by Jack Vance
“A moment while we make adjustments,” said Moncrief. He signaled the girls to the backstage dressing room, where he turned a heat lamp for ten seconds on Flook, for twenty seconds on Snook, while Pook wiped herself down with a towel dipped in cold water.
Moncrief went to the front of the platform. “We are ready to continue!” he told Herman. “What is your wager?”
“I am now confident, and my wager shall be sixty-five sols! Where are the girls?”
Flook, Pook and Snook came from backstage to stand in a line. “For this game we will omit the acrobatics, since it tires the girls. So then: which is Flook? Or Pook? Or Snook?”
The scientist examined his instrument, at first casually, then in confusion. At last he pointed a wavering finger. “Yonder stands Pook, or so it may be.”
“Wrong!” declared Moncrief, tucking the sixty-five sol wager into his wallet. “You have chosen the equally desirable Flook!”
The scientist moved away, grumbling and shaking his head. Moncrief looked after him with satisfaction. He announced: “A new game is in prospect. Are we ready?” He looked right and left, then called out: “Aha! The joyful lust for competition runs deep among the bravos of Cambria! Sir, welcome to the game!”
The gentleman who had stepped forward, unlike Herman the thermo-dynamicist, was tall, thin, waxen pale, bald as an egg, with a long thin nose. He wore the red and yellow cap of the Hyperlogique Society, and Moncrief thought that here, perhaps, was another scientist, though he carried neither dials nor instruments. The gentleman stepped close to the platform, surveyed the girls, then placed down ten sols. “Here is my wager! Let the game proceed!”
When the girls stood in a line, the gentleman without hesitation pointed his finger. “This is obviously Pook.”
“Just so!” grumbled Moncrief. “You scientists are all alike. What is it this time? Telemetry? Logarithms? I cannot cope with such technology! You must abstain from these devices if you wish to join the sport.”
“Never mind your foolishness!” stormed the gentleman. “It is my right to play and here is my wager, this time a rousing hundred sols!”
Moncrief shook his head decisively. “I have heard enough! We allow no agitators to spoil our fun.” Moncrief gave a discreet signal and Siglaf moved forward. “Our rules prohibit scientific instruments; they corrupt the spirit of the game.”
“One moment!” cried the gentleman. “If I explain my methods, may I continue to play the game?”
Moncrief’s indignation vanished. “Of course! We insist upon fair play for all.”
“That is good news!” declared the gentleman. “I applaud your gallantry!”
Moncrief smilingly bowed his head, in appreciation of the gentleman’s naiveté. “Your high standards have carried the day! Since you insist upon frankness, you may now reveal how you won the previous game.”
“Simplicity itself! I used my nose. Flook has recently ingested a rum-flavored toffee; Snook has enjoyed a taste or two of garlic, and Pook even now is sucking on a mint pastille. It is child’s play. Now then, I have wagered a hundred sols. Shall we proceed?”
“Without delay!” cried Moncrief. “It is on to our new program! You have become the lucky first challenger!”
“By no means! I wish to lay my wager on the last game!”
“Tomorrow perhaps, but today your wager has already been registered to the new game!”
All arguments went unheeded, and eventually the gentleman was induced to walk out upon a teetering plank balanced across a vat of mud. Hunzel stepped up on the far end of the plank. She stretched her arms to either side, hunched her shoulders, clenching and unclenching her fists, meanwhile showing the gentleman a wolfish grin.
Moncrief explained the rules. “This is a game of both bravura and finesse, but, in the end, creative strategy will win the day! Each contestant hopes to cause his adversary to ‘run through the air’, as we put it, which means: trying to reach the rim of the vat before falling into the mud. The contestants earn points through classical grace, but politeness is always commended.”
Myron watched the spectacle from the side. A tall thin man standing nearby caught his attention. His legs were long and thin; his face narrow, with glittering black eyes. An odd specimen, as tough and spare as a predatory bird, thought Myron. He wore the costume of a back-country rancher, with a cap pulled down over short black curls. He noticed Myron and gave him a quick appraisal. “You are a stranger here?”
Myron acknowledged the fact. “I am supercargo aboard the Glicca.”
The man showed even greater interest. “You might be able to help me. My ranch is out on the Lilank Prairie, across the forest. I have wrecked my flitter on the Balch Rocks, and barely escaped with my life, but this is to the side. More to the point, I need another flitter. Do you carry a spare aboard your ship? I will pay well.”
“Sorry! We carry only our old utility.”
The rancher nodded, as if he had expected no better. “If you hear of anything, leave a message for Cloyd Tutter at the hotel.”
“I’ll be happy to do so,” said Myron, and turned his attention back to the platform.
The gentleman was crawling slowly from the vat, still wearing his red and yellow cap. Moncrief asked him if he would care to play another game, but the gentleman responded in the negative. Hunzel stood to the side, leering down at the onlookers. Moncrief cried out: “Are there no more challengers? Hunzel is proud; see how she struts! She needs a good splash in the mud. Where are the brave scientists to take up the call? What? Are there none whatever? Evidently not. Therefore, we shall transfer to our next demonstration. I refer, of course, to the fabulous Mouse-riders, in triple stampede. The invitation applies to all! Please step around to the side.”
Tutter told Myron, “I expected nothing like this. Those girls create an epic just standing still.”
Myron said, “Yes, possibly so.”
“And what is their function aboard ship? Are they dancers? Bait? Jolly companions?”
“One thing is definite,” said Myron, “they are good eaters. Wingo the cook has spoiled them rotten.”
In frowning speculation Tutter pulled at his long chin. “What is their destination?”
“We are taking them as far as Cax, on Blenkinsop.”
“I have a better idea,” said Tutter. “Moncrief can leave the girls with me. I’ll keep them strong and fit!”
“You could make Moncrief an offer,” Myron suggested. “He might listen, or he might refer you to Hunzel or Siglaf.”
Tutter scanned the platform. “Who might they be?”
Myron pointed. “Yonder stand two female juggernauts in iron pants; they are Siglaf and Hunzel. They claim control of the three girls, rightly or wrongly, I can’t say; but you could challenge them to a competition.”
Tutter looked at Myron in surprise, then darted a glance toward Siglaf and Hunzel. “A competition? You mean, on the plank across the vat? I think not. My other business is more urgent. I need transport to the Lilank Prairie. At home I have three wrecked flitters and a barnful of parts. I can put together something that flies, even if it flies funny. When you leave here, where do you go?”
“We have a few crates for Pharisee City, but we won’t be leaving for another three days.”
Tutter nodded without enthusiasm. “If I can’t do better I will take passage with you to Pharisee City, where I can find transport home. What will be your charges?”
“About three sols, or so I should think.”
On the platform Moncrief was addressing the crowd. “Already I seem to hear the thunder of the Mouse-riders! Adventure survives in this remarkable universe! If you doubt me, consult Flook, Pook or Snook! So now, around to the back of the tent.”
“Excuse me!” Tutter told Myron. “I must see for myself what is going on!” He set off at a lope toward the back of Moncrief’s tent.
Captain Maloof arrived on the scene. He looked after Tutter. “Who or what is that?”
“He is a ranch
er who has wrecked his flitter and can’t find a replacement. Now he wants to go home.”
“Hm,” said Maloof. “Where is ‘home’?”
“Out on the Lilank Prairie, east of the forest.”
“How much cargo do we carry for Pharisee City?”
“Not much. A few sacks of mail and four or five crates of general cargo.”
Maloof nodded. “During the layover we can deliver to Pharisee City by flitter and depart this dreary place two days the sooner. We can also carry Tutter as a passenger. Charge him three sols and ask him to be on hand early tomorrow morning.”
Myron followed instructions, loading cargo and mail for Pharisee City aboard the flitter. He telephoned Cloyd Tutter at the Grand Luxe Hotel. Tutter readily agreed to be on hand at the time specified.
In the pilot-house Myron studied a map of Mariah. He located Cambria beside the Mystic Hills, with the Great Shinar Forest shrouding the land to the east until it met the rise of the Gaspard Wastelands. Beyond, the Lilank Prairie extended all the way to the waters of the Aeolian Ocean. Eastward, another four hundred miles, the ocean broke upon the dreary shores of Alpha, with Pharisee City huddled behind the hook of Cape Fray.
Myron called Captain Maloof’s attention to the map. “Remember Wingo’s photographs of the Arct and his dragon-bat?”
“Yes; what of it?”
Myron pointed to the Gaspard Peaks. “This is where they lived four thousand years ago. If you notice, our course takes us over the Balch Rocks, north of the peaks. We might see Arct settlements — if they still exist. Tutter should have the facts.”
Maloof bent over the map. “And where is Tutter’s ranch?”
“Somewhere about here, I should think.” Myron tapped the map. “We could deliver him directly to his home.”
“I’m agreeable,” said Maloof.
In the morning Cloyd Tutter arrived early at the space terminal. He was met at the Glicca by Captain Maloof and Myron; the three went to the flitter. Tutter started to climb aboard, but Captain Maloof detained him. “Excuse me! I must make sure that you are carrying no weapons. It is a graceless bit of routine but it must be done, for obvious reasons.”
Tutter’s eyebrows arched high. “Weapons? What I carry or do not carry is no concern of yours.”
Captain Maloof turned to Myron. “Return to Cloyd Tutter the money he has paid us; he must find another way home.”
Tutter stood still, staring at Maloof with glittering black eyes. Then, wordlessly, he reached into his coat and brought out a small dart-pistol and in the same movement jerked a dagger from the sheath which lay flat beside his haunch. He handed the weapons to Maloof, and turned to the flitter.
“Wait,” said Maloof. “There is a final formality.” He ran his hands deftly over Tutter’s body; then, after murmuring an apology, examined Tutter’s helmet. Tutter stood stock-still, outraged, but obliged to endure the indignities.
Maloof completed the search and stood back. “I am sorry for the inconvenience, but it can’t be helped. I would rather annoy an innocent man than be killed by an armed bandit.”
Tutter, with lips compressed, climbed aboard the flitter, followed by Myron and Maloof. The flitter rose from the terminal and set off to the east.
Tutter sat rigidly, staring down at the dark Shinar Forest, still rankling from the affront to his self-esteem. Myron allowed him to simmer for a few minutes, then handed him a map. “If you will indicate the location of your ranch, we will drop you off at your front door.”
Tutter grudgingly decided that nothing could be gained by sulking. In a flat voice he said, “That would be convenient.” He studied the map, then drew a small cross. “This is where I live: about the center of the Lilank Prairie.”
Myron indicated a shaded area. “And these are the Gaspard Wastelands?”
“That is correct.”
“They are not far from your home. I suppose you know them well?”
“Well enough.”
“Listen to this.” Myron read from the Handbook: “‘Lilank Prairie is the habitat of an astonishing variety of savage beasts. Some of these are of great size and truly amazing ferocity; others survive through strength, or agility, or even a measure of quasi-intelligence.’” Myron paused in his reading and asked Tutter, “How do you cope with these creatures?”
“Ha ha! By fear, stealth and a hundred miles of electric fence. When my business takes me out on the open prairie, I stay aloft, out of their reach. Sometimes it is a near thing. When I lost my flitter in the Balch Rocks I ran two hundred miles overland, mostly during the early morning when the beasts are torpid. When I reached my fence, I found a junction-box and called home; one of my women came out in a ground-wagon to pick me up. I had some vivid experiences along the way.”
Myron returned to the Handbook. “It mentions a people called ‘Arcts’, who live in the high Gaspard Peaks.” Myron read: “‘They are rumored to ride from peak to peak on creatures called ‘dragon-bats’, which measure as much as forty feet from wingtip to wingtip. The Arcts themselves are said to be tall and spare, with ruthless faces. According to legend they are warlike brigands who ride their dragon-bats when they conduct their bloody forays. This has not been confirmed; more likely, they use some sort of light-weight flitters built to resemble a monster. They reputedly wear complicated helmets which are both handsome and grotesque. The Arct helmet, along with his women, represent his wealth. His favored weapon is a twenty-foot harpoon, since power-guns are proscribed.
“‘A related folk, the Yeltings, live in the stony fastness at the base of the Gaspards, notably among the Balch Rocks. Yelting women are the prey of Arct warriors. The dragon-bats swoop down; the women flee in panic, but they are often seized and carried aloft to the Arct eyries. When they no longer produce children, they work the crops in the high yards.’”
Myron gave his head a shake of distaste. “Is any of this real?”
“All of it.”
“You have seen them yourself?”
Tutter gave a short laugh. “Every time I fly over the peaks.”
“They don’t trouble you?”
Tutter laughed. “They can’t catch me, but not for want of trying! Last month they put out a helmet on a grave pole, then waited in ambush. They are not too clever; while they were disposing themselves and quarreling, I dropped down in my flitter, took up the helmet and was gone, before they were ready for me. But one of them threw a harpoon, which struck my craft. I fell to the rocks, bounced a hundred yards, from hummock to hummock, and finally slid into the Wermom River. This was not at all good. I jumped to a sandbank and crawled off through the reeds, still carrying the helmet. The Arcts came down and I heard their outcries, but their bats grew tired and they failed to find me; otherwise, at this very moment I would be dangling in a wicker cage high over Slevin Gulch. Instead, I ran overland to my ranch, where I added the helmet to my collection.” Tutter chortled with glee. “This was very good indeed!”
Myron, tired of boasting and vainglory, made a cool observation: “In the process, you lost your flitter, which must disturb you.”
“Bah!” said Tutter with something of a sneer. “Such a helmet as I won is a great prize, worth ten flitters; and in any case I shall have another flitter shortly.”
“And what then? Will you go after their bait again?”
Tutter smiled. “They are a crafty lot, in some ways! In others, they are innocent as twittering birds. A fascinating folk, but not at all likeable, and their concept of humor is bizarre. If you want to see them for yourself, veer a bit south! The Gaspard Peaks will be showing in a few minutes.”
Myron studied Tutter for a moment. Tutter turned an irritable scowl upon him. “Why do you stare so boldly?”
Myron collected his wits. “No offense intended! I have noticed that you yourself resemble an Arct.”
“Bah!” sneered Tutter. “Where would you have seen an Arct?”
“No mystery! I saw a photograph of an Arct and his mount, copied from an old book.�
��
Tutter gave a dour grunt. “You are half right. I was born in the shadow of the Balch Rocks; my father was Arct; my mother was a red-silk Yelting! I killed an Arct when I was still a boy. The dragon-bat toppled over and landed on its back, where it lay flapping and squealing and pounding its tail. I rolled boulders down and trapped its tail; then I chopped away the neck and the thing lay quivering. Four days later it died. The priests wanted to sacrifice me, but I broke out of the cage. I pushed old Fugasis into the fire and ran off through the rocks and out upon the prairie. In the end I arrived at the old Panselin Homeplace. I became a ranchboy, and after the last of the Panselin were gone, I laid claim to the ranch, and that is where I live today.”
The Gaspard Wastelands appeared below. The flitter crossed a confusion of toppled blocks and boulders, then flew above a panorama of crags and cliffs. It would seem an environment too stark for human habitation. Still, from time to time a village appeared: sometimes spilling like natural detritus from a cleft; sometimes perched high on a ledge. At rare intervals dark objects glided across the gulf between crags. Tutter identified these as dragon-bats with their riders, and watched them with fascination. After one of the episodes, he told Myron and Maloof with great satisfaction, “It is as I promised! You have seen what few Gaeans have seen, or even suspect: a truly gallant conqueror of the high spaces, with his awful mount! The Arcts are lords of the firmament!”
“Most inspiring!” Maloof said. “But you are a remarkable person in your own right, needless to say.”
“Ha ho,” said Tutter indifferently. “So it may be. I take myself as I am.”
The flitter moved onward, through an airy clarity of Pfitz-light and shadow. The high Gaspard Peaks dwindled astern; the land fell away to the prairie, in a succession of bluffs, terraces, and further bluffs, until at last it merged with a rolling expanse growing with coarse grasses and an occasional lonely sentinel tree. At far distances between, outcrops of rotting black rock shouldered up from the soil.
