by Jack Vance
Ten miles passed below the sky-car with Reith pondering the soul of the Dirdir race. He asked. “Suppose you or I were in trouble and cried dr’ssa dr’ssa, dr’ssa?”
“That is the call for arbitration. Hs’ai hs’ai, hs’ai is the cry for help.”
“Very well, hsai hsai, hsai-would a Dirdir be impelled to help?”
“Yes; by the force of tradition. This is automatic, a reflexive act: the connective tissue which binds an otherwise wild and mercurial race.”
Two hours before sunset a storm blew in from the Schanizade. Carina 4269 became a brown wraith, then disappeared as black clouds tumbled up the sky. Surf like dirty beer-foam swept across the beach, close to the boles of the black dendrons which shrouded the foreshore. The upper fronds twisted to gusts of wind, turning up glossy gray undersides; roiling patterns moved across the black upper surfaces.
The sky-car fled south through the umber dusk, then, with the last glimmer of light, landed in the lee of a basalt jut. The three, huddling upon the settees and ignoring the odor of Dirdir bodies, slept while the storm hissed through the rocks.
Dawn brought a strange illumination, like light shining through brown bottle-glass. There was neither food nor drink in the sky-car, but pilgrim pod grew out on the barrens and a brackish river flowed nearby. Traz went quietly along the bank, craning his neck to peer through the reflections. He stopped short, crouched, plunged into the water to emerge with a yellow creature, all thrashing tentacles and jointed legs, which he and Anacho devoured raw. Reith stolidly ate pilgrim pod.
With the meal finished they leaned back against the sky-car, basking in the honey-colored sunlight and enjoying the morning calm. “Tomorrow,” said Anacho, “we arrive in Sivishe. Our life once more changes. We are no longer thieves and desperadoes, but men of substance, or so we must let it appear.”
“Very well,” said Reith. “What next?”
“We must be subtle. We do not simply apply at the spaceyards with our money.”
“Hardly,” said Reith. “On Tschai whatever seems reasonable is wrong.”
“It is impossible,” said Anacho, “to function without the support of an influential person. This will be our first concern.”
“A Dirdir? Or a Dirdirman?”
“Sivishe is a city of sub-men; the Dirdir and Dirdirmen keep to Hei on the mainland. You will see.”
* * *
CHAPTER NINE
HAULK HUNG LIKE a cramped and distorted appendix from the distended belly of Kislovan, with the Schanizade Ocean to the west and the Gulf of Ajzan to the east. At the head of the gulf was the island Sivishe, with an untidy industrial jumble at the northern end. A causeway led to the mainland and Hei, the Dirdir city. At the center of Hei and dominating the entire landscape stood a box of gray glass five miles long, three miles wide, a thousand feet high: a structure so large that the perspectives seemed distorted. A forest of spires surrounded the box, a tenth as high, scarlet and purple, then mauve, gray and white toward the periphery.
Anacho indicated the towers. “Each house a clan. Someday I will describe the life of Hei: the promenades, the secrets of multiple sex, the castes and class. But of more immediate interest, yonder lie the spaceyards.”
Reith saw an area at the center of the island surrounded by shops, warehouses, depots and hangars. Six large spaceships and three smaller craft occupied bays to one side. Anacho’s voice broke into his speculations.
“The spaceships are well secured. The Dirdir are far more stringent than the Wankh-by instinct rather than by reason, for no one in history has stolen a spaceship.”
“No one in history has come with two hundred thousand sequins. Such money will grease a lot of palms.”
“What good are sequins in the Glass Box?”
Reith said no more. Anacho took the sky-car down to a paved area beside the spaceyards.
“Now,” said Anacho in a calm voice, “we shall learn our destiny.”
Reith took instant alarm. “What do you mean by that?”
“If we have been traced, if we are expected, then we will be taken; and soon there will be an end to us. But the car yard seems as usual; I expect no disaster. Remember now, this is Sivishe, I am the Dirdirman, you are the sub-men; act accordingly.”
Reith dubiously searched the yard. As Anacho had stated there seemed no untoward activity.
The sky-car landed. The three alighted. Anacho stood austerely aside while Reith and Traz removed the packs.
A power-wagon approached and fixed clamps to the sky-car. The operator, a hybrid of Dirdirman and another race unknown, inspected Anacho with impersonal curiosity, ignoring Reith and Traz. “What is to be the disposition?”
“Temporary deposit, on call,” said Anacho.
“To what charge?”
“Special. I’ll take the token.”
“Number sixty-four.” The clerk gave Anacho a brass disc. “I require twenty sequins.”
“Twenty, and five for yourself.”
The lift-wagon conveyed the sky-car to a numbered slot. Anacho led the way to a slide-way, with Reith and Traz trudging behind with the packs. They stepped aboard and were conveyed out to a wide avenue, along which ran a considerable traffic of power-wagons, passenger cars, drays.
Here Anacho paused to reflect. “I have been gone so long, I have traveled so far, that Sivishe is somewhat strange. First, of course, we need lodgings. Across the avenue, as I recall, is a suitable inn.”
At the Ancient Realm Inn the three were led down a white and black-tiled corridor to a suite overlooking the central court, where a dozen women sat on benches watching the windows for a signal.
Two seemed to be Dirdirwomen: thin sharp-faced creatures, pallid as snow, with a sparse fuzz of gray hair at the back of their scalps. Anacho surveyed them thoughtfully for a moment or so, then turned away. “We are fugitives, of course,” he said, “and we must be wary. Nevertheless, here in Sivishe where many people come and go, we are as safe as we might be anywhere. The Dirdir do not concern themselves with Sivishe unless circumstances fail to suit them, in which case the Administrator goes to the Glass Box. Otherwise, the Administrator has a free hand; he taxes, polices, judges, punishes, appropriates as he sees fit and is therefore the least corruptible man in Sivishe. For influential assistance we must seek elsewhere; tomorrow I will make an inquiry. Next we will need a structure of suitable dimensions, close by the spaceyards, yet inconspicuous. Again, a matter requiring discreet inquiry. Then-most sensitive of all-we must hire technical personnel to assemble the components and perform the necessary tuning and phasing. If we pay high wages we can no doubt secure the right men. I will represent myself as a Dirdirman Superior-in fact, my former status-and hint of Dirdir reprisals against loose-mouthed men. There is no reason why the project should not go easily and smoothly, except for the innate perversity of circumstances.”
“In other words,” said Reith, “the chances are against us.”
Anacho ignored the remark. “A warning: the city seethes with intrigue. Folk come to Sivishe for a single purpose: to win advantage. The city is a turmoil of illicit activity, robbery, extortion, vice, gambling, gluttony, extravagant display, swindling. These are endemic, and the victim has small hope of recourse. The Dirdir are unconcerned; the antics and maneuvers of the submen are nothing to them. The Administrator is interested only in maintaining order. So: caution! Trust no one; answer no questions! Identify yourselves as steppe-men seeking employment; profess stupidity. By such means we minimize risk.”
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
IN THE MORNING Anacho went forth to make his inquiries. Reith and Traz descended to the street cafe and sat watching the passersby. Traz was displeased with everything he saw. “All cities are vile,” he grumbled. “This is the worst: a detestable place. Do you notice the stink? Chemicals, smoke, disease, rotting stone. The smell has infected the folk; observe their faces.”
Reith could not deny that the inhabitants of Sivishe were an unprepossessing lo
t. Their complexions ranged from muddy brown to Dirdirman white; their physiognomies reflected thousands of years of half-purposeful mutation. Never had Reith seen so wary and self-contained a people. Living in contiguity with an alien race had fostered no fellowship: in Sivishe each man was a stranger. As a positive consequence, Reith and Traz were inconspicuous: no one looked twice in their direction.
Reith sat musing over his bowl of pale wine, relaxed and almost at peace. As he pondered old Tschai, it occurred to him the single homogenizing force was the language, the same across the entire planet. Perhaps because communication often represented the difference between life and death, because those who failed to communicate died, the language had retained its universality. Presumably the language had its roots on ancient Earth. It resembled no language with which he was familiar. He considered key words. Vam was “mother”; tatap was “father”; issir was “sword.” The cardinal numbers were aine, sei, dros, enser, nif, hisz, yaga, managa, nuwai, tix. No significant parallels, but somehow, a hunting echo of Earth sounds ...
In general, reflected Reith, life on Tschai ranged a wider gamut than did life on Earth. Passions were more intense: grief more poignant, joy more exalted. Personalities were more decisive. By contrast the folk of Earth seemed pensive, conditional, sedate. Laughter on Earth was less boisterous; still, there were fewer gasps of horror.
As he often did, Reith wondered: Suppose I return to Earth, what then? Can I adjust to an existence so placid and staid? Or all my life will I long for the steppes and seas of Tschai? Reith gave a sad chuckle. A problem he would be glad to confront.
Anacho returned. After a quick glance to left and right he settled himself at the table. His manner was subdued. “I’ve been optimistic,” he muttered. “I’ve trusted too much to my memories.”
“How so?” Reith demanded.
“Nothing immediate. It seems, merely, that I have underestimated our impact on the times. Twice this morning I heard talk of the madmen who invaded the Carabas and slaughtered Dirdir as if they were lippets. Hei throbs with agitation and anger, or so it is said. Various tsaugsh are in progress; all would regret to be the madmen once they are captured.”
Traz was outraged. “The Dirdir go to the Carabas to kill men,” he stormed. “Why should they resent the case when they themselves are killed?”
“Hist!” exclaimed Anacho. “Not so loud! Do you wish to attract attention? In Sivishe no one blurts forth his thoughts; it is unwholesome!”
“Another black mark against this squalid city!” declared Traz, but in a more restrained voice.
“Come now,” said Anacho nervously. “It is not so disheartening after all. Think of it! While Dirdir range the continents, we three rest in Sivishe, at the Ancient Realm Inn.”
“A precarious satisfaction,” said Reith. “What else did you learn?”
“The Administrator is Clodo Erlius. He has just assumed office-not necessarily advantageous from our point of view since a new official is apt to stringency. I have made guarded inquiries, and since I am a Dirdirman Superior, I did not encounter total frankness. However a certain name has been mentioned twice. That name is Aila Woudiver. His ostensible occupation is the supply and transport of structural materials. He is a notable gourmand and voluptuary, with tastes at once so refined, so gross and so inordinate as to cost him vast sums. This information was given freely, in a tone of envious admiration. Woudiver’s illicit capabilities were merely implied.”
“Woudiver would appear to be an unsavory colleague,” said Reith.
Anacho snorted in derision. “You demand that I find someone proficient at conniving, chicanery, theft; when I produce this man, you look down your nose at him.”
Reith grinned. “No other names were mentioned?”
“Another source explained, in a carefully facetious manner, that any extraordinary activity must surely attract the attention of Woudiver. It would seem that he is the man with whom we must deal. In a certain sense, his reputation is reassuring; he is necessarily competent.”
Traz entered the conversation. “What if this Woudiver refuses to help us? Are we not then at his mercy? Could he not extort our sequins from us?”
Anacho pursed his lips, shrugged: “No scheme of this sort is absolutely reliable. Aila Woudiver would seem to be a sound choice, from our point of view. He has access to the sources of supply, he controls transport vehicles, and possibly he can provide a suitable building in which to assemble a space-boat.”
Reith said reluctantly, “We want the most competent man, and if we get him I suppose we can’t cavil at his personal attributes. Still, on the other hand ... Oh, well. What pretext should we use?”
“The tale you gave the Lokhars-that we need a spaceship to take possession of a treasure-is as good as any. Woudiver will discredit all he is told; he will expect duplicity, so one tale is as good as another.”
Traz muttered: “Attention! Dirdir are approaching.”
There were three, striding with a portentous gait. Cages of silver mesh clung to the back of their bone-white heads; the effulgences splayed down to either side of their shoulders. Flaps of soft pale leather hung from their arms, almost to the ground.
Other strips hung down front and back, indited with vertical rows of red and black circular symbols.
“Inspectors,” muttered Anacho through down-drooping lips. “Not once a year do they come to Sivishe-unless complaints are made.”
“Will they know you for a Dirdirman?”
“Of course. I hope they do not know me for Ankhe at afram Anacho, the fugitive.”
The Dirdir passed; Reith glanced at them indifferently, though his flesh crept at their proximity. They ignored the three and continued along the avenue, pale leather flaps swinging to their stride.
Anacho’s face relaxed from its glare of tension. In a subdued voice, Reith said, “The sooner we leave Sivishe the better.”
Anacho drummed his fingers on the table and gave a final decisive rap. “Very well. I will telephone Aila Woudiver and arrange an exploratory meeting.” He stepped into the inn and presently returned. “A car will arrive shortly to pick us up.”
Reith had not been ready for so swift a response. “What did you tell him?” he asked uneasily.
“That we wanted to consult him in regard to a business matter.”
“Hmf.” Reith leaned back in his chair. “Too much haste is as bad as too little.”
Anacho threw up his hands in vexation and defeat. “What reason to delay?”
“No real one. I feel strange to Sivishe and unsure of my responses, hence worried.”
“No worry there. With familiarity Sivishe becomes even less reassuring.”
Reith said no more. Fifteen minutes later an antique black vehicle, which at one time had been a grand saloon, halted in front of the hotel. A middle-aged man, harsh and grim, looked forth. He jerked his head toward Anacho. “You await a car?”
“To Woudiver?”
“Get in.”
The three climbed into the vehicle, seated themselves on benches. The car rolled at no great speed down the avenue, then, turning off toward the south, entered a district of slatternly apartment houses: buildings erected with neither judgment nor precision. No two doorways were a like; windows of irregular shape and size opened at random in the thick walls. Wan-faced folk stood in alcoves or peered down into the streets; all turned to watch the passage of the car. “Laborers,” said Anacho with a sniff of distaste. “Kherman, Thangs, Sad Islanders. They come from all Kislovan and lands beyond, as well.”
The car continued across a littered plaza, into a street of small shops, all fitted with heavy metal shutters. Anacho asked the driver, “How far to Woudiver’s?”
“Not far.” The reply was uttered with hardly a motion of the lips.
“Where does he live? Out on the Heights?”
“On Zamia Rise.”
Reith considered the hooked nose, the dour cords of muscle around the colorless mouth: the face of an executioner
.
The way led up a low hill. The houses became abandoned gardens. The car halted at the end of a lane. The driver with a curt gesture signaled the three to alight, then silently led them along a shadowy passage smelling of dankness and mold, through an archway, across a courtyard, up a shallow flight of stairs into a room with walls of mustard-colored tile.
“Wait here.” He passed through a door of black psilla bound with iron, and a moment later looked forth. He crooked his finger. “Come.”
The three filed into a large white-walled chamber. A scarlet and maroon rug muffled the floor; for furniture there were settees padded with pink, red and yellow plush, a heavy table of carved wax-wood, a censer exuding wisps of heavy smoke. Behind the table stood an enormous yellow-skinned man in robes of red, black and ivory. His face was round as a melon; a few strands of sandy hair lay across his mottled pate. He was a man vast in every dimension and motivated, so it seemed to Reith, by a grandiose and cynical intelligence. He spoke: “I am Aila Woudiver.” His voice was under exquisite control; now it was soft and fluting. “I see a Dirdirman of the First-”
“Superior!” Anacho corrected.
“-a youth of a rough unknown race, a man of even more doubtful extraction. Why does such an ill-matched trio seek me out?”
“To discuss a matter possibly of mutual interest,” said Reith.
The lower third of Woudiver’s face trembled in a grin. “Continue.”
Reith looked around the room, then turned back to Woudiver. “I suggest that we move to another location, out of doors, by preference.”
Woudiver’s thin, almost-nonexistent eyebrows lofted high in surprise. “I fail to understand. Will you explain?”
