by Jack Vance
Mariah shows a hundred guises, a thousand faces, and ten thousand moods. Four continents are spaced at regular intervals around the equator. Viewed from space they seem like four dainty damoiselles dancing in a circle, but on closer approach the impression vanishes and the continents reveal their special identities.
Alpha is bleak and rough, with four mountain ranges, a variety of deserts, both high and low, and the whole fringed by a cheerless seaboard of crags, cliffs and narrow beaches of groaning shingle.
Beta is the largest continent, and is abundantly watered by the rains which, avoiding Alpha, have gone on to drench Beta. At the center of Beta is a vast swamp, inhabited by a fecund mix of flora and fauna, all violently disagreeable. Nine slow rivers drain the swamp, then make their way to the sea across savannahs populated by grazing quadrupeds and a complement of predators who react to the human presence with only a mild curiosity. When approached they move away with quiet dignity, as if to say, ‘I don’t know who or what you are, and I prefer not to find out.’
The third continent, Gamma, has been subjected to a great deal of tectonic stress, and displays a wonderful variety of geological formations, as well as the Great Shinar Forest of the interior. In one or two areas there is a suggestion of ruins and artifacts of enormous age, as if half a million years ago the place was home to a race of beings now vanished. The evidence is ambiguous, and surely will arouse controversy. There is much geologic wealth in the blasted hills of Gamma. In the pegmatite sills I have seen perfect tourmalines a foot long; the metamorphosed amphibole produces a blue jade with the unctuous texture of frozen butter.
The fourth continent, Delta, is like a pretty girl in the company of three bearded ruffians. Everywhere on Delta are delightful landscapes of halcyon beauty, where everything harsh or cruel is forbidden. On the shore of Songerl Bay I shall build a rambling home of rustic timber, with a porch overlooking the beach. In the morning barefoot maidens shall serve my breakfast. Later, they will bring flasks of rum punch to where I sit on the porch, watching the sunset fade and the stars come out. By day Songerl Bay is placid and blue, but I shall neither swim nor wade in the surf, since the water festers with all manner of noxious life; still, it is here where I wish to live out my days. Will it happen so? Who knows? For a man with a locator’s soul, nothing is ever certain.
Myron consulted the map. There were four spaceports, one for each continent: Station A near the town Ascensor, on the continent Alpha; Station B, near Felker’s Landing, at the brink of the Great Gorge, on Beta; Station C on Gamma, under Mount Kopan, at the edge of the Great Shinar Forest; Station D near Sonc Town, beside Songerl Bay on the west coast of Delta.
The Glicca carried cargo for each of the stations, and so would visit each of the continents. Cargo accessibility dictated that the first port of call should be Station D beside Songerl Bay, near the site of Abel Merklint’s rustic homeplace.
The Glicca landed at noon. The cargo was discharged expeditiously, and cargo awaiting transshipment was loaded into the appropriate bay. There would be a delay of a day or two pending the arrival of goods from outlying depots. For tramp freighters plying space without schedule, such delays occurred more often than not. Only the pilgrims complained, especially since, lacking funds, they were unable to visit the village adjacent to the spaceport. To placate them, Wingo promised an amplitude of fresh fruit for an after-supper treat. They were further gratified when Schwatzendale tendered Kalash the Perrumpter an envelope containing eleven sols for distribution among the pilgrims, thus allowing them to visit the village market.
Siglaf and Hunzel came into the saloon. They looked left and right; then, discovering Moncrief sipping tea and reading a journal, strode across the saloon to confront him. Moncrief sighed, put down the journal, looked up. “Ladies! Are you out for a stroll along the beach? Take heed; do not swim in the sea without a green bathing cap; otherwise you might be devoured by a monitor trapenoid. Even the green cap may not protect you.”
“We will neither stroll nor swim,” stated Siglaf. “Other matters concern us.”
Hunzel spoke curtly. “You have had time to reflect. When will you pay what you owe us?”
Moncrief replaced the journal into a rack. “I have not been idle. To the contrary! I have made collections, and I am now ready to settle our accounts.”
Taken aback, both Siglaf and Hunzel surveyed him in silent wonder. “If true, that is good news,” said Siglaf at last.
“Yes, yes; good news for us all,” said Moncrief. “Still, we cannot ignore the formalities.”
“What formalities?” demanded Siglaf. “Mind you: we will not be satisfied with verbiage!”
Moncrief gave his hand a tolerant wave. “Correct business practice must be observed. First, have you prepared a receipt? I thought not. Very well then! At this moment write the following document, in a clear hand: ‘Received in toto and in full from Marcel Moncrief, this day, settlement for all debts or obligations, tacit or otherwise, incurred during that period from the first instant of recorded or unrecorded time, whichever came first, to that moment when the last glimmer of energy fades from the universe, whether the principals to this instrument be living or dead at the time.’ Then date and sign the document.”
Siglaf bawled in outrage, “Bah! Bosh! Sheer bullypup! Are you truly serious?”
Hunzel spoke idly. “Just give us our money, and let there be an end to the blather.”
Moncrief said politely, “Of course, but first I must have proper invoices, with all credits and debits itemized. No doubt you have prepared such a statement?”
Hunzel threw a paper down upon the table. “This is all we need. It is a tally of our joint unpaid salaries: Siglaf, myself, the three girls. Please pay this sum.”
Moncrief took up the paper, scanned it judiciously then looked up in mild astonishment. “Is this a joke? Where are your deductions for ongoing expenses? I refer to transport, sustenance and miscellaneous outlays.”
“I believe that you refer to what is known as ‘perquisites of the trade’,” said Hunzel. “We are not required to deal with them.”
Moncrief tossed the paper aside. “Your figures are incomplete. Luckily, my own records are here at hand. The correct system is simple. You are credited with your salary, from which you must pay your personal expenses, such as transportation, lodging and victualling.” He brought out his account book and also a packet of the chips he had won from Schwatzendale. After consulting his accounts, he wrote a number upon the discarded document. “This is the sum owing to you at the moment. You must still settle your transit charges from Sweetfleur to Cax with Captain Maloof.”
Siglaf and Hunzel read the number in quivering outrage. “Preposterous!” cried Hunzel. “We refuse to be victimized!”
“Nevertheless, this is the amount I am prepared to pay. You may inspect my figures if you like.”
“By all means; pay us in part! Anything is better than nothing! At Cax we will complain to the Red Coats, and they will soon set matters right!”
Moncrief gave a good-natured shrug. “You still must give me a receipt for any sum I pay over to you.” He began to count chips. The Klutes watched with suspicion. Siglaf demanded, “What are those bits of trash?”
Moncrief responded with dignity, “These are securities issued by the pilgrims. Each item is worth ten sols, a value secured by the precious articles they carry in their cases. I consider it quasi-legal tender, and I shall use it as such to pay off your accounts.”
From Siglaf and Hunzel came bellows of furious laughter.
“Never!” cried Siglaf. “Do you take us for fools?”
Hunzel demanded, “Pay us in real money and pay us now! Otherwise we shall turn you over to the Red Coats! They will drag you howling and squealing to the Aquabelle Island work-camp!”
“I shall file counter-charges,” said Moncrief. “It is you who will be dragged off in disgrace.”
“Never! Our charges shall carry the day, since you owe us money! This fact will be
construed as your motive, and the cat will be out of the bag.”
“Absurdity and nonsense,” declared Moncrief. “Right shall prevail!”
Hunzel gave a fleering laugh. “Remember only that the Aquabelle work-camp is stark, and that the food — what there is of it — is sour and bitter.”
The Klutes departed the Glicca, and went out to saunter along the beach. Moncrief remained in his chair, reviewing the events of the day. They brought him no cheer. Uncertainties lurked wherever he looked. And meanwhile, the worst enemy of all, the great colossus Time, loomed ever taller over his mental landscape. The years were advancing; there was no turning them back.
Moncrief winced and sat up in the chair. This sort of rumination must be avoided. True: he was no longer a nimble young bravo but his mental capacity had declined no whit! He was as clever, subtle and audacious as ever — but, if truth must be told, he had gone soft and lazy! Still, and on the other hand, could he not trace his tendency toward ease and self-indulgence to the advent of years? Was he supposed to be an acrobat and turn cartwheels for the rest of his days? Surely not. What then? The answer was plain. He must revitalize his temperament, now that youthful organs no longer pumped quick reactions and surges of stimulation into his blood.
“Rumplety-bang and a yo-heave-ho! Kick down the valve and away we go!” sang Moncrief under his breath. No more of this maundering. Despite all, he was Moncrief the Mage, the same Marcel Moncrief who had elevated mouse-riding to the status of a fine art! There had been many triumphs, a few tantalizing failures, and even now in his present troupe there was the potentiality for new glories, if he could only keep it together! At the moment he must rouse himself and take control of his small predicaments, as well as others not so small.
First, the repair of his finances! Almost his only tangible assets were the chips he had won from Schwatzendale. What, if anything, was their value? Moncrief rose to his feet and strolled back to the cargo hold where the pilgrims’ cases were stowed. Here, to his annoyance, he found a grizzled old pilgrim named Barthold, who stood guard over the cases during the absence of the other pilgrims now wandering the village market. Barthold was squat, with a crooked leg, frowsty coarse gray hair, bleary blue eyes and a pugnacious chin. He sat on a keg, his staff and a jug of juniper ready to hand. Behind him the cargo hatch stood ajar, admitting Pfitz-light and draughts of cool air fresh with the tang of the sea.
Moncrief asked, “Why are you not ashore, sporting about with your fellows?”
Barthold lurched to his feet; he waved his staff toward the cases. “These are valuable objects, and someone must stand guard. To this end the brethren have invested their trust in me.”
“For the best of reasons, no doubt,” said Moncrief. He advanced into the hold and examined the cases more closely. They were constructed from heavy dark wood, bound by bronze straps of ornate design. Each case was secured by a ponderous bronze lock. Moncrief attempted an ingenuous question: “Which of the cases are open for inspection?”
“None whatever! All are sealed with sacred seals. No one may transgress and perhaps commit a mischief. I will tolerate no exceptions to the rule.”
Moncrief spoke with pompous authority. “Stand aside, if you please! I wish to examine the cases, which is my right, since I own most of the contents, as you must be aware.”
“Ha ha! Goose-wipe and poodle-juice! You may own the objects but you don’t own the cases, nor the bronze, nor the sacred seal, nor have you earned my trust!” He flourished his staff. “I stand resolute in my duty!”
Moncrief warned him: “If Captain Maloof passes by and you strike him with your staff, you will find yourself in serious trouble!”
Barthold’s response was a snort of disdain and a twitch of his staff. Moncrief departed the hold and returned to the saloon. Schwatzendale stepped from the galley, where he had been testing Wingo’s special Sea Island Punch, a compound of fresh coconut milk*, lime juice, rum and a dash of apricot brandy. At Moncrief’s signal, Schwatzendale crossed the saloon and joined him. “You look morose. What has happened now?”
* The coconut palm, native to Old Earth, had been transferred across the Gaean Reach wherever climate and salt water permitted, and now seemed native to the entire universe.
“If you must know, I fear poverty, not to mention its ancillary effects.”
“No less do I. It is how I justify taking money from the pilgrims, though, as well, a fine exhilaration is to be had from the deed.”
Moncrief made a gloomy sound. “Profit is probably an illusion.”
“Oh? How so?”
“We gambled with these cunning pilgrims in sterling good faith. We put down our sound currency; they used bits of hardboard which they valued at ten sols. All very well, but where can these chips be redeemed? Only on the world Kyril, at Impy’s Landing. But the Glicca will fare nowhere near Kyril — which leaves us with stacks of worthless chips!”
Schwatzendale threw his arms into the air, elbows at sharp angles: a gesture denoting rueful amusement mingled with outrage. “We have been swindled by rascally pilgrims!”
Moncrief nodded somberly. “That is my reading of the case, which has prompted me to a stint of serious thinking. As we have already noted, the Glicca will not put into Kyril. The pilgrims and their cases will be discharged at Coro-Coro, where they must transship to Impy’s Landing, while we continue to Blenkinsop — foolishly clutching our worthless chips.”
“Correct: a fiasco!”
“But hold! A spark of hope remains. The chips are secured by items in the cases. These items are purportedly valuable, but the reason for this value has never been defined for us. Perhaps they are ancient relicts studded with precious gems! Or Khorasan miniatures! Or pink turbans embroidered in black! It is this information which is lacking to us.”
Schwatzendale clapped his hands together. “We should redeem our chips at once, the sooner the better! Of course we can expect a great howling from the pilgrims, but what of that?”
Moncrief stated, “What is right is right. At least, that shall be our contention. It is a maxim which the pilgrims will find hard to dispute.”
Schwatzendale jumped to his feet. “I suggest that we act at once. The pilgrims are at the market, probably haggling with the town prostitutes, trying to strike bargains.”
Moncrief also rose to his feet. “First we must deal with a preliminary detail. The cases are guarded by an old bowser named Barthold, who is truculent to a fault. If we can distract him from his duties, can you open one of the cases?”
“Certainly! No problem exists.”
“In that case, let us set the process in motion.”
Moncrief found Flook, Pook and Snook in the galley, where they were testing Wingo’s Sea Island Punch. Moncrief summoned them into the saloon, and settled them around a low table. He spoke in a grave voice. “I have many things to discuss with you, but each topic must wait its turn. At the moment we will deal with a matter of urgent importance.”
“Aha!” cried Snook. “Then you too believe that Siglaf should cultivate a more charming manner?”
“I do indeed, but it is not what concerns us now.” He went on to instruct the girls in the work which lay ahead. The program was not to their liking.
“It is far too tiresome,” Flook told him. “Not at all in our style!”
“It is even a bit grotesque,” said Pook. “What will you demand of us next?”
Snook gave a little shudder. “As to that, I would not care to speculate.”
Flook said reasonably, “Another day will do as well.”
“I have the answer!” cried Pook. “Why not turn the job over to Siglaf and Hunzel? They have nothing better to do.”
Moncrief spoke sternly. “Come now! I will hear no more grumbling!”
Pook wailed piteously. “Ah! Have mercy! We are not apt for such mischief — especially in connection with someone so scurrilous!”
“I have heard enough!” declared Moncrief. “You must obey at this instant, or
you will be looking in vain for the little treats you enjoy so much!”
“Nonsense,” declared Snook. “We know how to get anything we want from you.”
Moncrief chuckled. “Regardless! Today you must do my bidding and there will be a box of bon-bons for each.”
“Ah, well! In that case!”
The girls ran to the stern cargo hold, where they fell to teasing Barthold. They sat on his lap, pulled his nose, blew into his ears. Pook raised his shirt while Snook tickled his back with a wisp of straw.
“You are a sturdy fellow!” they told him. “We seldom see a man so brave and fierce! You frighten us!”
“Ha, what a joke!” Barthold refreshed himself with a pull from his jug. “Still, no question but what I am strong and ready! Very ready indeed!” He seized Pook, drew her down on his lap and began to caress her. “You girls are choice morsels indeed! Ha! What is this?”
“Oh — you know. We’re all the same.”
“May I touch them both?”
“Of course! Are we not your innocent little friends? Even so, now we are all excited.”
Barthold gave his head a sad shake. “A pity that only one can be first.”
“True — but which of us?”
“I shall determine, by my secret method. Stand up in a row; I will pat your lovely little bottoms and so come to a decision.”
“But not in this dismal place. Let us go down the ramp into the open.” The girls ran down the ramp and were followed by Barthold. “Now then: line up, according to the plan.”
“Ha ha! You must catch us first!” The girls scampered off down the beach. Barthold called for them to slow their pace and set out in pursuit, hobbling and lurching and waving his jug of juniper.
Moncrief summoned Schwatzendale. “Bring some tools and we shall learn the worth of a pilgrim’s chit.” The two went to the cargo bay, closed and locked the doors against the return of Barthold. Then Schwatzendale took up his tools and set to work on the most convenient of the cases. After a quick examination of lock, seals and bronze straps, he carefully pried open the back of a case, leaving the seals intact. The contents were neatly packed in cardboard boxes: many small sacks of dry soil, of no obvious value.
