Think of it! Maybe I’ll be famous!”
“Small chance. Who wants to wear funny shoes with big toes?”
“Somebody had better want to wear them; they’ve gone into boxes.”
The fat man called over Jantiff’s shoulder: “Can’t we hurry things just a bit? Everyone’s anxious to rest and have a bite of food.”
The two clerks turned him identical stares of blank incomprehension. The girl picked up her handbag. “Off to bed for me. I’m too tired eve4 to copulate.”
“I know those days… Well, I suppose I’d better be earning my gruff.” He stepped forward and picked up Jantiff’s papers. “Now then, let’s see… First, I’ll need your green entry card.”
“I don’t have any green card.”
“No, green card? Then, my friend, you’d better get one. I know that much, at least. Just run back to the ship and locate the purser; he’ll fix you up in a jiffy.”
“This white card supersedes the green card.”
“Oh, is that how they do it now? Good enough then. So now, what else? The blue questionnaire: I won’t bother with that; it’s boring for both of us. You’ll want a housing assignment. Do you have any preferences?”
“Not really. Where would you suggest?”
“Uncibal, of course. Here’s a decent location.” He gave Jantiff a metal disk. “Go to Block 17-882 and show this disk to the floor clerk.” He lifted the stamp and gave Jantiff’s papers a resounding blow. “There you are, my friend! I wish you the enjoyment of your bed, the digestion of your gruff and lucky draws from the drudge barrel.”
“Thank you. Can I spend the night in the hotel? Or must I go to Block 17-whatever-it-is?”
“The Travelers Inn by all means, if you’ve got the ozols.[10] The man-ways are wet tonight. It’s no time to be seeking out a block.”
The Travelers Inn, an ancient bulk with a dozen wings and annexes, stood directly opposite the terminal exit. Jantiff entered the lobby and applied at the desk for a chamber. The clerk handed him a key: “That will be seven owls, sir.”
Jantiff leaned back aghast. “Seven ozols? For one room with one bed? For a single night?”
“Correct, sir.”
Jantiff reluctantly paid over the money. When he saw the chamber he became more indignant than ever; in Frayness such a room would be considered minimal and rent for an ozol or less.
Returning downstairs to the restaurant, Jantiff seated himself at one of the enameled concrete counters. An attendant placed a covered tray in front of him.
“Not so fast,” said Jantiff. “Let me look at the menu.”
“No menu here, my friend. It’s gruff and deedle, with a bit of wobbly to fill in the chinks. We all eat alike.”
Jantiff lifted the cover from the tray; he found four cakes of baked brown dough, a mug of white liquid and a bowl of yellow paste. Jantiff tasted the “gruff”; the flavor was mild and not unpleasant. The “deedle” was tart and faintly astringent, while the “wobbly” seemed a simple custard.
Jantiff finished his meal and the attendant gave him a slip of paper. “Please pay at the main desk.”
Jantiff glanced at the slip in wonder. “Two ozols. Can this price be correct?”
“‘The price may not be ‘correct,’” said the attendant. “Still it’s the price we exact here at the Travelers Inn.”
