Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Ports of Call

  Jack Vance

  Copyright 1997, 2012 by Jack Vance

  Cover art by Koen Vyverman

  Published by

  Spatterlight Press

  ISBN 978-1-61947-062-0

  2012-09-01

  Visit jackvance.com for more

  Spatterlight Press releases

  This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

  Digitize: Joel Hedlund, Format: R.C. Lacovara, Diff: David A. Kennedy, Tech Proof: Patrick Dusoulier, Text Integrity: Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Mike Dennison, Joel Hedlund, Hans van der Veeke, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Joel Anderson, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Charles King, Proofread: Bob Collins, Patrick Dusoulier, Andrew Edlin, Rob Friefeld, Tony Graham, R.C. Lacovara, Frans Langelaan, Betty Mayfield, Errico Rescigno, Mike Schilling

  Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

  THE COMPLETE WORKS

  of

  Jack Vance

  Ports of Call

  THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION

  Oakland

  2012

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Epilogue

  Preface

  During the first expansion of the Gaean Reach, when every adventurous youth yearned to become a locator, thousands of worlds in remote places had been explored. The most benign of these worlds attracted immigrants; there seemed no end to the sects, factions, societies, cults or simple groups of free-thinkers who fared bravely off as pioneers to live their lives on worlds of their own. Sometimes they survived or even prospered; more often the alien environment defeated the Gaean soul: the settlements decayed; the folk departed, sometimes leaving behind odd little clots of humanity which by one means or another came to terms with the surroundings. Some of these worlds, seldom visited and remote from public notice, provided substance for Thom Hartmann’s haunting work Lost Worlds and Forgotten Peoples.

  Gaean philosophers recognized that a variety of social forces operated between the worlds, which could be classified by several systems: isolationist versus collectivist; centrifugal versus centripetal; homogenizing versus differentiating.

  In the absence of a central government, order was maintained by the IPCC, originally the Interworld Police Coordinating Company, an organization dedicated to legality, order, the curbing of crime, with attendant punishment of criminals, pirates, miscellaneous sociopaths — a program which it performed with convincing efficiency. In the end, the IPCC became a de facto administrative agency which controlled the smooth functioning of the Gaean Reach and everywhere projected an awareness of Gaean identity.

  Incidental note: the unit of Gaean currency, the sol, has approximately the value of ten contemporary dollars.

  Chapter I

  1

  As a boy Myron Tany had immersed himself in the lore of space exploration. In his imagination he wandered the far places of the Gaean Reach, thrilling to the exploits of star-dusters and locators; of pirates and slavers; of the IPCC and its brave agents.

  By contrast his home at the bucolic village Lilling on the pleasant world Vermazen seemed to encompass everything easy, tranquil and soporific. Despite Myron’s daydreams, his parents persisted in stressing the practicalities. “Most important is your education, if you are to become a financial analyst like your father,” Myron was told. “After you finish your course at the Institute, that will be the time to flutter your wings for a bit before taking a post at the Exchange.”

  Myron, mild and dutiful by temperament, pushed the intoxicating images to the back of his mind, and enrolled at the College of Definable Excellences at the Varley Institute, across the continent at Salou Sain. His parents, who well understood his casual disposition, sent him off with a set of stern injunctions. He must concentrate with full diligence upon his studies. Scholastic achievement was highly important when a person prepared for a career.

  Myron agreed to do his best, but found himself waylaid by indecision when it came time to propose a schedule of studies. Despite his best intentions, he could not put aside images of majestic space-packets sliding through the void, of cities redolent with strange smells, of taverns open to the warm winds where dusky maidens in purple skirts served foaming toddy in carved wooden beakers.

  In the end Myron fixed upon a set of courses which in his opinion represented a compromise. The list included statistical mathematics, economic patterns of the Gaean Reach, general cosmology, the elementary theory of space propulsion, Gaean anthropology. The program, so he assured his parents, was known as ‘Economic Fluxions’, and provided a solid foundation upon which a good general education might be based. Myron’s parents were not convinced. They knew that Myron’s decorous manner, though at times a trifle absent-minded, concealed a streak of irrational intransigence against which no argument could prevail. They would say no more; Myron must discover his mistakes for himself.

  Myron could not dismiss the foreboding which his father’s glum predictions had induced. As a consequence he attacked his work more vigorously than ever, and in due course he was matriculated with high honors.

  His father suggested that, despite Myron’s odd yearnings and unconventional course of studies, he might still qualify for a place in the lower echelons of the Exchange, from which he could launch his career. But now an unforeseen factor disturbed the flow of Myron’s life. The disruptive influence was Myron’s great-aunt, Dame Hester Lajoie, who had inherited great wealth from her first husband. Dame Hester maintained her splendid residence, Sarbiter House, on Dingle Terrace, at the southern edge of Salou Sain. During Myron’s last term at Varley Institute, Dame Hester noticed that Myron was no longer a slender stripling with a vague and — as she put it — moony expression, but had become a distinctly good-looking young man, still slender, but of good physical proportions, with sleek blond hair and sea-blue eyes. Dame Hester enjoyed the presence of nice-looking young men: they acted, so she imagined, as a foil or, perhaps better to say, a setting, for the precious gem which was herself. For whatever reason, during Myron’s last term, he resided at Sarbiter House with his great-aunt: an education in itself, so it turned out. Myron was not allowed to address her as ‘great-aunt’, nor did she care for ‘Aunt Hester’. She preferred ‘Dear Lady’, or the soubriquet ‘Schutzel’, as he chose.

  Dame Hester fitted no familiar patterns or categories of Gaean womanhood. She was tall and gaunt, though she insisted upon the word ‘slim’. She walked with long strides, head thrust forward, like a rapacious animal on the prowl. Her wild mass of mahogany-red hair framed a pale
hollow-cheeked face. Her black eyes were surrounded by small creases and folds of skin, like parrot-eyes, and her long high-bridged nose terminated in a notable hook. It was a striking face, the mouth jerking and grimacing, the parrot-eyes snapping, her expression shifting to the flux of emotions. Her tempestuous moods, whims, quirks and fancies were notorious. One day, at a garden party, a gentleman artlessly urged Dame Hester to write her memoirs. The fervor of her response caused him shock and dismay. “Ludicrous! Graceless! Stupid! A beastly idea! How can I write memoirs now, when I have scarcely started to live?”

  The gentleman bowed. “I see my mistake; it shall never be repeated!”

  An hour later the gentleman had recovered his aplomb sufficiently that he was able to describe the incident to a friend who, so he discovered, had also excited Dame Hester’s wrath. After looking over his shoulder, the friend muttered, “I suspect the woman has forged a pact with the Devil!”

  “Wrong!” muttered the more recent victim. “She is herself the Devil!”

  “Hmm,” said his friend. “You may be right; we must take care not to annoy her.”

  “That is impossible!”

  “Well, then, let us consider the matter over another gill of this excellent malt.”

  For a fact Dame Hester was not always discreet. She conceived herself a creature of voluptuous charm for whom time had no meaning. Undeniably she made a gorgeous spectacle as she whirled about the haut monde, clad in remarkable garments of magenta, plum, lime-green, vermilion and black.

  Dame Hester had recently won a judgment of slander against Gower Hatchkey, a wealthy member of the Gadroon Society. In satisfaction of the judgment she had accepted the space-yacht Glodwyn.

  Initially Dame Hester thought of the Glodwyn only as proof that whoever chose to call her a ‘bald old harridan in a red fright-wig’ must pay well for the privilege. She showed no interest in the vessel and rather than inviting her friends to join her for a cruise, she prohibited them from so much as setting foot aboard the vessel. “Amazing!” she told Myron with a sardonic chuckle. “Suddenly I have dozens of new friends, all bright-eyed and cheerful as larks. They declare that, no matter what their personal inconvenience, they would never refuse to join me on an extended cruise.”

  “Nor would I!” said Myron wistfully. “It is an exciting prospect.”

  Dame Hester ignored him. She went on. “They’ll drift away when they find that I am planning no cruises whatever.”

  Myron looked at her incredulously. “No cruises — ever?”

  “Of course not!” snapped Dame Hester. “Spaceflight is a weird and unnatural ambition! I, for one, have neither time nor inclination to go hurtling through space in an oversize coffin. That is sheer lunacy and a mortification of both body and spirit. I shall probably put the vessel up for sale.”

  Myron had nothing to say.

  Dame Hester watched him closely, parrot-eyes snapping. “I see that you are perplexed; you think me timid and orthodox. That is incorrect! I pay no heed to convention, and why is this? Because a youthful spirit defies the years! So you dismiss me as an eccentric madcap! What then? It is the price I pay for retaining the verve of youth, and it is the secret of my vivid beauty!”

  “Ah yes, of course,” said Myron. He added thoughtfully, “Still, it is a sad waste of a beautiful ship.”

  The remark irritated Dame Hester. “Myron, be practical! Why should I gad through empty space or trudge through dirty back alleys, testing out strange smells? I lack time for my normal pursuits here at home. At this very moment I have a dozen invitations in prospect; they cannot be ignored. I am in demand everywhere! The Golliwog Gala is upon us, and I am on the committee. If I could get away, I’d spend a week at Lulchion’s Mountain Resort. The fresh air is like balm for my nerves. You must realize that I am constantly on the qui vive!”

  “No doubt about that,” said Myron.

  2

  One morning Dame Hester found herself at loose ends and on sudden whim decided to inspect the Glodwyn. She summoned Myron and the two rode in her big black float-car to the spaceport and around to the storage yard. Halfway along a line of miscellaneous space craft, they found the Glodwyn: a ship of moderate size, enamelled in shades of gold and green, with trim and sensor bosses picked out in plum red. Dame Hester was favorably impressed by the glossy exterior surfaces, the vessel’s size and solidity, and its interior appointments, which she found unexpectedly luxurious. “It is a handsome craft,” she told Myron. “The saloon is quite commodious and the fittings seem of good quality. Nor could I complain of the décor; it is quaint but in good taste. I am surprised that anything connected with a blatant brute like Gower Hatchkey could be anything other than slovenly. His remarks concerning my person were truly beyond the Pale!”

  Myron nodded thoughtfully. “Someday I will calculate what his statement cost him per syllable. A really exorbitant amount, when you think of it. After all, a syllable when spoken by itself conveys no meaning. If Hatchkey had separated his comment into syllables, then had read the list to the judge from bottom to top, the judge would have found no offense, and might have let Hatchkey off with only a warning.”

  Dame Hester became restive. “Let us take the subject no farther. Your ideas are absurd. Come; it is time to leave. I will mention the vessel to Dauncy; he is highly knowledgeable in this regard.”

  Myron forbore comment.

  Dauncy Covarth had become a frequent caller at Sarbiter House. He was a hearty gentleman, bluff and dashing, with a crisp mustache and sandy-brown hair which he wore clipped short, in the so-called ‘Regimental’ style. Myron could not accurately gauge the degree of intimacy existing between Dame Hester and Covarth, but at the moment he seemed to be her favorite chum. With cynical disapproval Myron noted how, under the spell of Dauncy’s gallantries, Dame Hester simpered and gushed like a smitten schoolgirl.

  A few days after her visit to the spaceport, Dame Hester let fall a casual remark, to the effect that, perhaps someday, when her social calendar had eased, she might consider a short cruise aboard the Glodwyn — perhaps to the nearby world Derard, where a cycle of bucolic festivals was said to be entertaining, what with the high-kicking peasant dances and outdoor banquets beside fire-pits where entire wild boars sizzled on spits and a wine keg with six spigots graced every table. Myron endorsed the project, but Dame Hester paid him no great heed. “Yes, Myron, I am aware of your enthusiasm; at heart you are an unmitigated vagabond! But that is no surprise! Suddenly I find myself with a great entourage of new friends, each of which, when the Glodwyn is mentioned, describes himself or herself as a natural spacefarer, with the lust for adventure bred into his or her bones, and each expects to be invited aboard the Glodwyn for a luxurious vacation. I have assured everyone that there will be no languid idlers aboard the Glodwyn if I were to undertake a cruise.”

  “A sound idea!” declared Myron. “I am particularly well qualified; as you know, I took my degree in the College of Cosmology.”

  “Tchah!” Dame Hester gave her fingers a contemptuous flutter. “It is all classwork and cookypushing, of no practical use whatever.”

  “Not so!” cried Myron. “I studied space dynamics, in all its phases, Gaean economics, the mathematical basis of trans-dimensional propulsion. I am familiar with Handbook to the Planets and Gaean Cosmography. In short, I am not just another dilettante! I am anxious to apply my knowledge to useful purposes.”

  “Correct and proper,” said Dame Hester. “Perhaps someday you shall have the opportunity.” She spoke somewhat absently. “By the way, since your studies have been so exhaustive, what do you know of the world Kodaira?”

  “‘Kodaira’? I don’t come up with anything definite. In fact, nothing at all.”

  “So much for your expensive education,” said Dame Hester with a sniff.

  “There are thousands of worlds, some inhabited, some not. I can’t remember them all. Even if I could, I would not trouble to do so, since the information changes every year. It is why the Handboo
k goes through so many editions.”

  Myron went to the bookshelf and found a relatively recent copy of the standard reference. He looked through the index. “Nothing here by that name.”

  “Odd.”

  Myron shrugged. “Sometimes a world has several names, not all listed in the Handbook. Why are you interested?”

  Dame Hester indicated the magazine she had been reading. “This journal is edited and published here in Salou Sain. It has a wide readership among the upper intellectual strata and must be considered a magazine of prestige. This is the current edition. I have just read a pair of articles, both dealing with an important subject. The articles are of unequal weight, the first being rather flippant. The second article was written by someone using a pseudonym, and is far more significant than the first, though both are thought provoking.”

  Dame Hester took up the journal. The title, so Myron saw, was Innovative Salubrity.

  “The first article,” said Dame Hester, “is called, ‘The Fountains of Youth: Fact or Fancy?’ The author, I am sorry to say, has given sensational treatment to a serious subject. Still, it provides items of information, which might otherwise be overlooked. His topic is rejuvenation and revitalization of aging tissue, a matter of concern to everyone.”

  “True enough,” said Myron. “What have you learned?”

  Dame Hester glanced down at the journal. “Much of the material is of no great value and is also marred by the author’s unfortunate attempts at whimsy. There is, first, a historical survey, then a discussion of faith healers, religious mania, and, of course, fraudulent practitioners. The author ends the piece with a waggish anecdote regarding the Eternal Hope Fellowship. He reports that the treatment is so expensive and prolonged that many of the patients die of old age before they are rejuvenated. The concept is poignant and, once again, facetiousness is not appropriate.”