Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Dame Hester spoke aside to Myron: “What a frump! Her hat is a farce.”

  The woman also muttered something to her husband as they walked away. Both paused to look back at Dame Hester, then turned and continued along the sidewalk, smiling to themselves.

  The episode provoked Dame Hester to indignation. “If I were not a gentlewoman, I would give that old hen a piece of my mind! I am not accustomed to that sort of insolence.”

  “Why bother?” Myron advised. “It is not worth the effort.”

  The two continued around the square, and came upon a café at the front of the Hotel Apollon. Six small tables were ranged along a narrow terrace, each sheltered under a faded red and blue parasol, which guarded against drizzle rather than non-existent sunlight. Two of the tables were occupied. At the far end, a pair of elderly men wearing heavy black coats huddled over mugs of a steaming brew. At another table sat a young man, tall, self-assured, with a bushy black mustache, rich black ringlets, glistening brown eyes — an off-worlder, to judge by his clothes. Myron acknowledged the man’s presence with a polite nod and seated himself at the adjoining table. Dame Hester, meanwhile, went off to inspect the shops in the arcade at the front of the hotel.

  A waiter came forward. He gave the table a cursory wipe with the napkin he carried slung over his arm, then looked Myron up and down. “Well then, what will you be taking?”

  “I don’t know until I see a menu.”

  “There is no menu; and at any rate it is inside and I don’t care to fetch it. Just give me your order and have done with it.”

  “How can I order if I don’t know what is available?”

  “It’s your choice,” said the waiter. “I can’t make up your mind for you.”

  Myron pointed to the two men at the far end of the terrace. “What are they drinking?”

  “That is our lucky toddy. It is recommended if you plan to gamble on the fights.”

  The young man at the next table spoke up. “Give it a miss. It is boiled up from the tail bones of dead dogs.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Myron. “What do you suggest?”

  “It’s all bad. There is nothing worth ordering. The tea is like liniment. The coffee is brewed from burned hair and dead birds; their liquors are unmentionable. The pale ale is what they serve children, and is what I am drinking. It is not good, but everything else is worse. Another thing: he has not shown you the menu, which means that he plans to charge you three sols for a flask of pale ale. The price is seventeen dinkets.”

  Myron turned to the glowering waiter. “Bring me two flasks of the seventeen-dinket ale.”

  “And what to eat?”

  The off-worlder again offered advice. “Take imported biscuits and cheese, on clean plates.”

  Myron told the waiter: “We will try an order of biscuits and cheese, at the menu price, on clean plates, if you please.”

  “You must pay a premium for the clean plates. It is how we amortise the expense of dishwashing.”

  The waiter departed.

  The off-worlder at the next table rose to his feet. “May I join you?”

  “If you like,” said Myron, without enthusiasm.

  The man settled himself at the table and introduced himself. “Marko Fassig is what polite people call me; I am by trade a ship owner, temporarily without a ship.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” said Myron stiffly. “I am Captain Myron Tany, of the ship Glodwyn.”

  “That’s very nice,” said Marko Fassig. “Who is your lady friend? Surely not your wife?”

  Myron fixed Marko Fassig with a cold stare of incredulity and distaste. “Of course not! That is an idiotic idea! She is my great-aunt, Dame Hester Lajoie, and she owns the Glodwyn.”

  Marko Fassig laughed with great good humor. “Come now! Surely you are not all that naive! Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not to me,” said Myron fastidiously.

  The waiter arrived with the ale and the biscuits and cheese. Marko Fassig looked at the plate. “Take notice! This is not a clean plate; you may not charge the premium.”

  “It is clean enough.”

  “There are crumbs here, and a smear of grease, and dirty fingerprints.”

  “It was a mistake. What difference does it make?” He turned the cheese and biscuits out on the table, wiped the plate with his napkin, replaced cheese and biscuits, and set the dish in front of Myron with a flourish. “There you are, clean plate and all; take it or leave it, but pay just the same.”

  “I will take it under protest, but I will pay no premium!”

  “Bah,” grumbled the waiter. “In that case, you must double my gratuity.”

  Dame Hester came from the arcade and seated herself at the table. She looked questioningly at Marko Fassig. “And who might this be?”

  “I really can’t say,” Myron told her. “He’s a bird of passage, of some sort; that’s all I know of him.” He spoke to Fassig. “You must excuse my candor, Marko, but I am not quite so naive as you think. Now, you may return to your table, since Dame Hester and I have important matters to discuss.”

  Dame Hester cried out: “Myron, not so fast! I don’t understand you! Here is a perfectly nice young man, with an interesting air about him, and you want to send him away?” She turned to Marko Fassig, who had been listening with a smile of easy complacence.

  Dame Hester said; “Tell us something about yourself, Marko. What brings you here to this desolate hellhole which Myron foisted upon me.”

  “We must not blame Myron; he is surely doing his best. As for me, how shall I describe myself? I am, in essence, a wandering philosopher and a connoisseur of all that is exquisite and delectable, including beautiful mature women. My life is a series of culminations, followed by brief periods during which I ponder and formulate wonderful dreams.”

  “How interesting! But this place is absolutely insipid! Why come here for your pondering and your dreams?”

  “There are two reasons — or chains of events, let us say. They run in parallel. One is spiritual and the other is practical. The two forces twine around each other, each exerting its influence. Am I confusing you? Myron seems a bit distrait.”

  “Oh, never mind Myron. He is often a bit prim. Please elucidate.”

  “The first element is as I have adumbrated. Perhaps it is an exercise in self-discipline, so that when I come upon a place of utter tedium, I force myself to enter a metamorphic state. I become a chrysalis, so to speak, from which I ultimately emerge, renewed and revived, so that life is all the more splendid for the contrast. It is a foolhardy style of life, but I make no excuses. I like to think of myself as an adventurer sailing a sea of romantic emotion, occasionally making landfall at a port where I find a kindred soul.”

  “Amazing!” declared Dame Hester. “Your philosophy piques my interest, since it is not unlike my own. But tell me of the other practical reason for your presence here.”

  “Very well. I shall withhold nothing. A man named Goss Jylstra and I were owners of a small spaceship. We specialized in the fruit transport trade. For the most part we worked in harmony, but the day finally came when we could not agree upon future plans. Our ship was the Darling Boreen, and when we landed at Flajaret, the time had arrived when we must go our separate ways. Neither of us could buy the other out, so we agreed to place everything, lock, stock and the Darling Boreen, up to a decision of chance. We had a dozen ways of putting our fortunes to the test, but in the end we visited the dogfights and gambled on the dogs. Jylstra’s fice was a spavined cur named Smaug; my beast was named Tinkifer. The fight began, and from the first it was clear that Smaug’s tactics were unfair. At last he jumped on Tinkifer and tore out his liver, but the gallant Tinkifer chewed at Smaug’s jugular vein, so that the fight ended in a draw, with both beasts dead. Goss Jylstra and I were momentarily at a loss; then we agreed to hazard all on a single hand of three-card layabout. I laid first, a nine; Goss laid a three, to his dismay. I laid an eight, for a score of seventeen, whi
le poor Goss had to be content with a seven, for a score of what is called ‘crooked ten’, and the Darling Boreen was as good as mine, for how could he match now? But the sly villain moved away from the window and a blast of air blew our cards, including my third laydown, to the floor. As quick as lightning Goss played his third card, a two, and cried huzzah! ending the game, winning the Darling Boreen with a score of two, since my cards were on the floor. So here I sit, a wandering vagabond, a true scion of Dionysius, always ready to quaff the wine of Life, then throw the dregs into the teeth of Destiny, as is my custom.”

  Dame Hester asked, “And your old companion left you here at Flajaret? That seems a bit heartless.”

  “I am inclined to agree. Still, we parted amicably enough. He flew off into space, and I entered one of my regenerative modes. It is now at an end, so that once more I am ready to undertake new ventures. But surely, my dear lady, that is enough of me and my sorry vicissitudes! Tell me about yourself.”

  “Gladly!” Dame Hester raised the mug of ale to her lips and tasted. “Faugh! What is this stuff?”

  “That is their pale ale,” said Myron. “Apparently there is nothing better on hand. I agree that it is totally rank.”

  “Ha! You tasted it?”

  “I took a cautious sip, which was more than enough.”

  “Then why did you not warn me, before I drank a great swallow?”

  “My mind had wandered. I was thinking of something else.”

  Dame Hester told Marko Fassig: “In a way this is symptomatic of our voyage. We set out from Salou Sain in high excitement; we were embarked upon what, in a sense, would be a quest for life and youth. We were determined and serious; still, we resolved that the venture should never become grim or austere. Myron concurred with this program; he assured me that the voyage would be rife with gay episodes and marvels of exotic pageantry. What was the reality? We drifted forever through a stultifying void! The hermetics immured in their caves could not have known greater boredom! When I mentioned entertainment, Myron wanted me to look out the windows and admire the blankness of space. I refused! It was a foretaste of death! The voyage continued and the tedium was profound. I yearned for diversion and Captain Myron finally saw that apathy was destroying my health. This is the puddle he selected for my enjoyment. For entertainment he has promised me a dogfight and has served me this vile liquid to drink.”

  “You have my sympathy,” said Marko Fassig. “But cruising space need not be dull. Aboard the Darling Boreen we had many jolly times, I assure you! In this respect Goss Jylstra and I were of the same mind. Between us we knew every haunt of delight and gayety, innocent and not so innocent, in all the Corvus constellation.”

  Dame Hester cried piteously: “That is how I want to cruise, with a bit of fun now and then, not just blinking out through the portholes at nothing whatever. Still, I have seen all I care to see of Flajaret, and I am quite ready to depart. Myron, what of you?”

  “In a certain sense Flajaret is interesting, but I am ready to leave.”

  Dame Hester gave her head a curt nod and turned to Marko Fassig: “What are your plans?”

  Marko Fassig blew out his bushy mustache. “They are simple enough. Before long I hope to find a berth aboard some passing spaceship in need of an experienced hand.”

  Myron said coldly, “We can not help you. The Glodwyn is more than adequately crewed at the moment.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Dame Hester. “Myron, you are far too hasty! Marko, you may report aboard the Glodwyn at once. I will have a word with Captain Myron, and something will be arranged.”

  “That is extremely satisfactory,” said Marko Fassig. “I shall do my best for you, and perhaps I can even enliven the voyage.”

  “That is what I have in mind,” said Dame Hester. “Get your things and report aboard Glodwyn as soon as possible!”

  Dame Hester and Myron returned to the ship. Dame Hester made explicit suggestions to Myron so that, when Marko Fassig boarded the Glodwyn, Myron somewhat glumly informed him that he would be entered on the roster as ‘Purser’. Marko Fassig declared himself well-satisfied with the arrangement.

  3

  The Glodwyn rose from Flajaret spaceport, pushed up through the overcast and broke out into the light of Maudwell’s Star. The Chief Mate and Myron set the autopilot on the proper course, and Maudwell’s Star dwindled astern.

  Myron returned to the main saloon, to find Dame Hester and Marko Fassig sitting at their ease, each with a frosty goblet of Pingaree Punch. Dame Hester was explaining the purpose of the voyage, while Marko lounged in the cushioned chair, lazily attentive. “As you will now understand, the voyage is essentially a very serious and important expedition. I hope to validate Dame Betka Ontwill’s claims by personal observations, and of course I will gladly undertake a revitalizing program. Psychologically I concede to no conventional categorization. I am as daring and flexible as ever I was. I act as I see fit, and a fig for the consequences! I am sorry to say that sometimes my body complains of what I do, and I must take heed. I cannot scamper across a sandy beach to plunge into towering surf, or dart off on some madcap escapade as once I managed without a second thought. It is this sad ebbing of resilience that I am anxious to repair. And why should I not? I command zest and the spirit of adventure in its richest form. I have a single goal: to pluck all the fruit from the Tree of Life; and consume it down to the rind!” With a dramatic gesture Dame Hester drank deep from her goblet. “Now you know the force which drives this expedition on its way?”

  “I salute you!” declared Marko Fassig. “You are a woman in a thousand!”

  Dame Hester turned to look at Myron. “Yes? What is it now? You are standing there first on one leg, then the other. What is the problem?”

  “There is no problem. I want to show Fassig where he will take his meals and then I shall explain the work he will be doing.”

  Dame Hester raised her eyebrows. “Truly, Myron, you are being a bit stiff-necked. I am interested in what Marko has to say. He has led a fascinating life, from which you yourself might learn.”

  Marko Fassig lazily rose to his feet. “I must not keep Captain Tany waiting.” He bowed to Dame Hester. “I hope to continue our discussion another time.”

  At the evening meal Dame Hester was short with Myron. Finally she said, “I see no reason why Marko should not dine in our company. He is both amusing and sympathetic, which is a rare combination.”

  Myron said, “It is not proper for the crew to dine in the saloon. There are distinctions which should never be relaxed, at the risk of impairing ship’s discipline.”

  “Bah! There is no need for such rigidity. Please ask Marko if he would care to take a liqueur with us.”

  Myron rose to his feet, bowed with impassive formality, and went to execute Dame Hester’s orders. On the following day, Dame Hester told him: “Marko henceforth will be taking his meals in the saloon. Please inform the Chief Steward of the change.”

  As the voyage progressed, Myron became ever more disenchanted with Marko Fassig and his confident conduct. Dame Hester, if anything, seemed to encourage Marko’s inappropriate behavior, but Myron soon learned that his complaints fell on deaf ears.

  Partly in response to Marko’s anecdotes, Dame Hester decided that a halt at some picturesque world along the way might well enliven the voyage. She suggested as much to Myron, and explained with pointed emphasis that she did not want him to take her to a place where the best entertainment was a dogfight.

  Myron, using the full scope of his dignity, stated that, naturally, he would do his best to gratify her demands. However, said Myron, she should realize that they had now entered a relatively remote section of the Reach, and that the worlds of high sophistication and urbanized culture were for the most part far astern.

  “So what is out there now?” demanded Dame Hester. “Jungles and swamps and jumping red-eyed savages?”

  Myron laughed politely. “I’m sure that such places could be found. Out here nothing is certain.”


  “Hmmf. Doesn’t your famous ‘Handbook’ tell you what to expect?”

  “Of course, and I will make good use of it. First, I want to find a world that is not too far off our course.”

  “Also, if you please, a world that is amusing, with beautiful people, appetizing cuisine, interesting entertainments and very good shopping opportunities.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Myron examined the sector charts and studied Handbook to the Planets, and finally decided that the world Taubry by the sun Vianjeli best approximated the requirements. He reported his findings to Dame Hester. She acceded to his choice without enthusiasm. “There is no mention of exotic ceremonies or anything which sounds particularly interesting, except that criminals are placed in cages and displayed for public edification in the central plaza?”

  “Perhaps you will see an interesting prisoner. The report says that the back-lander’s market often offers interesting items for sale.”

  “What do they mean by that?” demanded Dame Hester. “Twenty-pound turnips? Trained mice?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Very well. Let us try this world Taubry and its rather ambiguous entertainments.”

  Myron at once altered course toward the star Vianjeli, which in due course grew bright, and the world Taubry became large below. When Myron went to the pilot-house in order to use the macroscope, he found Marko Fassig lounging beside the equipment, lazily hob-nobbing with Chief Mate Atwyn. Myron’s smouldering resentment flared into anger, and he decided to abate the nuisance personified by Marko Fassig once and for all. For the moment he said: “Be good enough to attend to your duties, Fassig. The pilot-house, as you know, is off-limits to the crew.”