by Jack Vance
“Now then, as to his options! He can increase his winnings to a thousand sols if he pits himself against the two Klutes, working in tandem. He can choose to shackle the ankles of his adversary, but he thereby reduces his potential winnings to fifty sols. If he elects both to shackle and blindfold her, he wins only ten sols. If he shackles both her arms and legs, and she is blindfolded, then required to spin in circles at the starting bell, his winnings are reduced to a single sol. That, in essence, is the nature of the game. Who, then, will be the first contestant?” Moncrief surveyed the spectators, but none seemed eager to play the game. Moncrief turned to Schwatzendale. “What of you? An equation might help you win the prize!”
Schwatzendale shook his head. “Not unless it is you who guards the field, instead of Siglaf or Hunzel.”
Moncrief chuckled. “I am far too slow for such work, also too wise.” He looked here and there. “I am disappointed! Where are the gallant sportsmen?”
From the back of the crowd came a peremptory call: “Not so fast! I am here with my secret techniques!”
A middle-aged gentleman, broad and squat, with a round pink face, pushed forward, waving his arms. He evidently had been celebrating the fair in all its aspects and was in a state of elevated spirits. Several ceremonial ribbons adorned his jacket while two plumes had been affixed to his hat, now rakishly askew. “Stand back; do nothing! Omar Dyding is coming and you will know his secret at last!” Dyding swaggered confidently forward. “I am here, and this is my wager!” He threw ten sols down upon the platform. “Bring out Snook or Pook or Flook, I will select one of the three for my adversary!”
Moncrief spoke with unctuous courtesy: “The three you mention are resting after their work. Siglaf and Hunzel have agreed to take their places. Choose one or the other!”
“I prefer the thousand-sol prize,” said Dyding. “Why should I stint myself? I will subdue both at once, using my secret method.”
“As you wish,” said Moncrief. “We shall watch your tactics with interest.”
The contestants took their places. Moncrief gave the signal. Dyding stepped forward. Siglaf and Hunzel strolled to meet him. Dyding spoke to them, but they would not listen. Siglaf seized his wrists; Hunzel grasped his ankles. They swung him once, twice, then pitched him into the tank. Moncrief terminated the contest and took the ten sols of the wager.
Dyding floundered to the side of the tank. Wingo captured several excellent ‘mood impressions’, then helped Dyding crawl out upon the walkway where he lay in a puddle while Wingo, taking up a pole, retrieved his hat.
After a moment Dyding stood up and started to clean himself. Wingo obligingly turned water from a garden hose upon him. Dyding was no longer in a jovial mood. Wingo nevertheless ventured a comment: “I thought that you had a secret plan of attack. Something must have gone wrong.”
“Bah!” muttered Dyding. “These girls are healthy enough, but they are overly coy. I spoke to them, outlining the program, but they refused to listen.”
“What, then, was the plan?”
“It is simple and natural. If the contestant caresses his adversaries, fondles their buttocks, lays hold of their private parts, they become embarrassed and confused; thereafter he can do as he likes with them. Those, in general, are my tactics; you may try them if you like.”
“Hm,” said Wingo. “It is a new approach to the pugilistic art.”
Moncrief, finding no more interest in the contest, had closed his operation for the night. He then had taken Captain Maloof aside and engaged him in conversation. Maloof finally agreed to transport Moncrief and his troupe to Cax on the world Blenkinsop, a port already on the ship’s itinerary.
“I have eleven pilgrims aboard,” Maloof told Moncrief. “They will be with us as far as Coro-Coro on Fluter; it may be a bit tight aboard until then. Still, we’ll manage one way or another.”
3
Fiametta’s long afternoon passed. Kaneel Verd, the Green Star, settled below the horizon, leaving behind a welter of orange and coral-red, along with a scatter of apple-green cirrus.
Evening came to Sweetfleur. Two of the three moons climbed the sky, casting a pale greenish light over the landscape. The Lalapalooza had closed down for the night and was quiet except for a few dim resorts where the murmur of grave voices attended the consumption of Pingaree Punch, Gaedmon’s ale and wines of the region. At the space terminal a few dim lights glowed from the Glicca and the Fontenoy, indicating wakeful presences within.
Time passed. The moons arrived at the zenith and drifted down the sky. Across the landing field two figures moved through the moonlight. They approached the Fontenoy and paused in the shadow of the hull, where they drew close together. After a time they spoke, in soft sad voices. Myron said, “The time has come at last. We must say goodbye.”
Tibbet made a mournful sound. She took his hand and placed it between her breasts. “That’s my heart beating! A week ago you never suspected that such a heart existed! Now you have found it and now you must go.”
“I have no choice. Your father and mother would bar me from the Fontenoy, and Captain Maloof would not ship you aboard the Glicca, even if your parents agreed.”
“Small chance of that.”
Myron said musingly, “At one time I hoped that my Aunt Hester would give me her space-yacht after taking a cruise or two. If it ever happened, I would locate the Fontenoy and come for you.”
Tibbet laughed sadly. “Sheer fantasy! Nice, though.” She looked up at the sky and for a moment watched the course of the moons. Then she said softly, “I’ll never forget tonight, as long as I live. And now —” she straightened, threw her shoulders back “— I had better go in, before I start to cry.”
“I’ll come in with you. If there is to be thunder and lightning, I’ll collect some of it.”
The two approached the gangplank. Someone sat on the top step in the dark. “I’ve been waiting for you,” said Mirl.
“We are here at last,” said Tibbet. “How is the climate inside?”
“Not too bad. Worry but no hysteria.” Mirl rose to his feet and slid aside the portal. Myron and Tibbet preceded him into the saloon.
Joss Garwig and Vermyra sat side by side on a couch. “So!” growled Garwig. “You finally decided to come home.”
Tibbet managed to laugh. “In a word — yes. Here I am, the errant daughter, awaiting execution.”
Garwig looked at Myron. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Myron shook his head. “Nothing — except that it was a very nice fair and we’ll never forget it.”
Tibbet ran to the couch, hugged and kissed her mother. “I hope you haven’t worried too hard.”
Vermyra sighed. “The years have gone by much too quickly, even though I tried to hold them back! You aren’t my baby anymore.”
“I suppose not. At least, not altogether.”
Vermyra rose to her feet. She looked at Myron. “I suppose that this is the end of it, so far as you are concerned?”
Myron said somberly, “The Fontenoy is returning to Duvray on Alcydon. The Glicca is headed for Cax on Blenkinsop, then who knows where.”
Vermyra gave a grim nod. “That is what I thought you would say.”
Myron found that he had no proper words to express his feelings. He turned away and started for the portal. Tibbet followed him: through the opening and out upon the landing at the head of the gangplank. They stood close and kissed. After a moment Myron said, “We may never see each other again. The Reach is a very large place.”
“In a way, so it is. In another, it’s not so large.”
“It feels large when we are going off in different directions.”
“You can write me care of the Pan-Arts Museum at Duvray,” said Tibbet. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know that you have forgotten me.”
Chapter IX
1
In the morning the space-yacht Fontenoy was gone from its pad. The Glicca worked cargo, then departed Sweetfleur on a course w
hich would take it first to Pfitz Star and the four stations of Mariah, thence to Coro-Coro, finally onward to Cax, on Blenkinsop.
The six new passengers brought an immediate animation to the ship. The saloon resounded to laughter and jokes, as well as conversation on a more serious level. Wingo discussed aspects of his philosophy and Maloof offered an occasional wry witticism. Myron told of his tenure as Captain of the space-yacht Glodwyn, to such good effect that even Hunzel and Siglaf, if contemptuously, recognized his right to existence. Only Schwatzendale seemed pensive, and took himself to a corner of the saloon where he sat in sardonic silence. The three girls, as always, were happy and gay and quite at ease in the new environment. They wore modest blue frocks with white collars, white stockings, white slippers and small white caps; they looked crisp, clean, delicious enough to eat. The pilgrims, who had not seen them before, were duly impressed. They stood in small groups, darting covert glances toward the girls and muttering bleak comments to each other.
The exception was a brash young pilgrim with a loud voice named Cooner. He was plump, bumptious, with pink cheeks, moist brown eyes and a fine crop of chestnut curls. Cooner, while naive and more than a little prim, was garrulous and abashed by nothing. Finding the girls sitting at the long table, Cooner ambled across the saloon and dropped his large buttocks into a chair. With fulsome bonhomie he welcomed the girls aboard the Glicca, and vowed that he would take it upon himself to make their voyage both joyous and memorable. The girls, after a moment of slack-jawed surprise, responded politely. Cooner hitched himself forward. In a hearty voice enlivened by chuckles and intimate asides, he identified himself as a ‘unique individual with a prismatic personality’.
“Interesting!” said the girls. “We haven’t seen that sort of thing before.”
Cooner made a casual gesture. “At home I am known as a real blue-tailed goer, which means ‘a person of dynamic competence’.”
“Most amazing!” said the girls.
“Just so and more. At the yearly Rally I was in charge of the Senior Ladies’ High Jumps, and I instructed in Classic Genuflexions at the Noble House.”
“Heigh-ho!” said the girls. “Quite fascinating.”
Cooner smiled and nodded. “Now then, would you girls like to learn some of our interesting customs? I will teach you the Ten Dithyrambs, and the ‘Cleansing Ceremony’, if you do not object to an ablution in the nude. Most tasteful, of course!”
From Siglaf came a gruff sound. The girls left the table and joined her across the saloon, where she spoke a few terse words. Cooner looked after them, eyebrows raised in displeasure. He started to follow, but Wingo came to join him at the table.
“I see that you have developed an admiration for the three girls,” said Wingo.
“Of course!” declared Cooner loftily. “They are devout and modest. They deserve my ungrudging help!”
“I see. Which of the three do you fancy above the others? Snook? Or is it Pook? Or perhaps it is Flook?”
“I don’t know,” said Cooner peevishly. “All are quite gracious.”
“You are bold!” said Wingo. “Have you noticed Siglaf and Hunzel? They are Klutes from the Bleary Hills, and they have been watching your every move.”
Cooner said proudly, “They have a right to do so, and I grant them that privilege.”
“Aha!” said Wingo. “You do not suspect the truth?”
“No.”
“You are a mouse sniffing the cheese of a very sinister trap!”
Cooner’s jaw dropped. “How so?”
“Suppose, in your innocence, you committed an infraction of the Klute intersexual code. In such a case, either Siglaf or Hunzel, or both, would claim you in marriage. Captain Maloof would be obliged to perform the ritual, and you would find a new meaning to your life.”
“That is beyond imagination!” gasped Cooner.
“Just so,” said Wingo. “The Klutes are estimable ladies, but perhaps you have other plans.”
“Of course! I am on an important pilgrimage!”
Wingo had no more to say. Cooner sat motionless for a time; then, after a covert glance across the saloon, he went quietly off to his quarters and read eighteen pages in the book of Primal Verities.
Time passed. The ship’s company gradually adopted routines which seemed congenial. Flook, Pook and Snook ignored the gloomy disapproval of the two Klute women, and ranged the ship like a trio of active kittens. Their capacity for pranks and mischief seemed limitless. They involved Cooner in a game of blind man’s buff and locked him in the aft latrine, where he stayed until his bellows finally aroused the attention of Kalash. They played a different game with Wingo, descending upon him in a sudden tumble of young femininity, to sit in his lap, kiss his nose, ruffle his sparse locks and blow in his ears, until he promised them nut-cakes and cream gateaus. They set ambushes for Schwatzendale, fondling him, clambering upon his back, kissing him, and declaring that he was so pretty they intended to put an embroidered collar around his neck and keep him for a pet. Schwatzendale hugged them benignly and patted their bottoms; and said that the scheme would suit him well enough, provided that he were well-fed, well-groomed and exercised every day. Ah yes! cried the girls in delight. They would all run together on the beach at Sha-la-la, and they would throw sticks for Schwatzendale to fetch.
Siglaf and Hunzel watched the antics with dour disapproval, muttering to each other from time to time. Moncrief was more tolerant. “So goes the world!” he told the Klute women. “The tide always ebbs before it flows. The water is still the same water, and it is now time for poor old Moncrief to float quietly away to his repose.”
Siglaf, swinging around, stared down at Moncrief with eyes like flints. She spoke tersely. “Before you float too far, and before your repose becomes too tranquil, please pay over the monies owing to us. We have waited long enough.”
Hunzel also spoke. “We know that you are happiest when you are swindling someone and taking all their money. We do not want you to enjoy this pleasure at our expense.” Both spoke brusquely, without concern for decorum, and neither heeded the half-open door which gave upon the supercargo’s office.
Siglaf went on to state: “At this moment we carry no funds whatever. It is an outrage!”
Moncrief smilingly held up his hand. “Ladies, ladies! Let us have no more caterwauling! Your assets are safe.”
“Bah!” sneered Hunzel. “Our assets consist of numbers in a notebook which no one can read! How can you expect us to believe you?”
Siglaf spoke forcefully. “Do you want us to walk the street like paupers? Pay us the money at once!”
“All in good time,” said Moncrief. “I can do nothing until I draw up the balances.”
“Never mind ‘balances’! Just give us money!”
“It is not all so simple,” Moncrief explained. “First I must reckon your earnings. From this sum I deduct costs: charges for transit, lodging, cuisine and the like. The balance is what remains.”
Siglaf made an angry gesture. “Then strike these balances now, and pay us our due!”
“Impractical!” said Moncrief. “For reasons of security, the records are noted in a secret cipher. They cannot be decoded without time and effort.”
“Do not dissemble!” Hunzel cried out. “We know the truth! You have gambled like a crazy man! The funds have been squandered and there is nothing left. Am I not right?”
“In a technical sense only. I intend to collect fees and amortize holdings along the way. When the grand total is struck, that will be the time to consider your accounts. We cannot act in an atmosphere of hysteria; the calculations are complex.”
“In that case you should be working at them now.”
Moncrief spoke with dignity. “At the moment I am planning a new set of spectacles for the troupe and I cannot be distracted.”
Both Klutes made sounds of bitter amusement. Hunzel asked, “What troupe? You are living in the past.”
Moncrief gave an indifferent shrug. “We shall se
e. Now you may go away; you are disturbing my rest.”
“Ha hah! That has been our intention!”
Hunzel asked, “Why should you wallow here at your ease while we mourn the loss of our funds? At Cax we shall see that you are placed in the Aquabelle Island work-camp!”
Moncrief had nothing to say. The Klute women strode away.
A few minutes later Myron emerged from his office. The Klutes had retired to their quarters and the saloon was quiet. Flook, Pook and Snook sat at the dining table looking through Wingo’s portfolio of ‘mood impressions’. The pilgrims had gathered in the cargo bay, where they rehearsed a cycle of devotional exercises. Moncrief still sat in a corner of the saloon. At the sight of Myron he signalled, and Myron went to join him.
Moncrief indicated the door to Myron’s office. “I assume that you overheard my exchange with the Klute ladies?”
“So I did. I was ready to intervene if necessary.”
Moncrief chuckled. “The need was never acute. They strut; they posture; they clamor like gilgaws, but in the end they trot meekly off to their quarters.”
“I am impressed by your aplomb,” said Myron. “The threat of incarceration in a work-camp does not seem to trouble you.”
Moncrief shrugged. “I am like a well-found vessel sailing the ocean of life, careless of wind, wave or storm. For the most part, my voyages are calm.”
“And what of this present voyage?”
Moncrief grimaced. “We have drifted into a belt of unwise investment. The losses included funds which Siglaf and Hunzel hoped might be their own. Now they are unhappy.”
Myron said, “I heard Hunzel suggest that you had ‘gambled away money like a crazy man.’”
Moncrief heaved a sigh. “One cannot reason with an angry woman. Meanwhile, having no money, I have nothing to lose. It is liberation, of a sort.”
