Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Gartover returned with a tray of small cakes and several flagons of wine. “Please excuse my delay; the kitchen crew had gone off to their elocution lessons. Yes, smile if you must, but we feel that self-expression is the final gloss on an integrated personality.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” said Maloof. “We have been admiring the panelling and the table. The material is all local?”

  “Every inch! The native flora is marvellous. The wood of this table, for instance, grows in the sea. It is rooted underwater at a depth of four hundred feet. It sends a massive trunk toward the surface. In all directions filaments stream out, as much as a hundred feet, absorbing the submarine light. When the trunk reaches the surface, it spreads out to become a circular pad of tough tissue, and from the center of this pad grow a hundred flexible whips supporting the fruiting organs. It is a wonderful plant, and every part is useful. In fact —” Gartover jumped to his feet “— I think that I can offer you some appropriate souvenirs.” He went to rummage in the drawers of a cabinet and returned to the table with four squat wooden jars which he distributed to his guests.

  Schwatzendale removed the cap and examined the contents of the jar. “What have we here?”

  “It is pollen of the ultramarine tree, steeped in its own gum. It is known as ‘Wild Blue’, and is occasionally used for ceremonial purposes. Naturally, it is non-toxic and quite harmless.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Maloof. “These jars are beautifully crafted and make handsome souvenirs. The ultramarine, of course, is always welcome.”

  Wingo said thoughtfully, “There is none among our stores. I can’t explain it.”

  The spacemen returned to the Glicca, where they were chided by the pilgrims for dallying overlong at Duhail. “Perhaps you do not reckon urgency as we do,” cried Deter Kalash in a passion. “Time is sifting through our fingers! We must get our sacred goods to Impy’s Landing before the Concatenation!”

  Myron made a soothing response. “As you see, we are departing Scropus at this very moment.”

  “Then we fly direct to Coro-Coro?”

  “Unfortunately not. Along the way are ports of call!”

  Schwatzendale had joined Wingo in the galley, and sat with a rum punch as Wingo assembled the evening meal. Neither of the two had settled views in connection with the Refunctionary. Wingo’s opinions were perhaps the more tolerant. “At the very least it is a noble effort, and Euel Gartover’s dedication must be commended. For all we know his efforts may not be in vain.”

  “So we hope,” growled Schwatzendale. “Otherwise, he is nurturing a nest of adders.”

  Wingo’s honest pink face creased in doubt. “This is implicit in Euel Gartover’s plan! He forgives their mistakes and heals their shame, so that, when the time comes, they march forth with heads high to do useful work in society!”

  Schwatzendale’s eyebrows slanted askew and his elbows jerked in shock. “Be real! Half of his mistake-makers are crazy! Did you notice all the song-stylists in the gray caps?”

  “No matter. In most cases they are criminals because part of their brains had atrophied during gestation.”

  “Then Gartover hypnotizes them and scrambles what little is left.”

  Wingo pursed his lips. “There may be something in what you say. But remember —” he held high a pink forefinger “— no dogma fits every dog!” This was one of Wingo’s favorite aphorisms. “The hour is late,” he told Schwatzendale. “It is time to dress for dinner.”

  Schwatzendale went off to his cabin. The crew of the Glicca dined separately from the passengers, since Maloof liked his dinner served in an atmosphere of formality.

  The four men took their places at the table. All wore neat garments and all had tinted their noses blue with ultramarine unguent from the squat wooden jars. Schwatzendale frowned at Wingo. “There is a place just under the tip which you neglected.”

  “Excuse me.” Wingo turned away to repair the damage.

  “That is better,” said Schwatzendale.

  Deter Kalash looked in at them. He asked in wonderment, “Why have you painted your noses blue?”

  Schwatzendale said crossly, “Be off with you and your foolish questions; we are at our dinner.”

  Myron said politely, “It is a matter of formal etiquette, or so I suppose. I have never thought too much about it.”

  Wingo explained further: “Captain Maloof has never relented in regard to formality. Everything must be just so.”

  “I see,” said Deter Kalash. “I am told that you visited the Refunctionary today. How did you find it?”

  “All in all, quite tolerable,” said Wingo. “The prisoners wear hats of different colors, and if it weren’t for an absurd preoccupation with hypnotic suggestion, the theoretical basis of the institution seems sound.”

  “That is my own view,” said Schwatzendale. Neither Myron nor Maloof had anything to add.

  Kalash nodded to indicate his comprehension. “I am always happy to learn new things. Colored hats on prisoners. Staff tolerable. Theories good except for hypnotic suggestion, which is absurd. Am I right?”

  “Precisely right,” declared Wingo. “Informing you is a pleasure, since you are quick to learn.”

  4

  Upon departure from Scropus, the Glicca set off on a slant, down and away from the center of the galaxy. The pilgrims noticed the shift and became disturbed. They reminded Maloof of their haste. “Dozens, even hundreds, of devout pilgrims await our coming!”

  Maloof tried to soothe them, citing other cargo obligations. “We travel at the best practical speed. It is not just a matter of darting hither and yon; our course is the approximate solution to a very complicated mathematical proposition.”

  “Yes, yes, so I suppose! But, surely, other routes exist which may be even more practical. Why not fare to Coro-Coro directly? Or even better, make an instant swing out to Impy’s Landing, then whirl about in a gallant roundabout sweep to Coro-Coro? That, so I believe, is the optimum solution! Your exorbitant charges surely justify such a concession.”

  Maloof said coldly, “If you think yourself mistreated, you may debark with your cargo at the next port of call, and pay me nothing.”

  “Indeed!” Deter Kalash was instantly attentive. “And what is this next port of call?”

  “It is Dulcie Diver on the world Terce.”

  “And how are the connections for Impy’s Landing?”

  “Poor, or so I believe. You will find Terce a challenging world, should you choose to debark.”

  Kalash gave his black beard a defiant tug. “I am not a man who tergiversates! We will hold to our original commitment, despite its questionable provisions.”

  Fay Schwatzendale had been listening to the conversation. Now he told Kalash: “You are far too tense! Relax and enjoy the voyage! Have you nothing to do? Why not play a game with your friends?”

  “We are serious folk!” snapped Kalash. “We do not waste our time with foolishness!”

  A pilgrim named Bixel came to lay a hand gently on Kalash’s shoulder. “Think, Wayfinder! The Circle defines our creed! Destiny is a circle; each moving segment returns to its source!”

  “Naturally!” snapped Kalash. “Such is the doctrine; is it germane?”

  “Ever and always! Whatever is, is! Whatever is, is right! Whatever is right is good! Whatever is good has existence, and therefore ‘is’; and the Circle is whole.”

  “So much is self-evident. Learn to avoid platitudes; we have serious issues to consider. Captain Maloof’s obduracy has won the day and we must adapt to this reality.”

  Bixel struck his fist into the palm of his hand. “If it is, then it must be; and it is supreme! We abide the way of Destiny and meanwhile, why not follow Schwatzendale’s suggestion? I am bored with naming the stations of my prayer circle.”

  “As you like,” said Kalash. “Do not include me in your frivolity; that is all I ask!”

  The pilgrims at once brought out their cards and began to play double-moko for
small stakes. Schwatzendale looked on from time to time, his expression benign. He seemed to take an interest in the game, clapping his hands at a dramatic ‘scumble’, consoling the unfortunate victim and pointing out how the disaster might have been averted. Bixel finally cried out: “If you are such an enthusiast, why do you not put down your money and take up a hand? Then we shall see how you fare against the experts!”

  Schwatzendale smiled wistfully. “I am a tyro, and timid, but perhaps I will test the waters where you adepts swim so easily.”

  Schwatzendale pulled up a chair and joined the game. He played without skill and at last his stake was gone. “It is as I feared!” he grumbled. “Now please excuse me. It is almost time for dinner and I must blue my nose.”

  Schwatzendale played the game on other occasions and each time lost his stake, so that the pilgrims were eager that he should join them. Meanwhile, the ultramarine pigment in the wooden jars became exhausted, so that the crew was compelled to dine with naked noses. Initially, they were embarrassed by the deficiency. “Odd,” mused Myron. “My grandmother was always a stickler for such things, yet we never tinted our noses in her house.”

  “Nor was it usual in my family,” rumbled Wingo.

  “Gentlemen,” said Maloof, “since we are dining informally aboard ship, I suggest that we dispense with the blue.”

  “Yes,” said Schwatzendale in a subdued voice. “I can’t imagine how we got started in the first place.”

  “I can imagine,” said Maloof. “We can be grateful that Euel Gartover did not order us to shave our heads or tie ruffled white cravats to our genital organs before we sat down to dinner.”

  Chapter V

  1

  Far ahead an orange spark grew ever brighter, and at last became the giant sun Bran. The Glicca descended upon the third planet, Terce: a world of moderate size with a single continent straggling most of the way around the world, creating innumerable bays, bights, inlets, brackish seas and a single narrow ocean notable for its violent storms.

  The continent exhibited a bleak and sterile topography, with few rivers, several belts of timberland and a great swamp along the west coast. Ferocious beasts, both large and small, inhabited the swamp; elsewhere the fauna was limited to a few leather-winged birds, lizards, fish and armored insects. A sparse human population inhabited a half-dozen isolated areas; after eight thousand years the original folk had evolved into five races, with widely disparate characteristics. The most primitive were the Uche: stone-age savages of the southern mountains, who were avid cannibals. At the center of the continent, near the Sholo spaceport, the Shuja and the Meluli lived in near-contiguity: one race living high on the plateau, the other below on the steppe. They hunted each other for pleasure and profit, flaying their victims, tanning the skin and exporting the pelts off-world. The sea folk of the islands off the east coast were the Tarc, a race with attenuated physiques; and in their black robes and high hieratic headgear they might have been priests of an esoteric mystery cult. They rode their long low sea barges from the islands to the Dulcie Diver market, where they traded with the Tzingals of the shore, each race restraining its hatred for the other.

  The IPCC considered the peoples of Terce intractable and the world impossible to pacify. A hundred times they had tried to establish a local police corps, without success. Currently, the IPCC prohibited the import of energy-weapons, and warned off tourists; otherwise they left the local folk to their own devices.

  Captain Maloof had visited the world on a previous occasion. Even before the Glicca entered its landing spiral, Maloof informed the ship’s company as to the conditions they might expect to find on the world below. “Terce is not a tourist resort, nor a venue for amateur vagabonds. Terce is dangerous for natives and off-worlders alike. The spaceport at Dulcie Diver, where there is an IPCC presence and relative security, is near the market, which means that if you venture out into the market, you probably will not be murdered. But if you wander down along the docks hoping for an amorous interlude, you may be serviced but also robbed or beaten, perhaps both.”

  Perrumpter Kalash stated that the pilgrims would remain aboard ship. “We have no interest in the licentious habits of these strange folk. Why should we risk our lives to study their extraordinary conduct? It is a dubious pleasure; enjoy it as you like.”

  Wingo smilingly advised Kalash that new knowledge of any sort could only expand his understanding of the human condition. “Whenever a group of people professes a novel philosophy, I know that I will find material for my most significant photographs: what I call my ‘mood impressions’.”

  Kalash gave a cynical chuckle. “It is all cut from the same cloth. You are no better than the rest.”

  “Not so!” declared Wingo. “For me it is serious business. I have, so I believe, an exquisitely exact talent for capturing the essence of time and recording it as the image of a frozen instant.”

  “So you say. In any case, why bother?”

  “I am compiling a portfolio of important photographs, to be entitled: ‘The Pageant of the Gaean Race’. I work with great care!”

  Kalash was more skeptical than ever. “It is all titillation and pandering to morbid curiosity.”

  “Not so, not so!” cried Wingo. “My motives are purely artistic! How could they be anything else? I strongly disapprove of both cruelty and vice!”

  Kalash had lost interest in the discussion. “So it may be.”

  Wingo, however, continued to explain his purposes. “Trillions upon trillions of Gaeans have come and gone; still, when I record my ‘mood impressions’, I feel that I am encompassing the experience of the entire race!”

  “Do as you like,” muttered Kalash. “It is all one to me.”

  Wingo said politely, “I hope that I have reassured you as to my motives; I am not the slavering sensationalist that you take me for! It would be a shame to omit the extraordinary folk of Terce from my portfolio.”

  Kalash gave his beard a pull of impatience. “Say no more; I am convinced!” He hurried off to join his fellow pilgrims, to whom he confided his views of Wingo’s eccentricities.

  Maloof spoke to Wingo and reiterated his warning. “Remember that these people are not art lovers. Should they suspect impudence, they will cut off your nose.”

  Wingo soberly agreed to use full caution.

  The Glicca landed at the Dulcie Diver spaceport, within sight of the Eastern Ocean. Myron supervised the discharge of cargo, while Maloof went off to solicit new business from the local shipping agents. He was tendered several parcels of cargo, and was advised that on the morrow the weekly freight barge would arrive from the offshore islands, with the prospect of more goods for export. Maloof agreed to delay departure for Sholo until the following day.

  After lunch Maloof, Wingo, Schwatzendale and Myron ventured from the terminal. At the gate a young man in the uniform of an IPCC agent accosted them. “Sirs, may I ask your destination and your purpose?”

  “Our destination is the market,” said Maloof. “We have no purpose other than idle curiosity, although Wingo intends to record a few discreet photographic ‘mood impressions’.”

  The agent surveyed Wingo with mild curiosity. As on other occasions, when Wingo went out to record his ‘impressions’, he wore a voluminous snuff-brown cloak, a brown planter’s hat, soft leather boots. The costume, so Wingo felt, captured the romantic flavor of the bohemian life-style enjoyed by classical artists.

  The agent said politely, “My grandmother is also a photographer; it is her favorite hobby.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as a creative artist,” said Wingo, stiffly. “My portfolio consists of significant images which illuminate the Gaean psyche in subtle detail.”

  “A good idea. But a word of warning! Be careful out there in the market. If you take a picture of someone’s psyche, he will demand a fee, five or ten sols, and will make your life miserable until you pay.”

  “I am not a tyro,” Wingo stated with dignity. “My techniques are unobtru
sive and cannot be detected.”

  “That is good news,” said the agent. “Still, relax none of your caution or they will steal the boots from your feet.”

  Wingo shook his head in disgust. “They would seem a folk without honor.”

  “That is a fair assessment. Now then, are any of you carrying power guns, flashaways or pinkers? It is imperative that we keep such gear from the local thugs, which is to say, most of the population.”

  “I am carrying my whangee,” said Maloof, displaying his walking stick. “It is powered only by the strength of my arm.”

  The others declared themselves free of contraband and the agent signalled them through the gate. “One final bit of advice: do not leave the market! If you visit the rum shacks along the docks, chances are you will be doped and robbed, if not worse. Even in the market you can’t relax. You may come upon a musician playing an accordion, while two pretty children dance and caper about. What charming little tykes, you think. About this time the boy turns a handspring and kicks you in the crotch with his iron-toed slipper. When you fall he sits on your head and pulls your nose, while the girl steals your purse; then they jump up and run away. Meanwhile the accordionist plays another tune, and demands a tip.”

  “We will watch out for accordion-players or any other such rascals,” said Maloof. “I doubt if we will be caught napping.”

  “Good luck,” said the agent.

  The four passed through the gate and stepped out into the market. They halted to assess the surroundings. The confusion of sensory input could not instantly be assimilated: color, noise, movement were like a jangle of discords; the reek from over-ripe fruit, dead fish, pots of boiling tripes, seemed to heave and squirm with a life of its own. At the back a row of scimitar trees cut across the enormous globe of the orange sun; black shadows were in violent contrast to the wan orange sunlight. A grid of aisles criss-crossed the market, serving a clutter of stalls, barrows and booths. The merchants were members of the Tzingal race: sinewy folk, intensely active, with olive-tan skins, black hair, sparkling brown eyes in hollow-cheeked faces. They wore knee-length white kirtles, short white shirts, colored kerchiefs around their foreheads. They plied their trade with extreme zeal, striding back and forth, gesticulating, darting out into the aisle to grip the arms of passersby, performing curious little jigs; all the while advertising their goods with melodic cries and whoops of synthetic enthusiasm, each trying to drown out his rivals.