Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Krim swallowed ale from his mug, ran his fingers across the table as if playing an imaginary keyboard. The exercise proved to be unsatisfactory, and Krim rose to his feet. He drained the ale from his mug and, stepping out on the floor, attempted a jig, at first tentatively, then with increasing confidence. His face was rapt in total absorption; he jerked and shuffled, arms rigid at his sides, long legs kicking out forward and backward, while he swung and shuffled across the floor.

  A plump self-assured gentleman of middle years had entered the tavern and was now performing the local dance with one of the town belles. He wore a jacket of rich dark brown velvet and glossy black shoes adorned with silver rosettes; he seemed to be a person of importance, and performed the stylish dance with conspicuous elegance. Up and down the room he swooped, performing his kicks with supercilious precision. Other dancers made way for him, and watched with respectful admiration. Up the room, kick right, kick left, with toes properly extended; back down the room, swooping and gliding, then a kick to right, a kick to left, with something of an extra flourish. Hilmar Krim, absorbed in his own boisterous dance, was smartly struck by the gentleman’s foot, directly between his shoulder blades.

  Krim uttered a cry of surprise and halted his jig. The dancing gentleman was loath to interrupt the rhythm of his movements, and made an easy gesture by which the contact was acknowledged but dismissed as a matter of no great importance, so that he was able to dance on to the music without losing the beat.

  Krim was dissatisfied and stood in the gentleman’s way, so he was compelled to stop short to avoid collision. Angry words ensued. Krim explained his theory of how the dance should properly be conducted. The gentleman returned curt comments of his own, then resumed his dance; but almost immediately, responding to a final instruction from Krim, he seized a flagon of ale and hurled the contents into Krim’s face, to penalize Krim for talking too much. Krim first boxed the gentleman’s ears then commenced a bewildering jig, dancing, prancing, meanwhile kicking the portly gentleman with amazing dexterity: into the rump with cavorting heels, into the belly with his toe. Round and round Krim danced, his long legs performing a fine jig into the gentleman’s body, in truly artistic syncopation with the music, which had not halted. Indeed, the musicians played with enthusiasm, indicating that they would be pleased to play as long as Krim chose to continue his dance.

  The performance was cut short by a pair of constables who rushed across the floor to seize Krim, and the music came to a halt.

  Wingo gave his head a sad shake. “Krim’s footwork was creditable, but I doubt if that fact will do his case any benefit.”

  “It is a pity,” said Schwatzendale. “He showed some interesting moves.”

  Captain Maloof stated, “He was reckless, even for a legal expert.”

  The constables dragged Krim toward the podium. The gentleman whom Krim had belabored led the way, moving with a jaunty step. He climbed the podium and seated himself behind the lectern.

  The serving boy, who had come to the table with fresh pints, spoke in awe. “Your friend is daring, but also foolhardy. Now he must demand justice from the very magistrate whom he kicked so stylishly.”

  “You admire his work, then?” asked Schwatzendale.

  The boy shrugged. “A good performance deserves its due.”

  The portly gentleman took a moment to arrange himself upon the chair, then called: “Bring forward the culprit!”

  The constables dragged the crestfallen Krim to an area before the lectern.

  “Your name?”

  “I am Hilmar Krim. My occupation is Supercargo aboard the spaceship Glicca. I attended the Achernar Central School of Forensic Linguistics where I specialized in Admiralty Law. I took a second degree at the Erasmus Institute of Social Science, where I edited the Law Review. My professional skills are finely honed.”

  “Aha! And where did you learn to dance with such pertinacity?”

  Krim acknowledged the quip with a rueful smile. “I mention my background only to indicate that I am versed in several phases of jurisprudence. In this present matter, certain codes of legal doctrine and a number of germane precedents are defined in Articles Ten and Twelve of the Basic Admiralty Statutes. The indices, so I recall —”

  The magistrate held up his hand. “Allow me to speak, counselor, if you will! I appreciate your helpful erudition, though I suppose that you take me for a back-country loon.”

  “That finding is not in evidence, sir!”

  “No matter. We know the scope of your guilt; we need now only reckon the proper penalty, which of course transcends a simple visit to the public cage.”

  Krim drew himself up to his full height. He spoke severely. “I object to that entire imputation, sir; it is irrelevant, prejudicial and nuncupatory. Further, no grounds have been laid.”

  The magistrate nodded and rapped his gavel. “The objection is sustained! I will ignore the remark I just made.”

  Hilmar Krim gave his head a curt inclination. “This being the case, I move for a dismissal of all charges.”

  “The motion is denied. The case is as yet undeveloped.”

  “There can be no doubt as to the facts,” stated Krim. “The juxtaposition occurred when you interposed your person into contiguity with the area I had previously and lawfully demarcated by explicitly functioning as a dancer. You invaded this space through careless malice, and inconvenienced me by thrusting your body against my leg, to my great anguish and discomfort. A man more stringent than myself might call for punitive damages; however, your simple acknowledgment of guilt will suffice.”

  “The motion is out of order, having been superseded by a prior complaint, filed by myself. We need not go into details. Do you plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’?”

  “I am guiltless, by reason of reckless and malicious invasion of recreational space previously preempted by me, and also the intolerable provocation visited upon my person: said acts forming the res gestae.”

  The magistrate pounded his gavel. “Let us proceed. I will not call for testimony, since any witnesses in your behalf would be guilty of perjury and would face a harsh penalty. It is easier to assume that all witnesses will have testified for the plaintiff. The verdict is guilty as charged. Now then: in regard to the sentence, allow me a moment while I glance into my black book.” He produced a volume bound in black fish-skin from a shelf, lay it flat on the lectern, swung open its covers.

  Hilmar Krim spoke urgently: “Sir, justice is too fragile and fine to be crushed between the pages of a book! Justice springs from human understanding, and is laved with the milk of human sympathy. I know of several four-square precedents to guide us on this occasion.”

  The magistrate again held up his hand. “Your erudition is impressive, but the black book is quick. Notice: I turn the pages to ‘Public Brutality’. I find the sub-section: ‘Assault upon an official of dignity’, and here I read the instruction: ‘specify the severity of the offense, by counting the number of blows inflicted’. Next, ‘designate the style and degree of the outrage; apply an increment to express the prestige of the victim’.”

  Hilmar Krim managed a tremulous smile. “Sir, special circumstances apply; I am a member of the intelligentsia!”

  “Your stipulation has merit,” said the magistrate. “As a concession, I will make a special evaluation. I have already taken note of your graceful agility; and your intelligence, so I believe, is many-sided. Am I right?”

  “Conceivably so, but —”

  “Now then: if you were to meet the quarry master at Dartley Hole, could you show him the most efficient manner of carrying heavy rocks from place to place?”

  “I would do so gladly,” croaked Krim, “but I shall not have time, since —”

  “You shall have all the time needful.” The magistrate consulted his black book and performed a calculation. “For offenses such as yours the exact duration of the penitential period is four months eleven days and nineteen hours. Constables, remove the prisoner and take him ou
t to Dartley Hole. His sentence begins on the instant he passes through the gates.”

  Krim attempted further expostulations, and indeed was still citing precedents as he was led from the tavern. The musicians took up their instruments; the music flowed as before. The magistrate stepped down from the podium, found his partner and resumed his dance.

  Wingo said at last, “A sad culmination to Krim’s entertainment. He danced with both flair and skill.”

  “Either too much ale or too much deep thinking warped his judgment,” said Captain Maloof. “It is hard to strike a balance.”

  Schwatzendale lifted his mug and looked to the empty chair. “I propose a toast to Hilmar Krim. I wish him health, endurance and pleasant company at the quarry. May the time pass with lightning speed!”

  “May the rocks prove interesting!” said Wingo.

  The toast was drunk, and the group fell silent.

  After a period Myron addressed Captain Maloof. “Sir, it appears that the office of supercargo aboard the Glicca is now vacant.”

  Captain Maloof nodded soberly. “So it seems.”

  “In that case, I wish to apply for the position.”

  Captain Maloof gave Myron a cool inspection. “You have experience along these lines?”

  “As you know, my last post was that of captain aboard the Glodwyn.”

  Maloof, somewhat nonplussed, said, “You would seem to be over-qualified.”

  “For me, it will be the start of a new career,” said Myron. “I am sure that I will be competent to the job.”

  “I believe you,” said Captain Maloof. “You look to have both intelligence and natural ability. You are hired.”

  Chapter IV

  1

  The Glicca, an ungainly old hulk of moderate capacity, carried freight in three cargo bays, or a fluctuating number of passengers in second- and third-class accommodation, or a combination of both. The crew consisted of Captain Adair Maloof, Chief Engineer Fay Schwatzendale, Chief Steward Isel Wingo, and the new supercargo Myron Tany.

  The entire crew of the Glicca departed Owlswyck Inn at a relatively early hour. Myron went to his lodgings at the Rambler’s Rest, while the others returned to the Glicca.

  In the morning Myron packed his belongings and descended to the office. The landlady, standing behind the counter, observed his approach without reaction.

  Myron spoke with crisp authority. “I will not be needing the room any longer.”

  “As you like.”

  Myron waited, but the landlady had no further comment.

  Myron spoke again, raising his voice a trifle. “You may pay me a refund of two sols.”

  The landlady folded her arms across her chest. “There will be no refund.”

  Myron studied the impassive face. He opened his mouth to speak, but the statements which entered his mind seemed inadequate. He closed his mouth. In any case, why should he wrangle with this insipid woman over a paltry two sols? As the Advisory had suggested, an attitude of aristocratic condescension, or even disdain, was more suitable. He spoke haughtily. “It is of no consequence. Do not, however, expect a gratuity.” He turned on his heel and marched from the Rambler’s Rest. In the largest sense, the victory was his. He had departed the premises with dignity intact, while the woman even now must be squirming with shame. Further, he had learned a valuable lesson which at the price of two sols was cheap.

  Upon entering the plaza, he seated himself at a café where he made a breakfast of tea and fish cakes. Then he walked along the boulevard, under the cloudtrees, to the spaceport. The security officer gave him a polite salute. Myron responded with a crisp nod. He passed through the terminal and located the Glicca a hundred yards out on the field: a vessel larger than the Glodwyn, built for durability rather than aesthetic flair, with none of the Glodwyn’s self-conscious elegance. The hull, which at one time had been enamelled smart blue-gray with dark red trim, now showed the lusterless gray-white of undercoat, along with daubs of orange primer where it had been thought necessary to seal scrapes, abrasions and meteor marks. A loading dock had been drawn up to the starboard cargo hatch, though at the moment there was no work in progress.

  Myron walked out on the field and approached the Glicca. A gangplank led up to the entry port, now ajar. Myron climbed the steps and passed through the port into the main saloon. He found Maloof and Schwatzendale lingering over their breakfast. They greeted him with casual amiability. “Sit down,” said Maloof. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “I had two fish cakes in red sauce and a pot of pepper tea,” said Myron. “It was, in a sense, breakfast.”

  Wingo, in the galley, heard the interchange and immediately brought Myron a bowl of beans with bacon, and two toasted scones. “The food one finds in remote places is often sub-standard,” said Wingo severely. “Aboard the Glicca we are not epicures, but neither are we faddists; we feel no compulsion to explore every intricacy of the local cuisine.”

  “Wingo acts as our arbiter in these cases,” Schwatzendale told Myron. “If he finds a stuff in the market which intrigues him, it is served up for our dinner. Wingo watches carefully, and if we appear to enjoy the dish he may sample it himself.”

  Wingo grinned broadly. “I hear few complaints,” he told Myron. “If you care to step this way, I will show you your quarters. Schwatzendale and I have already taken poor Krim’s belongings to the transport security locker. The cabin has been well aired and the linen is fresh. I think that you will be comfortable.”

  Myron took his suitcase to the cabin, then returned to the saloon.

  Maloof now sat alone. He said, “Your quarters are suitable, or so I hope?”

  “Yes, of course, and I am ready to go to work.”

  “In that case, I will explain the scope of your duties. They are more various than you might expect.” Maloof looked thoughtfully toward the ceiling. He said, “You may find difficulties rationalizing Krim’s methods. Despite his many fine qualities, Krim was a man of the sort known as sui generis.”

  Myron nodded. “I am not surprised.”

  “Often Krim was short with the passengers and generated unnecessary friction. In response to a request which he found irrational, rather than taking five minutes to gratify the passenger’s needs, he would explain why the passenger should alter his philosophy. At other times he might prescribe a holistic remedy for the passenger’s indigestion rather than issuing the pastille requested, and the two would debate the case for hours, until the passenger, overcome by cramps, was forced to rush off to the latrine. When I tried to intercede, Krim declared himself a man of principle, and I was made to feel a charlatan.”

  Myron nodded and wrote into a small notebook. “Instruction One: conciliate passengers. Dispense medicine as required.”

  “Correct. Now then, as to records and accounts: again I must criticize Krim. He was so preoccupied with his monumental compilation of jurisprudence that he avoided the drudgery of keeping accounts. When he was censured, he claimed that he had memorized all pertinent figures and that they reposed accurately in his mind. One day I asked him, ‘What if by some unexpected freak of fortune you are forced off the Glicca, as it might be if you were killed by a bandit or suffered a brain spasm?’

  “‘Nonsense, sheer bullypup!’ Krim declared, quite emphatically.

  “‘Still,’ I persisted, ‘what if you were taken up by the police and dragged off to jail? Who, then, would interpret your cryptic notes?’

  “Krim became rather cross. The idea, so he stated, was far-fetched; no police would think to molest a man of his forensic skills. But Krim was wrong. He was taken off to jail and his vast store of mental records is lost. The episode, I believe, speaks for itself.”

  Myron wrote in the notebook. “Instruction Two: keep proper records. Avoid police.”

  “Exactly.” Maloof went on to describe Myron’s other duties. He must tally the loading and discharge of cargo; he would prepare bills of lading and arrange for import and export licenses when necessary. He would supervise
loading, and at each port of call he would verify that the proper parcels were discharged, even if he must carry them out to the dock himself.

  Myron wrote. “Instruction Three: expedite cargo on and off vessel; cargo to be recorded in detail.”

  Maloof went on. “The supercargo must make sure that freight charges have been paid before cargo is loaded; otherwise chances are good that we will be carrying freight without profit, since the consignee often refuses to pay the transport bill, forfeiting to us the possibly useless merchandise, which leads to many difficulties.”

  Myron wrote: “Instruction Four: before all else, collect fees and charges.”

  “As you can see,” said Maloof, “the ideal supercargo is a man of iron will and grim disposition. He has a mind like a trap and tolerates no impudence from the warehousemen, no matter what their pugnacity.”

  “I will do my best,” said Myron in a subdued voice.

  “That should be sufficient,” said Maloof. “We journey short-handed aboard the Glicca. Everyone is versatile, especially the supercargo, who at times must assist the cook, the engineer, or function as general roustabout. You are aware of all this?”

  “I am now.”

  During the early afternoon Captain Maloof and Myron visited the terminal lobby. At one end a number of shipping agents sat in small offices. Before each office a bulletin board listed parcels of cargo which the agent wished to place for shipment.

  “This is where the business becomes complex,” Maloof told Myron. “If it were merely a matter of carrying cargo from A to B, then instantly picking up another cargo from B to C, then from C to D, and so on, we would all be rich and nervous hysteria would be unknown. But it is never that simple.”

  “What about passengers?”

  Maloof pulled a dour face. “Passengers are, at best, a necessary evil. Otherwise, they are capricious. They complain. They change their minds. They quarrel. They demand extras which they hope will be provided free. They prowl the pilot-house. They sit in my chair and read my books. Wingo is much too nice to them. Schwatzendale ogles the women, and gambles with whomever he can befuddle. Freight is better. It is quiet and never demands to be entertained. Come; let us discover what is being offered today.”