Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  When she had gone off to the counter, he said, half to himself: “She doesn’t seem the kind of girl you would expect to find here.”

  Schwatzendale laughed. “You will never find the girls you expect anywhere.”

  Myron looked after the girl. “Perhaps she is something other than local stock.”

  “Unlikely,” said Schwatzendale. “Her ears are pointed. She is probably the landlord’s daughter.”

  “Hmm. I wonder if —” Myron paused, half embarrassed. Then, trying to keep his voice casual, he said, “The captain mentioned that the local girls were, well, a bit easy — but this girl doesn’t seem the type.”

  Schwatzendale made one of his wry faces, mouth slanting up one side, down the other. “No comment! In fact, no opinion. Personally, I like jolly ladies who bounce a bit. This one doesn’t bounce. She’s off in a dream world! Still, she’s probably like all the rest.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Myron mused. “She just doesn’t have that look.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” said Wingo.

  “Be surprised by nothing!” said Schwatzendale. “If this girl can murder a man for his pelt, she won’t object to a friendly toss in the hay!”

  Myron started to point out the flaws in Schwatzendale’s logic but the girl was at the table with three brass tankards of ale. She turned to go, but Myron spoke to her. “Do you have a name?”

  The girl looked at him in wonder. “Of course I have a name.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t like to say. One should not name names to strangers.”

  “Why not? I’ll tell you mine. It is ‘Myron’.”

  The girl smiled. “Now, if I chose, I could tangle your soul in witchery.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  The girl shrugged and glanced toward the counter, where the landlord drew ale for a pair of customers. She turned back to Myron. “Someday I will leave here, when I earn enough money. I would hope to have friends off-world. If I bewitched you properly, you might be such a friend.”

  “Hmm,” said Myron. “This needs thinking about. In any case, I’d prefer not to be witched.”

  The girl spoke indifferently, “Forget what I said; it was sheer fancy. I know nothing about such things.”

  “That is a relief,” said Myron. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “No. These other two would hear.” The girl took up her tray. She turned Myron an inscrutable glance, then went off to another table.

  “So there you have it,” said Schwatzendale, grinning. “No name, no bewitchments, no nothing.”

  “That was just a test run,” said Myron. “I felt curiosity, nothing else.”

  The three drank ale and Myron tried to put the girl from his mind. To this end he thought of girls he had known at Salou Sain. He remembered Rolinda, a dark-haired imp with long eyelashes who had played glissandos along the register of Myron’s emotions. Then there was Berrens: incredibly lovely, with long honey-colored hair and the bluest of blue eyes; alas! She wrote arcane poetry and wanted Myron to tattoo a large staring eye in the center of his forehead, after the style of the Sufic Transvisionaries. But Berrens refused to decorate herself in like fashion, and the romance had collapsed. There had been Angela, adorable Angela, who had led Myron a mad chase, only to marry a wealthy fishmonger, who later proved parsimonious. Every night he brought home a parcel of unsold fish for Angela to cook for their supper. The marriage had soon dissolved.

  Myron became aware that Schwatzendale and Wingo were discussing the Glicca and the aspirations which, so Wingo asserted, motivated each member of the crew.

  Schwatzendale refused to take the idea seriously. He defined ‘aspirations’ as a mild form of dementia, to which he, at least, was immune. “Aspirations are bleary-eyed hopes for the future, smeared over with honey and dead flies. As for me, I live on the curling crest of the moment! The past is a cemetery of regrets and second thoughts, the future is a wilderness.”

  “Never have I heard such nonsense,” declared Wingo. “At least, not since your last harangue.”

  “I bring you truth,” announced Schwatzendale grandly. “Time and existence both lack dimension! Life is real only during that instant known as ‘Now’. Surely that is clear!”

  “Oh, it is clear enough,” scoffed Wingo. “You cite the most limpid banalities as if they were cosmic truths. For an unsophisticated person the effect might be startling.”

  Schwatzendale peered sidewise at the complacent Wingo. “You may or may not intend a compliment.”

  Wingo shrugged. “I feel only that it is a wasted man indeed who lives without a spiritual focus, or who fritters away his dreams. But no matter! That man cannot be you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Need I mention the name Moncrief the Mouse-rider! You will never rest until you have beaten him, and taken his property! These are your aspirations!”

  Schwatzendale threw his hands into the air. “That is no aspiration! That is simple thirst for revenge! Aspirations are quite different; they are mutable and change by the hour. Each exerts the force of a mayfly; each comes and goes and then is seen no more!”

  “Irrelevant, if true,” said Wingo. “Your subconscious mind guides you night and day, along the route ordained by your inner self — which is to say: your aspirations. This is true of us all.”

  “Enough theorizing!” cried Schwatzendale. “Be real! Prove something! Start with Captain Maloof; where are his aspirations?”

  Wingo rubbed his pink chin. “In all candor, he has never discussed such subjects. Still, my intuition tells me that he is searching — for something or someone; that he lives in hope of fulfilling his quest.”

  “Hmmf,” said Schwatzendale. “You are romanticizing in all directions at once. Where is your evidence?”

  Wingo shrugged. “We have both seen him in the pilot-house, brooding out over the stars. There is mystery in his past.”

  Schwatzendale considered, half-convinced despite himself. “What could he be looking for?”

  “He seeks something lost which must be found. That is the nature of a quest.”

  “Quite so,” said Schwatzendale. “I could not have expressed it better. Do you also admit to aspirations? Or are they secret, like those of Captain Maloof?”

  Wingo chuckled. “Nothing about me is secret, as you well know. My goals are simple. I want to live at peace with myself and in harmony with the universe. That is all.”

  “These are rather insipid objectives,” said Schwatzendale. “Still, they are simple and probably harmless.”

  Wingo sighed. “Myron is not yet a cynic. He will be proud to affirm the aspirations which guide his life.”

  “I will answer for him,” said Schwatzendale. “He has two principal aspirations. First, he wants to violate the landlord’s innocent daughter. Next, he wants to return to the Glicca wearing his own pelt. Otherwise, Myron is a spaceman and a vagabond, without a care in the world.”

  “Partly true,” said Myron. “But I own to a third aspiration which never leaves me. It is focused upon a man named Marko Fassig and my great-aunt Hester who are now cruising aboard the space-yacht Glodwyn. Whenever my mind veers in this direction, I feel a strong yearning, which I suspect is a bona fide aspiration.”

  “Ah well,” said Wingo. “Enough for now. Look yonder!” He pointed to a case against the back wall. A sign above read:

  TABOO STONES CARVED BY THE UCHE SAVAGES OF THE SOUTH MOUNTAINS, USED AS INSTRUMENTS OF DREAD. THESE WERE TAKEN AT GREAT RISK! THE SYMBOLS CARVED INTO EACH COULD TELL A TROUBLESOME STORY. PRICES ON REQUEST.

  Wingo rose to his feet; Schwatzendale jumped up and the two went to examine the dread-stones. Myron was about to follow, when he noticed that the girl was looking in his direction. He sat back in the chair and held up his hand in a signal. She crossed the room and stopped beside the table. “Yes, sir? Do you need more ale?”

  “No. I wanted to speak with you.”

  The girl smiled doubtf
ully, looked over her shoulder toward the counter, then turned back to Myron and said in a rush: “I think that you have been educated at an advanced school.”

  “Yes,” said Myron in surprise. “How do you know?”

  “By looking at you and hearing your voice. What did you study?”

  “The usual variety. I started in Economic Fluxions, then changed to Theoretic Aesthetics, then transferred into Cosmology, and there I stayed. What about you?”

  The girl was amused. “My education has come from what I have read. It is not what I would like.”

  “Oh? What would you like?”

  “I want to leave this place and never return! Perhaps I would go to a school like yours. Would that be possible?”

  “No reason why not. What do you want to learn?”

  “Everything there is to know.”

  Myron frowned, unsure of what it was proper to say. Realistically, the girl’s prospects could not be considered good.

  The girl seemed to divine his thoughts. “Does what I say sound reasonable?”

  Myron said bravely, “It would not be easy. Still, anything is possible.”

  “That is what I tell myself. I don’t have much money — not enough to pay for passage away from here. Can I work aboard a spaceship?”

  Myron hesitated. “Sometimes a passenger ship needs a stewardess or a nurse. On a freighter such as the Glicca these jobs are not open. Even so, a captain will sometimes ship a pretty girl aboard to massage his back and keep his bed warm. It happens once in a while. Does the idea bother you?”

  The girl thought a moment. “It would do me no permanent harm. I would not mind too much, if the captain were nice.” She turned him a swift sidelong glance. “Are you the captain?”

  Myron laughed. “If I were, you would be leaving aboard my ship tonight! But I am only the supercargo, at the low end of the scale.”

  “And you could not take me aboard?”

  “Not a chance. But space-travel is not all that dear.”

  “I have some money — not very much. Probably not enough.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Thirty-six sols.”

  “Fifty sols would buy your passage to Port Tanjee, where you could probably find work of some kind — perhaps aboard a passenger packet, for Sarbane or Arcturus Legend or even Old Earth.”

  “That would be wonderful! But I don’t have that much money.”

  “Will your father help you?”

  “No.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the counter. “He wants me to stay here, where I can work in the tavern. He gets angry when I talk to off-worlders. He thinks that I might be selling myself for money.”

  Myron looked at her askance. “Do you do that?”

  “No — not that it means a great deal. Would you give me money?”

  For a moment Myron could find nothing to say. Then he asked: “For what?”

  “To help me find passage away from Terce — and also for me, if you like.”

  “It seems a good cause,” said Myron. “I can invest, oh, five sols.”

  The girl turned him a side-glance. “I will be finished with my work in a moment or two. If you wish to give me some money very privately, you may. I have nothing to give you in return, except myself, and I will do so, if you are of a mind. Not just for the money, but because I like you and I want to share with you.”

  “The idea is agreeable, certainly.”

  “My chamber is halfway along the corridor, yonder. I will leave the door open a crack.”

  The girl moved away, turning him a single thoughtful glance over her shoulder. A few moments later Myron saw her lay the serving tray on the counter. She spoke briefly to the landlord, then quietly left the room.

  Schwatzendale and Wingo returned to the table. Schwatzendale asked, “What was that all about? If it was seduction, forget it. She wants your pretty yellow hair. If she collected your pelt, she would come into a good deal of money.”

  “Nonsense,” said Myron. “We were talking about education. She wants to leave Terce, and needs money. I told her I would give her five sols, and she said she would appreciate it. I can understand that it sounds a bit sordid, but it is not that way at all. She may share the local disregard for chastity, but what of that? She does not think that she is marketing herself.”

  “I agree,” said Schwatzendale. “She wants your pelt. It is worth at least fifty sols, perhaps more.”

  “Incredible!” muttered Myron. “She is desperately anxious to leave this frightful world. Also, I believe that she likes me.”

  Schwatzendale gave a caw of sardonic laughter. “She serves you a tankard of ale and falls in love on the spot. Is that the way of it?”

  “Such things happen!”

  “And other things as well. They are expert with a special tool; they slide it into your neck, give it a turn and a swish, and your spinal cord is cut, so that death comes gently, gently, gently, and kill-marks are few.”

  “She intends no such grisly work; my instincts can’t be that unhelpful! I’d bet money that I’m right!”

  Myron intended only a rhetorical flourish. He had forgotten Schwatzendale’s proclivities.

  “Done!” cried Schwatzendale. “It’s ten sols, even money, that she goes after your pelt, one way or another. Are you on?”

  “Certainly!” declared Myron with more bravado than he felt.

  Wingo protested: “That is not a kindly bet! Myron will be in danger, especially if she has confederates.”

  “We shall take precautions,” said Schwatzendale. “I will watch through a crack in the door.”

  “No, no, no!” cried Myron. “I would feel quite useless.”

  “It is not a genteel suggestion,” pronounced Wingo.

  “Very well, then. I will stand by the door. If the girl chases Myron with a knife, he need only call and I will be there to protect my interests. I have no doubt but what Myron can take care of himself. Naturally, he will carry his gun.”

  “Of course!” said Myron. “While I am busy with the girl, I will grip the gun between my teeth.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Wingo. “Remember: when you are most distracted, that is when you are likely to be taken by surprise.”

  “Correct!” said Schwatzendale. “One time I was happily engaged with a girl, and did not notice that her mother had entered the room with a broom. When she raised it high to strike, I saw her and quickly rolled us both over. She struck the girl instead, a mighty wallop flat on the buttocks. During the outcry I took up my clothes and ran from the room. I never saw the girl again, and of course I carefully avoided the mother.”

  “In cases of this sort, one must always be vigilant,” said Wingo.

  Schwatzendale rose to his feet. “Well then, Myron, are you ready?”

  Myron said grimly, “Yes, I am ready.”

  “Two last points. Make sure that she carries no knife, and look under the pillow. If she asks about your gun, tell her that you carry it by the captain’s orders.”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered Myron. “This is not as romantic as I had hoped. Come along then. I will go first. You come behind, and please do not call through the door to ask how things are going.”

  “Trust me!”

  Myron turned into the dim corridor, followed by Schwatzendale. They passed the latrine and went on to where a door stood ajar, allowing a slit of light to slice across the corridor. Myron eased open the door and, step by slow step, entered the room. He halted and behind him closed the door until the edge touched the frame, stopping before the latch was engaged. He stood in a large room, more nicely furnished than he had expected. The ceiling was white plaster, with a decorative frieze around the perimeter, stained blue and ocher. Planks of polished dark wood and a grass mat covered the floor. A cabinet with six drawers stood against one wall, along with a small bookcase containing a dozen books and as many rather tattered periodicals. A round wooden table supported a lamp and a vase holding feathery fronds of several colors: mauve, b
lack, a luminous brown. At the opposite end of the room was a bed, spread with a neat blue and white quilt. A large map of Old Earth covered the wall opposite, while over the bed a high shelf displayed a dozen small dolls, dressed in a variety of costumes.

  In the air hung a muted fragrance: delicate, tart and — so Myron thought — a trifle exotic. Aside from fragrance, dolls and map, there was little to express the girl’s personality: no photographs, oddments or souvenirs; only the girl herself. She sat on the edge of the bed. After a quick glance toward Myron, she turned away to look pensively down at her hands. She had discarded her sandals; her feet and legs were bare.

  Myron watched her in fascination, ideas of every sort churning through his mind. Schwatzendale’s cynicism had been disturbing; was it at all credible? Could a girl such as this, graceful, slight, with so much wistful charm, harbor the grisly intentions which Schwatzendale had imputed to her?

  The girl turned her head and looked at him. She spoke in a soft voice. “Are you sorry to be here?”

  “No.” Myron gave a self-conscious laugh. “Perhaps I am a bit on edge.”

  “If you regret coming, you need not stay.”

  “It’s nothing like that. Today, up at Mel, a boy tried to lure me into the shadows, so that he could kill me with his knife. The adventure left me in a nervous state.”

  The girl smiled. “This is not Mel. I am not a boy. I carry no knife.”

  “I can see this for myself — but the boy seemed so innocent, and my friends have pointed out that my pelt would pay for your passage to Port Tanjee.”

  The girl smiled rather painfully. “But in spite of your misgivings you are here.”

  “So I am. I wish I could know you better. Even more, I wish that we were somewhere other than here.”

  The girl looked down at her hands. “I do too. It is why I asked you if you wanted to come here. But I have been thinking. You need not give me any money. I don’t want you to think that I sell myself — especially not for what you are able to give me. For five hundred sols — yes! For a thousand sols — gladly, with joy.”

  Myron laughed. “Sorry; I can barely imagine that much wealth. Still, I want to contribute to your travel fund. It won’t be enough to startle you, but it will help take you to Port Tanjee.” He laid five sols on the chest of drawers.