Ports of Call

by Jack Vance

  Moncrief and Schwatzendale exchanged glances and both shrugged in dour exasperation. Wordlessly Schwatzendale repaired the box. After re-opening the cargo door, the two departed the bay.

  2

  Near the site of Abel Merklint’s original homeplace the Sonc Saloon overlooked Songerl Bay. It was a crotchety old structure of weathered timber, with a wide verandah and a roof broken by a dozen fanciful dormers. An annex to the side functioned as a dining room, with tables ranged around a dance floor.

  Schwatzendale and Moncrief, on their way to the inn, came upon Flook, Pook and Snook playing in the surf, running in and out of the foaming water. Pausing, they told an excited tale of how they had eluded old Barthold and left him thrashing about in a thicket; now they were proposing to divest themselves of their clothes and frolic in the surf. Moncrief clapped his hand to his forehead. When he could speak he pointed to a black tube lifting six feet from the sea a hundred yards offshore. “Do you see that tube? It supports the eye of a monstrous creature known as a ‘monitor trapenoid’. As soon as you entered the water three or four tentacles would reach out to seize your ankles and drag you to its jaws. If the monitor were absent, there are knife-fish out there with dorsal ridges hard and sharp as butcher knives. They would instantly slash you into gobbets and carry the pieces down to the bottom to feed their babies. There are also nefring with needle-noses; and gakkos with heads like little sponges. If the sponges touch you, a green fester appears, which kills you if it is not cut away. Songerl Bay is not a favored venue for aquatic sports.”

  The three girls cried out in alarm and jumped away from the water. Pook spoke in a hushed voice. “We were minutes short of death!”

  “To think of it!” cried Flook. “We were on the point of learning what Cooner calls the ‘forbidden mysteries’.”

  “Everyone would have grieved most bitterly!” said Snook in tones of awe. “Undoubtedly there would have been a memorial raised at this very spot!”

  Pook lamented, “Our afternoon is spoiled! What shall we do now?”

  Moncrief spoke with authority: “First of all, a serious talk is in order. We must make plans for the future.”

  “That is unnecessary,” said Pook, rather grandly. “According to Siglaf, our future has already been planned to best advantage.”

  “Indeed!” said Moncrief. “Did either of these wise Klute ladies describe your future in detail?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Flook offhandedly. “At Cax we are to become princesses, which is not at all the ordinary thing. It is a matter of knowing the right people.”

  Snook explained. “At Cax social position means everything, and we will be running with the right set.”

  Pook said, “Siglaf and Hunzel have told us what to expect, and it seems very pleasant. We will ride in golden cars and eat all manner of nice things. We shall be the envy of everyone!”

  Moncrief sighed and shook his head. “Ah, my little pets! So debonair and yet so innocent! The truth is very much different. Come; let us sit over yonder and I will explain what you need to know.”

  Schwatzendale continued down the beach to the Sonc Saloon. He found his shipmates sitting on the verandah, drinking rum punch and enjoying the view across Songerl Bay. The group included a pair of pilgrims: Cooner and Linus Kershaw, a grey-haired gentleman of erudition. Both had refrained from gambling and so retained most of their private funds. Wingo, upon learning that Kershaw held degrees both in Doxology and in Ontological Science, engaged the savant in conversation. They touched upon several topics, including the doctrine of the Clantic Rasborians. Wingo expressed his confusion and asked for a definition in clear language: a requirement which brought a smile to Kershaw’s face.

  “It is a large subject and the matter, by its own nature, is abstruse. Still, I can offer you what I call a ‘bare-bones’ survey, if that will suffice.”

  Cooner cleared his throat and spoke in his most cultured voice. “If I may say so, I have pondered the subject at length; in fact, I have compiled a codification of the Thirteen Punctilios —”

  “Thank you,” said Kershaw. “At this time we need venture no farther than the ‘Prima Facie’, since we do not wish to encumber Wingo’s mind with more than the most basic adumbrations.”

  Cooner gave a rather lofty shrug. “It won’t amount to much unless we go into the Inverse Corollaries.”

  “Something is better than nothing,” said Wingo. “That is a dictum of great antiquity, but which still seems valid today.”

  “Just so,” said Kershaw. “I will do the best I can.”

  Cooner said bravely, “If and when Kershaw chances to overlook some small element of doctrine, I can no doubt supply the missing detail. Or, if you like, I can undertake a running commentary.”

  Kershaw turned him a glance of mild inquiry. Cooner went abruptly silent. After a moment he rose from his seat and stepped down to the beach, where he occupied himself throwing stones into the surf.

  “Our creed is not immediately accessible to the casual amateur,” said Kershaw. “Still, in a sense, it is simplicity itself. The basic doctrine tells us that each individual, willy-nilly, generates his own universe, of which he, or she, is the Supreme Being. We do not, as you will notice, use the word ‘God’, since the individual’s power is neither transducive nor pervasive, and each person will have a different concept as to the nature of his divine program. Perhaps he will merely manipulate the tenor, or — let us say — the disposition of a standard universe. In effect, each individual inhabits the sort of universe he deserves, as if it were sweated out through his pores. For this reason, if the environment lacks charm, he is often reluctant to admit his responsibility, and claims control only over a limited personal ambience.”

  Wingo pursed his lips. “These persons might be motivated by modesty, or even humility, which, in view of their creed, seems only appropriate.”

  “An interesting point,” said Kershaw politely. “Still, under the Clantic doctrine, each individual lives by the terms of his own capabilities. The implications are often disturbing.”

  “I can appreciate this,” said Wingo. “I might add that the difficulties of cross-codification would seem an endless task.”

  “Exactly! It is tantamount to finding the solution to a very large number of simultaneous equations involving an indefinite number of unknowns, without recourse to matrices. At the Institute, for a fact, I thought to develop an equation which would resolve all such disharmonies. My tactic was to cancel out what I call ‘aberrations’ and ‘wolf-terms’, on both sides of the equation.”

  “And the upshot?”

  “I achieved success, along with a modicum of perplexity. In the ultimate resolution I was yielded a highly significant equation: nullity equals nullity.”

  “Most odd!” muttered Wingo. “The matter at this point would seem to enter the realm of mysticism. It is as if you were travelling a road by moonlight and came upon a tall faceless figure holding up his hand to bar your further progress.”

  Kershaw nodded somberly. “On that day all that I needed to know was quietly made clear. Since then I have given up research, though I ponder the many ways of life as I wander.”

  The two men sat silent, watching the surge and retreat of the surf. Cooner was now shying stones at the eye-tube of the monitor trapenoid, which had eased considerably closer to the shore. One of the waiters called to Cooner and pointed to the tall eye-tube, now swaying sinuously back and forth. Cooner, startled, drew back from the line of the surf and desisted from throwing stones. The eye-tube gave a series of irritated jerks and once again moved offshore. Cooner seated himself upon a log and watched the white star Pfitz settle into a bank of cumulus at the horizon.

  Kershaw remarked, “Perhaps I am mistaken, but Cooner seems a bit forlorn. I wonder what has caused him such distress.”

  Wingo chuckled. “I think that I can guess the circumstances. He feels that Moncrief, by one means or another, has mulcted him of five sols.”

  “Most odd!
Cooner is extremely careful with his money!”

  “No doubt. He thought he had caught Moncrief out in a blunder, and he could not resist winning an easy ten sols.”

  Kershaw shook his head sadly. “In many respects Cooner’s nature is innocent and trusting. How was his trust betrayed?”

  “By his own avarice, I fear. Moncrief was playing with a loop of string, creating cat’s-cradles and the like and defying Cooner to predict the outcome of each, the wager being ten dinkets, which Cooner consistently won. Thus, he was emboldened when Moncrief handed him a sharp knife and, holding the loop stretched between his hands, he defied Cooner to cut the string so as to break the loop into a simple length of line. Cooner was assured that he could easily do so, and when Moncrief offered to bet him ten sols to five, he readily placed down his money and cut one of the taut strands Moncrief held between his hands. Moncrief called out: ‘Alakazam! Let the string be whole!’ When Cooner took the string, the loop was unbroken. Moncrief thereupon took up the five sols. Cooner stamped his feet and tore his hair, to no avail. He still carries the loop of string which he examines from time to time, hoping to find where he made the cut.”

  Kershaw gave his head a wry shake. “Cooner should not brood upon this event, since it might compromise his grasp upon the universe for which he is responsible.”

  Wingo glanced up the beach toward Cooner, who sat as before, moodily tossing pebbles into the surf and watching the decline of the star Pfitz.

  “Ah well,” said Kershaw. “Cooner might not find my advice useful.”

  The two men drained their goblets and signaled for refills. After a moment Wingo said, “While you were reminiscing, I remembered one or two of my own experiences. You may be interested in their substance.”

  “Speak on,” said Kershaw with a fatalistic wave of the hand. “Every event of existence, like every grain of sand, is a marvel in itself.”

  “That is my own opinion,” said Wingo. “Like yourself, I have long hoped to synthesize the vagaries of the cosmos into a harmonious unity. I have traveled a long road, and from time to time I have resolved some of the more flagrant paradoxes — but I am not yet at peace. A pair of quandaries still hang in my mind.”

  Kershaw gave a sardonic chuckle. “Only two? Your thinking must be profound! Describe these quandaries.”

  Wingo gathered his thoughts. “Both are basic, though quite different. I encountered the first at a colloquium I attended when I was young. During the event two respected pundits found themselves at odds. The dispute was fundamental in nature. One declared that a primal divinity had created the universe; the other insisted that the cosmos itself was the seminal agency, and had generated a special ad hoc divinity to function as a self-replicating model of itself. For a time the arguments were sharp, since if one doctrine were correct, the other was doomed to oblivion. At the time I could not decide where truth lay, nor can I do so now.”

  “It is an uncomfortable condition,” said Kershaw. “A serene philosophy rests upon a foundation of indisputable truth.”

  Myron, who had been following the conversation, ventured a comment. “I am told that Unspiek Baron Bodissey was once called upon to define Truth. His views are not exactly relevant, but, as always, they are illuminating.”

  “Don’t stop now,” said Schwatzendale, who also had been listening. “On with the anecdote!”

  “It goes like this. One dark midnight a student entered the Baron’s chamber and awoke the Baron from his sleep. The student cried out, ‘Sir, I am distraught with anxiety! Tell me once and for all: what is Truth?’

  “The Baron groaned and cursed and finally raised his head. He roared, ‘Why do you bother me with such trivia?’

  “The student gave a faltering response. ‘Because I am ignorant and you are wise!’

  “‘Very well, then! I can reveal to you that Truth is a rope with one end!’

  “The student persisted. ‘All very well, sir! But what of the far end which is never found?’

  “‘Idiot!’ stormed the Baron. ‘That is the end to which I refer!’ And the Baron once more composed himself to sleep.”

  “Most amusing,” said Kershaw. “It is as responsive to Wingo’s dilemma as any statement I could make.” He turned back to Wingo. “And what of the second problem?”

  “It is a paradox which disturbs me greatly,” said Wingo. “It does not seem amenable to pure reason.”

  “At the very least you pose us an interesting challenge,” said Kershaw. “Continue, if you please.”

  “Once again I must revert to my early days, when I was a student at the Organon. My mathematics professor was unconventional; further, he was contemptuous of cant. He explained that ordinary mathematics was a fraud and a deception, lacking correspondence with reality. The fault lay in the use of the symbol ‘zero’ as an integer to designate ‘nothing’. This, so the professor claimed, was a travesty, since no such entity as ‘nothing’ existed. He pointed out that the absence of ‘something’ was in no wise equivalent to ‘nothing’; to calculate using ‘zero’ as an integer was a logical farce and conventional mathematics was a tool useful only to idiots. I feel that the arguments are valid, but when I use a multiplication table based upon true and proper mathematics, nothing comes out right, and I am at a loss to explain it.”

  Kershaw gave his head a dubious shake. “Even if the usual multiplication table is wrong, no one will want to change now. Best let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “That is also my opinion,” said Myron. “Use the old system, even if it is wrong. Otherwise, whenever you pay out money, you’ll find yourself arguing over the change.”

  Wingo gave a despondent grunt and drank from his goblet. “Somewhere a fallacy exists.”

  The sun Pfitz sank behind the roil of cumulus and passed below the horizon. The sky glowed scarlet and pink, then faded through magenta and plum, as evening came to Songerl Bay. Small fires along the beach flickered where local folk boiled pots reeking of a hundred nose-twitching ingredients.

  At Sonc Saloon, dim lights behind colored shades began to glow in the annex, illuminating a row of paintings in sepia, black and umber, which hung on the walls. A platform at the far end of the annex supported a battered old marimba, apparently home-built, using hardwood blocks strung out along a bamboo frame. At the side of the room Myron saw Moncrief, deep in conversation with a burly red-faced man wearing a white apron and a tall white hat. Both were waving their arms high and low, and tapping the palms of one hand with the fingers of another, as if stipulating the terms of a transaction.

  The tables along the verandah and in the annex became filled, and the kitchen staff began serving the evening repast: bowls of fish stew, bread, cheese and cold meat with pickles. In the sand of the beach a pair of waiters dug a shallow trench eight feet long, in which they started a fire of gnarled black logs. A long grill resting on six splayed legs was placed over the trench; when the fire had dwindled to coals a long object wrapped in banana leaves was placed upon the grill and left to roast.

  Meanwhile, dramatic events were taking place in the annex: notably, a quarrel between the burly landlord Isel Trapp and one of his minions, a weedy youth named Fritzen. Trapp’s fury was extraordinary. He shouted imprecations of an original nature; he performed wild gesticulations, so that Fritzen often was forced to sway backward to avoid the sweep of the great arms. At one point, Trapp dashed his tall white hat to the floor and stomped on it. Fritzen stood with shoulders hunched, head drooping. When he dared mutter a protest, Trapp only roared the louder, so that in the end Fritzen threw up his arms in defeat. Turning he sought here and there for a place of refuge and finally stalked across the floor to the side of the platform.

  From behind the marimba he brought out a weary old bass drum which he carried to the front of the platform, then seated himself in the shadows behind the marimba. The drum, a veteran of many musical episodes, had most likely originated on Old Earth, to judge by the scene painted on its front face. Depicted was the image of a vagabond
cat wearing a broad-brimmed black sombrero with little bells around the edge; he lounged upon a marble bench playing a guitar, his upturned face expressing the rapture of his song. He played in the light of a yellow crescent moon. Three coconut trees leaned across the background, suggesting tropical romance.

  Isel Trapp, meanwhile, had picked up his hat, slapped it against his leg in order to restore its shape, then fitted it to his head with an air of satisfaction for a deed well done. Then he returned into the kitchen. As soon as he had gone Fritzen sullenly began playing with the marimba mallets, striking discordant notes at random. As if at a signal, into the room by way of the back entrance slipped a curious creature: a man of so many mutational characteristics as to seem almost a member of an alien race. He was short, with skin the color of slate. At the top of a large pop-eyed head grew a shock of gray-yellow bristles, stiff as quills. Long thin legs supported a plump torso of no great dimension. He wore a ragged brown tunic and dull green trousers tight as a second skin. He hopped up to the platform and settled cross-legged behind the drum. Fritzen continued to toy with the marimba. He put down the mallets, adjusted the sound-bars, took up the mallets again and struck a long arpeggio, from low to high. This was enough; Fritzen was bored. He put down the mallets, sat back down on the edge of the platform. The dwarfish drummer began to stroke the drum with long thin fingers and rap with his knuckles, producing a soft propulsive rhythm. Isel Trapp emerged from the kitchen, and bawled something which Fritzen pretended not to hear. Trapp took an ominous step forward. Fritzen languidly rose to his feet. He waved Trapp back toward the kitchen, picked up the mallets and attacked the marimba. For a time he struck aimlessly at the blocks, producing random clinks and plangent thumps; gradually he took charge of the mallets, and wistful melodies began to issue from the instrument.