by Jack Vance
Professor Gill chuckled sourly. “I know of at least three research teams which thought to study the Klugash. They entered the Shinar forest and never returned. Still, the Klugash occasionally show themselves at the Cambrian digs, to beg, or steal, or trade.” Gill suddenly lost patience with the conversation. He pointed with jerking motions here and there about the room. “The items are open for your inspection! Perhaps you will find something to interest you.”
Wingo looked into a nearby tray. He noticed a pair of ear-shells, carved from oily black seed-pods. The carving was carelessly executed and Wingo thought to recognize the Felker technique. He put the items aside. In a glass box he found a set of insects preserved in transparent gum, apparently intended for use as ladies’ ornaments. The set included a large green scorpion; a necklace terminating in three tiger-beetles; a small black and gold butterfly; a hundred iridescent flies floating inside a crystal sphere. He pushed aside a tattered rag doll and came upon a small mechanism of no obvious purpose. He turned it this way and that, trying to coax the parts into motion, without success. Professor Gill watched him with a small smile, and finally said, “That is a Felker device, used to trim the hair from their noses. It has failed because of corrosion. Perhaps you might see fit to repair it.”
“Possibly so,” said Wingo. He replaced the object in the tray and took up a small sketchbook. Ornate block letters on the front cover read:
THE MOST IMPORTANT THOUGHTS OF DONDIL RESKE, AGE 13.
Inside Wingo found several sections of crabbed script, most of which had been scribbled over in red wax-pencil, making the script even less legible. Some of the pages had been torn away, leaving a collection of drawings. The first, executed entirely in tones of brown and gray, showed a two-story house of complicated architecture, surrounded by stark black dendrons. An arrow pointed to an upstairs window, with an attached legend: ‘My room!’ On the next page Wingo found a drawing of a different sort: a portrait labelled: ‘Everly Prase, age 11’, depicting the wan face of a young girl, almost lost in a tumble of curls. Wingo smiled benignly and turned the page. Here he found another sketch, more complicated, also somewhat more tentative, as if Dondil had been less sure of his material. He had drawn a nightmarish creature, half gargoyle, half pterodactyl, with thirty-foot wings of brown membrane folded back beside the thorax. To the side stood a tall thin man, narrow at hip and shoulder, with a rapacious face. He wore a cylindrical helmet two feet high, ending in a point. Dondil had labelled the sketch: SKY-MAN OF THE GASPARD CRAGS WITH MOUNT.
To Wingo’s disappointment, only blank pages remained in the book. He showed the sketch of the ‘Sky-man’ to Professor Gill. “What do you make of this?”
Gill gave the sketch a perfunctory glance. “The book is about four thousand years old. You have here a schoolboy’s impression of a Gaspard Arct. The draftsmanship is quite good. They have changed little in four thousand years.”
Wingo looked up in surprise. “This man and this beast: surely they are imaginary?”
“The Arcts are an ancient race. They still inhabit a dozen crags in the Gaspard fastnesses of Gamma. They are notorious for their feuds and vendettas. They also raid the lowland cattle ranches, where they are greatly feared. Like the Klugash, they are a peculiar race.”
“So it would seem,” said Wingo absent-mindedly. He considered the sketchbook. Gill’s price might be high, or it might be low. There was one way to find out. He asked, “What is your price on the sketchbook?”
“A hundred sols,” said Gill without hesitation. “It is an object of rare charm.”
“Ha hm,” said Wingo. He laid the sketchbook aside. Everly Prase’s wan little face would haunt him for weeks.
Wingo looked into another tray and at random picked up a fragment of broken stone. After a glance he started to drop it back into the tray, then looked again with greater attention. The fragment, carved from black diorite, represented the broken forequarters and head of a large beast. Wingo noted that the carving was of excellent quality, and even in its broken condition it pulsed with vital energy.
Wingo held up the piece for Professor Gill’s inspection. “What sort of thing is this?”
Professor Gill spared the object a casual glance. “It is a Klugash fetish. If you owned all thirty-seven pieces to the set, you would control a great deal of Klugash magic. The set would also be valuable and you might become rich, or — more likely — dead.”
Wingo appraised the item dubiously. “Do you stock other such carvings, perhaps for your own collection?”
“Ha ha! I never see any to collect! If I did, I would hesitate for a variety of reasons, including fear.”
Wingo said wistfully, “I am drawn to such little trinkets, especially when they are parts of a set.”
“That is known as ‘collector’s pruritis’,” observed Professor Gill.
Wingo muttered, half to himself, “I wonder if a complete set might be obtained from the Klugash themselves?”
Professor Gill chuckled. “The chances are remote.”
Wingo sighed. “What is your price on this fragment?”
Gill chuckled again. “You want the piece with great fervor! I could ask an exorbitant price and you would pay!”
“Try me,” said Wingo grimly.
“Do you take me for a man without honour?” cried Gill. “The thing is broken and useless. Take it, free of charge; it is yours.”
Wingo grunted, and laid two sols upon the counter. “This is the price I was prepared to pay. Add it to the fund which will whisk you away from Mariah.”
“On that basis, I agree to the transaction.”
The two bowed to each other. Wingo took up the fragment and left the shop.
Chapter XII
1
Late in the afternoon, while Pfitz still hung high in the dark sky, the Glicca rose from the Felker spaceport, drifted eastward: over plain, ocean, and into the mountainous heart of Gamma. With the coming of dusk the Glicca settled upon the Cambria spaceport. The terminal office was already closed for the night, as were the warehouses and docks. At the far end of the field the dark face of Great Shinar Forest rose like a wall. In the opposite direction, a spatter of light indicated the extent of Cambria Town. Beyond, the Mystic Hills loomed across the twilight sky.
Over the course of time the area had been racked by tectonic violence. Under the Mystic Hills drifting continental plates had collided, curling up and over, to produce cataclysmic landslides; sometimes the plates ground at each other, face to face, until one was subdued and thrust down into the underlying magma, meanwhile squirting bursts of flaming gas and incandescent lava upward through parallel fissures, along what in effect were fractionating processes, forming ledges of precious metals.
During the five thousand years after the arrival of Abel Merklint, Cambria underwent many phases of history. Settlements waxed and waned, in proportion to the activity along the Great Mother Reef, where the mines yielded rare-earth elements too difficult and too expensive to be synthesized.
Halfway through the history of Cambria a new factor of sensational import burst upon the Gaean Reach. Its source was a row of fourteen statues seven feet tall, discovered only a few yards into the shade of Shinar Forest. At first the statues had been assumed to be the work of the Klugash, and so had been neglected. Then, by chance, a team of biochemists had examined the statues and, for various reasons, declared them to be the relicts of an alien race. The news, while not inherently unreasonable, excited an instant storm of controversy. A hundred study teams and research groups descended upon Cambria. The area was subjected to an inch-by-inch scrutiny, while the statues were analyzed from every direction.
The end result was ambiguity, with no one wiser than before. Since the stuff of the statues refused to incandesce it gave off no spectroscopic signature, nor did it emit radiation of any detectable frequency by which its half-life could be measured. The material was impervious to all known reagents. In the end the stuff was announced to be a sub-nuclear gum, and the p
roblem was declared solved. The age of the statues remained in doubt, as did the methods by which they had been sculpted, transported and emplaced.
Such was the nature of the first mystery: a puzzle for physical scientists. The second mystery occupied xenologists and social symbologists. Who or what were the statues intended to represent? Ostensibly they depicted fourteen large Klugash squatting upon their haunches, in positions suggesting either introspection, or, conceivably, submissiveness. Were the statues attempts by an alien race to memorialize the Klugash? Were the Klugash themselves the alien race? Helmets like squat cones shadowed the faces, where the features were only playfully suggested, and not always in an andromorphic mode.
The controversy persisted; scholars developed fresh speculations; the site became first an institution, then, with the advent of tourists, a small multi-functional community.
The statues were disposed in a line at the very edge of the Great Shinar Forest; tourists and personnel alike were warned as to the unpredictable Klugash temperament. Often, when dusk fell over the Mystic Hills, a solitary Klugash might sidle from the forest, clamber upon a pedestal, then swing up to straddle the marmoreal shoulders and sit for an hour, resting his head on the helmet below. Why? To cogitate? To recharge his psychic batteries? The Klugash never explained and no one dared to ask.
In the morning the Glicca discharged cargo, then became dormant, waiting until parcels of outbound cargo could be crated and invoiced.
Wingo took advantage of the free time to further his private concerns. Without confiding in anyone, he sauntered off toward the Parade of Statues, the brown cloak flapping and a backpack slung about his shoulders. At the edge of the field Wingo halted and appraised the forest which reared above him: dismal, dark, menacing. Ribbed trunks of several muted colors rose thirty feet, to bifurcate into secondary stalks, which rose to other bifurcations, sprouting fleshy gray-green palps along the way. From the forest depths came no sound. Wingo peered into the gloom, but, as he had expected, saw nothing. In a brisk businesslike manner he set up a small collapsible table on which he placed several objects: first, a flat box divided into forty compartments, into one of which he placed the fragmentary carving he had obtained from Professor Gill. He tilted back the lid to the box and propped against it a card on which he had printed a message:
I WISH TO TRADE FOR A FULL SET OF CARVINGS, LIKE THE FRAGMENT IN THE BOX, BUT IN GOOD CONDITION.
I PLACE MY TRADE GOODS AT THE SIDE. IF INSUFFICIENT, PLEASE ADVISE AS TO WHAT IS WANTED.
On the other side of the table he placed a set of four knives with edges of the substance irrevox, two chisels, a scissors, a pair of tweezers, a small flask of lavender oil, a flashlight and a small mirror.
Wingo surveyed the table with satisfaction, then moved fifty yards or so up the field toward the Glicca, where he halted and discreetly readied his camera.
Wingo waited. Time passed. Pfitz moved up the ink-dark sky. Nothing happened. Wingo brought out a tin whistle and blew a round of trills, warbles and runs. He waited, then essayed a jig, but desisted since he had forgotten much of the tune, and the music was not going well.
More time passed, then at last Wingo thought to detect movement among the shadows of the forest. He called out, “I am here to trade! I want good carvings of animals! Bring me the set of thirty-seven such carvings, and take the cutting knives, with which you may carve many more such objects, since the edges never grow dull. I want only carvings of excellent quality!”
Wingo moved off another few yards and leaned back against a stump. More time passed. The table remained as before, seeming timid and ineffectual against the massive indifference of the forest. Wingo uttered a sad sigh. He had, after all, expected nothing better; still, perhaps it was too soon to be discouraged. He restrained himself from peering too intently into the woods, though from the corners of his eyes he thought to notice small shadows flitting back and forth.
Pfitz reached its zenith. Wingo strolled casually to the table and noticed at once that his fragment of a statue was gone. Interesting! How and when had it been removed? He had noticed no such activity!
Wingo stretched, and without haste returned to the Glicca where he remained the rest of the afternoon.
Pfitz settled behind the Mystic Hills. Dimness slowly blurred the landscape. Wingo restlessly prowled about the saloon, peering out the portholes from time to time. It was a world of bleak melancholy. He had felt an oppression from the moment they had put down at Songerl Spaceport. He had seen no laughing at Felker’s Landing, while the atmosphere at Cambria Town was even more oppressive. Most peculiar. He had waited long enough. Taking up a lantern and a pole, he went out once more and walked slowly down to the lower end of the field. Wingo approached the table and — his heart gave a leap — the trade goods were gone! Wingo hurried forward, peered down into the box. To his surprise and delight each of thirty-seven compartments contained a small stone carving.
Marvellous! thought Wingo. Here, so casually bestowed, was treasure beyond his most fervent hopes! What of the purported magic? He looked down at the carved creatures, but felt no quiver of arcane force. No matter! it was enough to own these objects of wonder and beauty.
A low voice spoke. “Why do you smirk, pink man? Have you cheated us so rarely?”
“No! Never!” cried Wingo. “Absolutely not! I smile because the carvings give me pleasure! That is not wrongful smiling!”
“Perhaps not. Still, a fitting sobriety is preferred. What else have you brought for us?”
“I brought what I could. Here is a lantern and a pole; also two flashlights, a roll of strapping tape, a jar of my private foot ointment and a dozen custard tarts.” Wingo set out his gifts, and waited. The silence was portentous.
Then: “I suppose it will do. Now be off with you, else there might be fifteen statues in a row, the last notable for its foolish smirk.”
Wingo hesitated, then daring greatly, asked, “You have been generous; can you tell me why?”
The voice was silent. Perhaps it had gone. Wingo listened intently. He heard only what sounded like a soft in-drawing of breath. Wingo’s heart started thudding. He mumbled something incoherent, then at best speed closed the box, folded the table, took up his gear and departed.
Back aboard the Glicca and alone in his cabin, he examined the statues one by one. They were even more strange and fearsome than he had expected. He found that he was reluctant to touch them, and could not handle them without using a towel to muffle his fingers.
Wingo stood up and pondered the carvings. His euphoria was gone, leaving him deflated. Slowly he repacked the box, clamped down the lid, then stowed the box into the deepest darkest corner of his closet. At the first opportunity, he told himself, he would sell box and contents to an institution, or any one else who wanted them.
2
Rorbeck Square, at the center of Cambria Town, was surrounded on three sides by multi-storied buildings: some extremely old, others modern but built to the precepts of the same basic rectilinear architecture. On the fourth side, the square adjoined a public park with a playground for children, a bandstand, and a mineralogical museum. Moncrief, in order to take advantage of the Glicca’s three-day layover, arranged a pavilion for his troupe at the northern entrance to the park. A sign read:
SCIENTISTS! ENGINEERS! TECHNICIANS!
DO YOU TRUST YOUR JUDGMENT? YES? THEN USE THIS TALENT TO WIN A GRAND FORTUNE!
— THE GAMES ARE FASCINATING! —
YOU WILL BE TESTING YOUR WITS AGAINST FLOOK, POOK AND SNOOK.
COME FORWARD, PLACE DOWN YOUR WAGERS AND TAKE YOUR CHOICE.
The three girls mounted their ormolu drums, holding their flambeaux at dramatic angles. At the back of the platform stood Siglaf and Hunzel, resolved to protect their interests. As always, they wore leather breeches and leather tunics, with iron bands clamping their oat-colored hair.
Moncrief came forward, jaunty and gay, as if laden with glad tidings. He identified himself, then presented each of the t
hree girls, describing their virtues, whims and special qualities. Next he introduced Siglaf and Hunzel, whom he described as ‘staunch and virginal avatars of the classic Gothic war goddesses’. “Now then!” cried Moncrief. “To the game! All you men of pride and honor, come forward! Never will such an opportunity appear again!” Moncrief took the flambeaux from the three girls. “Observe these dainty morsels: Flook, Pook and Snook: each a creature of ardent mischief, daring you to seek her out! Away now, with a hi-ho douterango!”
The girls performed their evolutions and stood in a line, grinning at the spectators.
“Now then!” cried Moncrief. “Which is Flook? Or Pook? Or Snook? Make a choice and place your wager. For folk of keen intellect a problem like this will seem a bagatelle!”
“Quite so,” said a small fat man with a mincing voice. “I wager five sols, and I make out this young creature to be Snook.”
“Hurrah!” called Moncrief, with patently false enthusiasm. “Your eyes are keen! Well, then, to another game, and this time luck may be on my side.”
The contestant spoke primly. “For a scientist, luck is never a factor! It is a matter of using the proper mental procedures at the optimal instant.”
Moncrief made no comment, and set another game into motion. The scientist won this game as well, and also a third, causing Moncrief considerable disquietude. He went to the side of the platform to refresh himself with a glass of water. Here he chanced to overhear a snatch of conversation between a pair of scientists. “Have you noticed? Herman is testing his new temperature sensor! It seems to be a jim-dandy!”
“Oh indeed! It reads differences of a thousandth degree at thirty feet!”
The two men walked away. Moncrief turned to look at Herman, the plump contestant, and saw that he carried a small instrument. Herman called impatiently, “I am ready to continue the game! Let us hop to it, since I wish to play as often as possible.”
